“We need to have our game faces on.”
“I don’t know what a game face is. Tell me how to morph myself, and I will.”
He holds back a smile and says, “Are you finally ready to enjoy some improv with me?”
God, he must have been waiting for this moment. It’s all he’s been wanting to do, engage in his silly improv and loop me into it. Well, after the convo last night and my newfound goal of trying to let go, the time has come.
I wet my lips and nod. “I think I am.”
The smile he was holding back turns into a full-fledged smirk. He tugs on his lip ring and moves even closer, ourforeheads nearly touching. “Good. Let me set the scene.” He nods behind him. “See those fucks over there?”
I glance over his shoulder at my coworkers and their significant others and then back at him. “I see them.”
“They’re enemy number two.”
“Who is enemy number one?” I ask.
“Us,” he says. “I am enemy number one, and to me, you are enemy number one.”
“Right, because we’re mad at each other.”
“Precisely. We need to seem chaotic but still work well together. We need to surprise everyone. They need to think we’re without a doubt going to lose, only to pull out the win and take home the condom basket.”
“Do you think it’s going to be another condom basket?”
“No idea,” he says. “But whatever it is, we need it. We can’t let these douche canoes have access to lube and cock rings or, better yet, Nerds Clusters.”
I gasp and clutch his shirt. “Do you think they’d do that?”
In a low, menacing tone, he says, “I have no fucking idea, but I’ll be damned if they gain access to them. So are you ready to annihilate?”
“Ready,” I say, grateful that I have Wilder at my side for this.
“Then let’s get suited up.”
Once we’re given our wet suits, we kick off our sandals. I’m wearing a one-piece bathing suit because I had no intention of wearing a two-piece in front of my coworkers. Wilder’s dressed in a pair of black swim trunks—not surprised by the color choice—and a black T-shirt.
And today is the first time I’m seeing him with his hair somewhat styled, which I think is funny, since we’re going to get it wet anyway. But he put some pomade in it, making the longer strands go in all different kinds of directions. Very messy, very, dare I say, hot?
Let’s not go there; that’s only asking for trouble.
“Are you going to need help with your wet suit?” he asks as he pulls his shirt up and over his head, revealing his carved upper torso.
Um…excuse me?
No, this can’t be right.
I ordered a fake husband who was into improv, not the moodyGQmodel with the ripped chest and stacked abs.
Forgive my wandering eyes, but does this man live in the gym?
I guess he really does have time to do whatever he wants, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone this fit in person. Broad chest with rounded shoulders that meet well-toned arms. His pecs are flat but still pop off his chest like a swimmer’s. The muscles along his rib cage ripple under the early morning light, and his stomach is stacked with individually carved abs, one right on top of the other. There’s a small patch of hair that’s under his belly button, leading down to his waistline, and the tattooed rings on his arms are the only ink—from what I can tell—on his body.
“Scottie?”
“Huh? What?” I ask, snapping my eyes up to his, where I find him smiling at me.
“You’re staring.”
