Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Once we’re in a Lyft, he’s back on his phone and I’m on mine, reading Brooke’s reply.
Brooke: And then I’d unzip your jeans and get to know your innuendo better.
I haul in a breath. We have a winner. She’s feisty tonight.
Drew: I’m in a car with Clements, but just know that later on, when I’m alone, you’re going to do unholy things to my innuendo with your mouth.
Brooke: Yes. Yes, I am.
When I’m home alone, I place an order for Vietnamese noodles from Ding and Dine, then I return to the thread with Brooke.
Drew: Hey. Are you still up?
Brooke: I am. I’m reading a book. Almost done with it though.
Drew: Is it good?
Brooke: Terrific. It’s the new Axel Huxley.
Drew: He’s my cousin!
Brooke: For real?
Drew: I swear on my right arm. He lives in New York, and he’s scowly, and sarcastic, and funny as fuck.
Brooke: Talented too.
Drew: Well, yeah, that. I finished his newest a couple weeks ago. Good stuff! (Well, I listened to the audio. Does that count?)
Brooke: Why would it not count? Of course it counts.
Drew: Some people think that doesn’t count.
Brooke: Some people are jackasses.
Drew: True words.
Brooke: Are you home now?
Drew: Yup. Just ordered some food. I’m hungry. But I’m no good in the kitchen.
Brooke: I’ll teach you someday ☺
I wish we were having that someday now—for the cooking, and the hardships, and the talking.
Since we keep talking for another hour.
12
HARSHING ON MUFFINS
Drew
On Wednesday night, I catch up with Patrick in Santa Monica for dinner. Maddox recommended a new Indian food truck for us to try, and since it’s in my neighborhood this week, I leave my condo and head out to meet Patrick.
But when I’m a block away from our meet-up, I spot Ruby’s Taco Truck before the Indian truck. My doubt-meter spikes once I spy Patrick chatting with the guy at the window.
Why do I think my buddy’s going to milk the whole taco spankings thing?
Oh, because he has.
The fucker has sent me several gifts in the last few weeks.
First, the day after the ultimate text trick, as he called it, he sent licorice to my home along with this text. Bought some licorice tonight, hottie. I’m practicing hitting myself with it. But they keep breaking. Got any tips?
Hit yourself harder, I’d replied.
The day after my first win, he sent an order of pancakes to my house with syrup on the side, along with a text: I wore these today on my tits. Hope you love your brekkie, hot-stuff stud-muffin.
I ate the pancakes. They were tasty. But not as tasty as getting back at him by snapping a picture of myself on the beach with a clown and tagging it with his name—Hanging with my finance wizard, Patrick.
I’m waiting for the next installment. It’s got to be coming tonight. This taco truck has setup written all over it.
He strides over to me, whipping off his aviator shades. They complete the look he’s working—the pressed pants, the polished shoes, and the tailored white shirt. He probably came from the office. By contrast, I’m in jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap.
He flashes me a grin. “Two in a row, man. That’s the way to do it.”
Hmm. I’m not picking up on a prankster vibe. I peer around. “Did you bring a bag of skittles? You’ll give me some then say you licked them all?”
He pulls a face like that’s ridic. “Who has time for that?”
“Fair point.”
I glance at the yellow truck. “Did you hire a stripper to jump out of a giant taco while wielding a starter spanking kit?”
Patrick scoffs. “Starter? I’d figured advanced for you. Also, don’t try to guess my next move. This won’t end. Ever. And you don’t want it to.”
Truth. We’ve played so many pranks on each other over the years that it’s our love language. “But when I can predict your next move, I win the round,” I say, seizing a chance to take control of the game. I do like control—almost as much as I love winning.
“Fair enough,” Patrick says, then clears his throat, nodding to the nearby truck. “In all seriousness, the owner of Ruby’s Taco Truck loves you. I had lunch here the other day, and you came up. Hope you don’t mind if we skip the Maddox rec and go here? The tacos are huge. You only need one.”
Boom. I spot my opening. “Hold on. You just reminded me I forgot to reply to Maddox’s last text.”
I grab my phone, and type out a quick message and send it, but not to my agent.
Rejoining the conversation, I tell Patrick, “Tacos sound great. Just make sure it’s big enough for me.”
“That’s what she said,” he quips without missing a beat.
I smirk, feeling smug. “Check your texts, asshole.”
He does, and his eyes widen as he lets out a long “Fuuuuuck” as he reads my note to him: You’re going to say this in five seconds.