“He’s a billionaire. He’s probably used to eating gold leaf-covered sushi off of eastern European models. I bet this is tame compared to the stuff he’s done. Come on, tits out. Customers are going to be coming in soon.”
I pulled a boob out.
“Pretend like you want his mouth there.”
“I’m too awkward for this,” I complained, pulling the other boob out and covering it with my hand. The other held the frosting.
“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward,” Olivia said, snapping pictures.
“Really? Because I feel like you’re making it awkward.”
“Stick your chest out and arch your back.”
Something cracked. “I think I strained a muscle.”
“Give a little nip peek,” my friend, who I was apparently way too close to, ordered. “You want him to have an appetizer, not the whole menu.”
A glob of frosting landed on my bare boob.
“Money shot!” Olivia sang as I grabbed a wet paper towel. “And sent,” she said.
“What?” I screeched. “I thought we were going to talk about this first, you know, spend the next three hours working ourselves up into a hyper-anxious state and question all of our life decisions up until this point and wonder where it all went wrong.”
“We have too many cookies to bake for you to have an existential crisis.”
62
Matt
Is Merrie really worth all of this?
Her mom showing up had explained the shadiness with her phone. Not that I would hold it against her—I had crappy overbearing parents.
But it was probably a red flag.
Maybe I should think about removing Merrie from my life.
Though my sibling had teased me about having a girlfriend, should I really be treating this like a relationship? Merrie was supposed to be a rebound, a fun hookup. She wasn’t supposed to be the love of my life.
We were completely incompatible.
It was crazy, right? Redoing her shop, buying a Christmas tree, decorating my house, and now this.
I peered around the corner. The sweater stall was finally empty.
Am I really, voluntarily going to a Christmas party—no, not just a Christmas party, an ugly sweater Christmas party?
Turn around and go back to your office.
My phone beeped.
Merrie had been texting me all morning, trying to explain what had happened with her mother. I had tried to compose text messages back. But what could I say? I didn’t want to bring up my own parents.
“And what kind of sweater are you looking for today?” the woman running the stall asked too loudly.
I looked around furtively.
“I need a sweater for a party,” I practically whispered, hoping no one would see me making the purchase.
