Three things happen in the wake of Jonesy’s unexpected question. I guffaw. I drop my sandwich. And then, when the sandwich falls into my lap instead of onto my plate, I suck in a gasp which causes me to choke. Full-on spluttering and coughing while fighting for life, a wayward crumb flying out of my goddamn nose.
Marilyn rushes back to our table, a jug of water in her hand. She quickly fills my glass before slapping me on my back while I continue coughing. All while Jonesy sits there watching on likehe didn’t just commit attempted murder by asking me when I last had sex…
“You done?” Jonesy barks, not looking up from where he’s eating his sandwich with a knife and fork like a serial killer.
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and take a few sips of water, clearing my throat before offering him anare-you-fucking-seriouslook. “You sure you passed that cognitive test with flying colors, old man?”
Chewing around his mouthful, Jonesy just blinks at me.
I shake my head, brushing the last of the lettuce off my shorts. “And, for your information, that’s none of your business,” I mutter. “You can’t just go around asking people that.”
“I’m just saying,” Jonesy starts, holding his hands up in defense.
“Please don’t,” I mutter again, knowing exactly where this is leading.
“You need to get laid. It’s starting to show in your back swing.”
“Can you keep your voice down,” I grit, looking around to check if anyone is within earshot, but thankfully there’s only one table occupied around us and it’s an older woman on her phone. I spear Jonesy with a glower. “And quit talking about my sex life.”
Leaning back in his chair, Jonesy looks at me long and hard. I try to ignore him, but his silence is loud because, frankly, he’s right. I do need to get laid. At first, I couldn’t. Rules of the program—you need to abstain from casual sex and avoid starting any new relationships while you’re in active recovery. But my year was up months ago.
“How’s Poppy?”
I snap my head up then, meeting Jonesy’s eyes, not missing the glint in his watery gaze. And, squaring my shoulders, I clear my throat, offering him no more than a grunt.
Jonesy lifts his coffee to his lips. “Maybe she could… help you out?” He shrugs a shoulder, taking a sip.
“Jonesy…” I warn.
He just smirks at me over the lip of his mug, and I offer him a long-levelled look, trying to ignore how just the mention of Poppy makes the coil at the base of my spine tighten because, if I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking things I have no right in thinking. Like the way her ass looked the other night while she was lying there on that massage table wearing just a thong, or the way she looked after that, in her tiny bikini in the hotel pool, her tan skin glowing against the underwater lights. I’ve been trying to forget, wipe those images clear from my mind, but it’s harder than it should be. Literally and figuratively.
I was an ignorant stupid-ass son of a bitch to think having a girl like Poppy around wouldn’t tempt me because she’snot my type. Not my type? Turns out Poppy is fine as hell and I’m a fucking joke.
Thankfully, before Jonesy can continue his totally inappropriate line of questioning, my phone rings, and I look down at it to see Cam’s name on the screen.
“What’s up?” I answer quickly.
“Fucking Blake,” is all Cam says in response, and immediately I’m on edge.
“What the fuck now?” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“He’s arranged a dinner tonight,” Cam says. “With Chuck and Dave.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. I drop my head back, closing my eyes. “Did he somehow forget that Royale dropped my ass literally the day after Hilton Head?”
“He said they want to try to come to a mutually beneficial agreement,” Cam explains with a heavy sigh.
“Shocking,” I say, deadpan.
“I presume they’ve seen a dramatic decline in sales…”
“Fine. Whatever,” I huff out. “When and where?”
“Eight o’clock at Rare.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there.”
“Brookes, I can’t make it,” Cam says tentatively. “Gloria will cut off my balls if I miss another date night.”
