“Sure.” He shrugs. “What are your hobbies?”
He’s twisted his body to face me, legs up on the sofa, plate balanced in his lap.
Sure? Was that not what he meant? Why would he say it like that? “My hobbies. Uh, let’s see. I collect…” I stop myself, because he’s not asking what I collect. He wants to know what I do for fun, outside these walls.
I think. Gather my thoughts and a forkful of dinner, then continue. “For fun I love walking through the city in the evening, just as it gets dark, with a hot cup of tea. Especially when it’s cold out.” Is that lame? “Oh—I also love antique shops.” Shit, I sound like Nan. Those are her hobbies, which, I suppose, would make sense since she helped raise me. “I love shopping, but not for myself. I love giving presents. And, um…hmm. I don’t know, baseball.”
Brooks’ brows shoot up. “You? Baseball?”
“Sure, I mentioned it before. Plus who doesn’t love baseball?”
“I can list a thousand people who don’t,” he quips arrogantly.
“Please, you don’t know a thousand people,” I shoot back, stabbing a carrot with the tines of my fork. “But you’re right, I bet not a lot of women you meet are the type who like baseball.”
He already knows my family has a suite at the stadium, and if he wanted, we could use it for any game he wanted to watch in person. He would be fed and could see all the plays from the best seats in the place.
I feel myself blushing. “I do really love baseball. My grandparents—mostly Grandpa—took me when I was a kid. My brother hated it, but I always loved it.” It’s been years since I’ve been to a game, but I doubt I’ve lost my zest for it—the loud thunder of the stadium during a scoring play, the cheers during a stolen base, the boos.
The hot dogs.
My stomach growls and I take another bite. “What are your hobbies?”
“Baseball. I like sports.”
“Do you like watching them in bars?”
He nods. “Fuck yeah. Who doesn’t?”
“In this city? Plenty of people.” You’d be hard-pressed to find a dingy sports bar in this city of snooty people, but I have a hidden gem I’ve been known to kick back in on game day. “I know a great place to watch in if you don’t want to hit the stadium. We should go sometime.”
“What’s it called?”
“I can’t tell you.” I nibble the end of a piece of asparagus.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Yes.”
“I hate when you do that.” He’s frowning, cramming a hunk of meat into his mouth.
“I’ve literally never done that before.”
“But you will, and when you do, it’s going to annoy me.”
“Noted.”
Note to self: repeat that specifically to annoy him.
“Can I ask you something?”
I hate when people start sentences that way. I also hate
Now, don’t take this the wrong way and No offense, but… So when Brooks faces me, plate on his lap, expression earnest, I cringe a little inside as I crunch down on my food and chew, no idea what he possibly wants to ask me.
“I guess so?”
“Why did you friend-zone me?”
Not what I was expecting. “Did I?”
“Yes. You’ve called me dude, buddy, and friend at least a dozen times.”
“So?”
“So—girls don’t friend-zone me. I friend-zone them.”
I set my plate down, resting the fork along the edge, placing the utensils in the perfect ten and two position. “How long has this been driving you crazy?”
“Since you called me buddy when you asked me to check on the cat.”
“Did I though?”
“You did and you damn well know it.”
Jeez, why is he so bent out of shape about it? He hasn’t made a single move on me, nor has he flirted or done anything else that’s led me to believe he was interested. “Do you want to date me?”
“God no.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?” Is his ego so fragile that he can’t handle me not falling at his feet? He’s handsome and smart and successful with no shortage of women throwing themselves at him—what does he need me for?
“I was wondering.”
“You and I both know I’m giving you exactly what you want, so stop bitching about it.” I will never be the kind of girl who allows herself to be a notch on someone’s bedpost.
No matter how my feelings for him are changing.
“You’re awful quiet—what are you looking at over there?” Brooks has been quietly chuckling at his phone for the past few minutes. First he went on it to check a work email he’d been expecting, and ever since, something else has piqued his interest.
He almost never sits and plays on his phone.
The past four nights we’ve spent together, either on his couch or mine, bingeing our favorite shows and sharing dinner. It’s strange and oddly satisfying. Last night he was two hours late; showed up a bit drunk, reeking like cigar smoke and chattering about his buddies and bad decisions. I cannot for the life of me imagine what his friends are like, but if they’re anything like him…they do some stupid shit.
He’s smirking to himself, as if he has a secret. Something he can’t—or won’t—say out loud.
Is it a girl? Is he seeing someone?
His lips part. “I get these daily emails from Millennial Dictionary, and this word of the day is fucking hilarious.”
Millennial Dictionary is basically a modern take on the dictionary where readers and visitors are able to add definitions. A huge majority of the words are slang, gutter talk, or dirty.
“What’s the word of the day? Care to share with the rest of the class?”
Brooks grins. “I don’t think I can say it out loud.”
I feign irritation. “How old are you? Grow up and read the dumb thing out loud.”
“Okay, but if you’re insulted, remember you’re the one who wanted me to read it to you.”
Is he serious? “You’re over there giggling like an idiot, and you think I won’t want to know why? Hurry it up before I lose interest.”
“Fine.” He raises his phone and adjusts an imaginary pair of reading glasses set on the bridge of his beautiful nose. “Word of the day: sloppy toppy.”
I feel my nose wrinkling. “What the hell is a sloppy toppy?”
“A wet blow job. With, uh—lots of drool.”
“That’s…porny.”
“Tell me about it. Disgusting, right?” He wrinkles his nose, as if the notion of a wet BJ is unbearable.
I don’t believe for one second Brooks Bennett thinks a wet blow job is disgusting. Still, he says it with a straight face, lowering his phone and shrugging as he sets it on my glass coffee table.
I’m still holding the carton of shrimp with bora in my hands, and I spear one with the tip of my fork. It’s poised in the air, in front of my face when I say, “Know what a nice gift would be for your one-night stands? A box of tissues to wipe the spit.”
“One of my one-night stands? Uh, you have way too much faith in my ability to get laid these days. But that actually would be nice! And so thoughtful—according to Millennial Dictionary, they’re super fucking sloppy. Tissues would be a nice touch.” He leans over, peers down into my carton, and steals a shrimp. “Generous, even.”