I swear when I saw it again in the kitchen, I almost busted a nut because there was only one thing she could’ve been thinking about.
Truth be told, I was, too, while sealing the fucking ravs. Who knew food could be erotic? I mean, I did, mainly because I’m a pervert and everything reminds me of sex, but the fun discovery is that she is too.
That’s the thing, though. Bed chemistry isn’t our issue.
It’s convincing her—the most stubborn woman on the planet—that I’m not who she thinks I am. Even though on more than one occasion—scratch that, more than seven or eight occasions—I’ve given her every reason to believe I am.
The thing is, I know where I land in life. I’m an acquired taste.
I’m well aware a girl like Evie is out of my league, but I firmly believe I just need to cook, and I don’t mean in the kitchen.
See, there are guys like Noah with universal appeal and a personality to match. Then there are guys like me. I need to grow on you.
Because I get it—I say the outrageous shit most people only think. I always call it like I see it. Which, on occasion—well, more often than not—offends people.
I’m only six feet tall in sneakers, I cuss like a sailor, spit on the street, act like an arrogant ass. I’m possessive, opinionated, crude, loud,and I’m blond—that was her insult the first night we met, not my low self-esteem.
But at the end of the day ... I’m for her.
I knew that shit the day we met. She hated me, but I didn’t care because nobody else in the goddamn room could keep up with her. And they tried.
But I did.
She’d reminded me of my dream girl, Lisa Bonet, who blessed my eyes in 2006 when I watched her sing “Baby I Love Your Way” inHigh Fidelity. I was middle school toast, completely cooked over that woman.
And that was Evie the first time I laid eyes on her. Feisty and stunningly beautiful. I tried to lay the foundation for my point, but she didn’t get it because I wasn’t in her orbit, even if I already knew I needed to be in hers.
Winning her over might be impossible, but nothing worth having comes easy.Although it didn’t seem that hard to get her there the last time she gave me the chance.
I smile, lying on my bed, my arm behind my head as I tap my fingers. I’ve been turning over idea after idea, trying to figure out what to text her.
“The night can’t end with a silent dinner, us back in our respective corners. You feel me, Peach?” I whisper to the cat, who’s purring next to me.
“But what do I say? Advice is needed. What time is it?”
The words barely resonate before I swipe open my favorite group text, aptly named the Hookers—dealer’s choice, not mine. I was just added. It’s basically me and four sassy senior women in their seventies.
I met them when my head was in a messed-up place right after we’d all lived through our live-action slasher film. And not because our friendship needs a stranger twist, but we met skydiving.
It was kismet. These Golden Girls are all too often the highlight of my day. I tell them everything. It’s like having four grandmas who want to give you a quarter and tell you how great you are.
Best part is they’re night owls. It’s a whole “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” thing for them.
Me:Ladies. You know where we left off tonight ... but I wanna text her. Not leave the night on a quiet note. Give me some good opening lines. Don’t disappoint.
Joyce:I was hoping for this. I spoke to that psychic. She says you two are a match.
Birdie:You need to be clever. And don’t listen to Joyce—the psychic is a ninety year old woman who does Ayahuasca and binges her husband’s dopamine meds.
Gail:He knows to be clever. Whenis he not. Don’t tell him what he already knows.
Mimi:Turn your phone down Gail. I can hear the gosh darn clicking all the way in the living room.
I laugh. The fact that they live together makes these texts all the better. God, they’re the best.
Me:I need to ease in, be clever but not too in her face. Right?
There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere ...
