Page 45 of Man Flu

“I ran out of time.”

“Hannah, no. What is the current situation down there? You better not tell me you have hip hugging, muffin-top controlling panties on right now.”

“No, I’m wearing a thong,” I mutter.

“A what?”

“A thong, Brielle. You know, the thread that tears up your ass crack all day?”

“What’s under the thong?” she continues.

“What do you think is under the thong?” I counter.

“An unhappy little tree.”

“That’s it,” I tell her. With my arms in the air, I walk past her and head downstairs.

“No, Hannah! I’m trying to protect you. You can’t have sex tonight. Not until you remove the unhappy little tree. Logan isn’t a forest ranger.”

“Stop it,” I shout. “Enough already.”

“I’m serious, Hannah. No sex for you.”

“Or what?”

“Or … or, I’ll tell everyone in the office you slept with Logan.”

I whip around, facing up the stairs where she’s standing, carefully keeping her distance. “You better be joking with me right now. First, you won’t know whether I do or not. Second, how could you say something like that?”

“Because. I’m trying to spare you. Logan isn’t just some guy, Hannah. He could have any chick in this state, or in any of the bordering states for that matter. Hell, he could have anyone in this whole country, but for some reason, he’s intrigued by you and your perm-a-scowl.”

Wow. That’s harsh. Even coming from the most honest person in the world, I wouldn’t expect her to say something like that to me. “Real nice, Brielle.”

“There’s a difference between dating and being married for ten years.” It’s her closing argument just in time for the doorbell to ring. It’s awesome that I can begin this night on that last note, leaving me to feel like I was just slapped across the face.

I open the door, finding Logan in fitted jeans, a black tee, and a leather jacket. His dark caramel hair is a short mess—sexed up and perfect. If I were him, I probably would have had sex with someone before coming here so I wouldn’t feel so inclined to donate to this charity case of a washed-up mom.

“You look hot,” he says, walking in, then past me.

“Thank you?”

“Is that a question?”

“Kinda.”

“Well, you know how they say, ‘There’s no such thing as a dumb question?’”

“Is that how we’re starting the night?” I ask.

“I guess so.” He circles around the foyer, looking in the mirror for a quick second.

“Why did you want to go out with me tonight, Logan? Is this a joke? Do you feel bad for me?”

“I do feel bad for you, but it’s not a joke.”

“Oh, my grrr, okay, can you just go home, and we can pretend like this didn’t happen?”

“No, I want to go out,” he argues.