“Yeah, but it’d be harder to indulge your other obsession,” she says with a devious smirk. “Those hot little numbers at the bar don’t want to go home with the nine-hundred-pound guy who smells like maple syrup.”
“You underestimate my charm,” I retort.
“Doubtful,” Dixie replies, putting down her coffee mug. “If your charm is so undeniable, then how come you were the only one with your pants off last night?”
“And there it is! The reason you made me pancakes. You’re trying to get me to talk.” I laugh and pour more syrup on what’s left of my stack. “Why would I tell you anything? You’re just going to call the rest of the sorority and find a way to tease me about this until I’m fifty.”
Dixie jumps off the counter. “I won’t tell Sadie and Winnie.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Jude, I won’t.”
I look up at that because she called me Jude, not ass-face or dirtball. That means she’s serious. Her expression confirms it. Maybe it’s the maple syrup clogging my brain or maybe it’s just leftover euphoria from last night, but I decide to tell her. Everything. From the failed hookup when we were young to the flirting now. Then I tell her about the scene with Zoey’s ex and his assistant last night.
“He knocked up the secretary? Could he be more of a cliché?” Dixie pretends to gag. “Ugh. Zoey must have had temporary insanity when she agreed to marry that turd waffle.”
I chuckle. Dixie comes up with the best insults ever. She’s been like that since she was a kid. It’s like an art form for her. She walks over and leans forward with her elbows on the other side of the island. “What happened next?”
I tell her about the kiss. I probably shouldn’t, but it feels good to talk about it, like I’m reliving it. Almost too good, because I can feel my dick start to chub. Shit. Thank God my sweats are loose. When I’m done, Dixie is staring at me with narrowed eyes, a furrowed brow and her lips pressed tightly together in a hard, flat line. I have no idea what the fuck that expression means, but it doesn’t feel warm and fuzzy.
“What?” I haul another load of pancakes up to my mouth.
“I just…I don’t know. I’ve never seen you like this.” Dixie tilts her head, her blond bob hanging like a curtain, skimming her shoulder. “You like her.”
“Yeah, Einstein. I kiss girls I like.”
“You kiss anything with a vagina,” Dixie replies. “The kissing isn’t why I realized you liked her.”
“Whatever.” I shrug and run a thumb over the syrup left on the now empty plate and pop it in my mouth. “I know she’s going to work today, so I’m going to swing by her office. Want to come, or do you have work?”
“It’s Saturday, Jude.”
I glance at the calendar on the fridge as I bring my plate over to the sink. She’s right. Oops. I have a hard time keeping track of the days of the week in the off-season. “So come with me. She’ll love to see you again, and I know you want to see her.”
“I do,” Dixie admits. “And watching you act like this is oddly enthralling.”
“Thanks. I think.” I rinse my plate and then grab her coffee mug off the counter and put both in the dishwasher because I know she won’t. “Anyway, I want to see how she’s doing and invite her to the charity game.”
“Really? Like as your date?”
I nod.
“But you always go solo and pick up some horny, slutty fan.” I glare at her. She shrugs unapologetically. “What? It’s like common Thunder PR knowledge. Like lore or something.”
“Yeah, well, even lore can be rewritten,” I tell her and head to my bedroom again. “I’m going to shower. If you’re coming with me, can you please try to keep your catty quips to a minimum?”
“I can try!” she calls after me.
Forty minutes later we’re at Golden Gate Realty. Only Zoey isn’t. Anastasia, her co-worker I met the other day, greets us at reception. She explains that Saturdays most agents are showing properties, and Marti had two showings that overlapped so Zoey offered to run one. She seems way too remorseful that Zoey isn’t in the office and keeps almost begging to help me with whatever I need.
“No, really, Anastasia, it’s nothing you can help with, but thank you,” I lie with a smile.
“I’m working on becoming an agent as well, so maybe I can sell you a house one day,” Anastasia explains with a wide smile and a flutter of her eyelashes.
“Anything can happen.” I grin.
She leans on the reception desk and lets her fingers dust over my knuckles.
