I’d always liked Seth, too. Kinda felt like punching him in the face a few times when I heard he’d knocked up Elle like several nanoseconds after she dumped me.
Got over that, though.
I alsowantedto get my head out of my ass. It was one thing to feel jealous and slighted when she was pregnant, and avoid that whole scene because of it. But now there was an actual tiny human who was relying on Elle and Seth and their whole support system, and me being a dick about it wasn’t gonna help anyone.
Including Dylan, who was a million miles away and probably really wanted to be here, for Elle. Dylan and Elle had always been tight, kinda like brother and sister.
Yeah. I had to deal with this.
Fuck.
And then there was thatotherfucking thing…
As the warmth of the shower soaked in and I gradually became more coherent, the events of yesterday wormed their way back into my head. And under my skin.
I wanted to just forget about the whole fucking thing.
Decided to, right before I started pounding beers. Just blow the whole thing off—like Danny had blown me off.
But it kept coming back to me… Itching at my brain like some persistent fucking rash I couldn’t scratch away.
Daniella.
Danica.
Fucking twins.
You’d think I might be elated to stumble across a pair of super-hot twins. Didn’t exactly happen every day.
My dick, for one, was fucking thrilled. Just now, in the shower, it was already half-mast just trying to recall exactly what Daniella had looked like so I could side-by-side comparison shop her with her twin sister in my head. Like how identical was identical?
Did they taste the same?
Did they both like getting drilled the same way?
Were they into threesomes?
Yeah. My dick definitely wanted to know.
The rest of me, not so much.
Maybe if Daniella hadn’t blown me off so hard—fake number and all—after I got her name tattooed under my balls.
Who the shit does that?
I mean, sure, I knew she left the tattoo parlor at some point while I was getting the tattoo. I never saw her again that night like I thought I would. And I found out she’d jetted the next morning; checked out of the hotel, got on a plane and left. I knew she left me a fake phone number, one that belonged to an auto repair shop in Jersey and sure as shit didn’t belong to her.
But now Iknew.
There was a tiny little dumbass part of me that had always wondered if it was all just some misunderstanding. She was drunk when she wrote down the number and just got the digits wrong. The area code was 640. One of Vancouver’s was 604. Maybe she lived right here, in the same city as me, and she’d just inverted the numbers accidentally.
She didn’t. I’d tried it both ways.
Like an idiot.
I’d already messaged Danica at the numbershegave me yesterday—late last night, after the first few beers went down the hatch—to cancel my appointment with her. Maybe I just wanted to know if she’d actually given me her real number.
She was supposed to come by to view my place sometime today. Her free consultation thing. I was supposed to text her my address, but fuck that.
