When she faces me again, her smile is soft. “Other than Nan.”
I bet she’s soft all over.
Abbott—not her nan.
Jesus, maybe I’m tipsier than I thought.
“Ten minutes. I’ll bring snacks.”
“Good. I shouldn’t be the only snack in the apartment,” she jokes. It startles me for a second; Abbott isn’t one to make innuendos, at least not of the sexual variety, and certainly not ones that are directed at me.
It’s a day for firsts.
“Do you have any single friends?”
The question comes out of left field, like a grenade dropping into the living room and exploding all over the fucking furniture, scattering debris everywhere.
My body goes tense, tortilla chip paused mid-bite, salt licking my tongue.
“Why?”
Abbott makes a noncommittal sound from the bottom of her throat that sounds suspiciously like a low chuckle. “I’m single and looking for love in all the wrong places, ha ha,” she jokes halfheartedly, popping open a can of Pringles and digging in with her entire hand. She chomps, which makes me glare.
Hello, I just kissed you—now you want me to set you up with my friends? Is she insane?
Crunch, crunch. “Is that a no?”
I scoff. “None I would introduce you to.”
“So you do have single friends?”
That’s a fuck no in guy speak. “One or two, but they’re douchebags.”
“If they’re such douchebags, why are you friends with them?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Abbott, but I’m also a douchebag.”
“You’re a wannabe.”
I feel butthurt about that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You act like a hard-ass, but you’re actually a softie. All you want is to do your job and do it well, and eat good food.”
She leans back on the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table and squeezing one eye shut, studying the Pringle she’s pinching between two fingers. “Why do guys always refuse to set me up with their friends?”
Because they’re too busy trying to sleep with you themselves. I refuse to explain the mentality of men. She doesn’t need to know the inner working of our brains, or that I refuse to hook her up with my single friends because I’m hoarding her.
The fact is: I like her.
Much to my detriment.
“What guy has ever refused your request to set you up with their friends?” Does Abbott even have any other guy friends besides me?
“My bruhther.”
Ah, that makes sense. “Your brother doesn’t count—no dude wants his sister dating his friends.”
And by date, I mean F-U-C-K.
“Then what’s your excuse?” Her head tilts. “Why are you cockblocking me?”
I almost choke on my chip. “Excuse me? I just told you—my friends are douches.”
She is still studying her Pringles and avoiding my intense gaze. “What exactly is it that makes them douchey?”
“For starters, they’re just like me.”
Abbott nudges me across the couch with her toe, an adorable smile tipping her lips. “Oh, now now, you’re not so horrible.”
She really has no idea how many women I’ve dated and ghosted in the past. How many one-night stands I’ve had because I was lonely. How I never take women for dinner, only for drinks, because I don’t want to waste money on someone I never plan to see again before I’ve seen them the first time.
Poor Abbott is under the illusion that I’m a decent guy, one of the good ones. She has no idea how jealous I am of other people who are happily coupled.
Has no idea I’m a liar. A fake. A fraud.
A new generation of gambling men, my friends and I want to win a bet more than we want to be in relationships, barring Blaine, who had to be railroaded into breaking up with Bambi Warner.
Am I using Abbott? Or are we friends?
Real, legitimate friends?
All I know is I am not giving up those Jags season tickets for anyone. I was an absolute fucking idiot for throwing them into the bet to begin with. The four-wheeler and timeshare I give zero shits about—I work hard enough to be able to afford that stuff on my own without needing to win them. Sure, it would be cool to save a few grand, but…not necessary.
Abbott chooses that moment to stretch out beside me. She changed into a cute matching set before I came over—tight pants and even tighter tank top—and I can’t help noticing she’s removed her bra.
“You’re right, I’m probably not horrible, but don’t assume you know everything about me, either.”
She sets down the can of Pringles and settles back in against the cushions, watching me intently from her side of the couch. Licks the salt off her fingers, one by one. “Is that a fact?”
“Don’t believe me?”
True, I haven’t been acting like my usual self since meeting her. A few weeks ago, I was asshole mixed with a whole lot of fucker and zero compassion for anyone but myself. These days?
I’m watching chick flicks and crying on the couch, sharing chips with the neighbor girl, and stroking her pussy…
Cat.
Her pussycat.
They say the right woman will do that to a man.
My eyes stray to Abbott’s tits.
I can see her nipples through her shirt, and if that wasn’t her intention, I’m the future king of England.
Abbott? No. No way would she do a thing so calculating.
Would she?
I shake the feathers out of my head, glancing over at her tits again, and catch her as she smiles into her cup of ice water. Blinks at the television, not meeting my gaze.
Bites down on her lower lip, licking at her thumb as if she can’t quite get the mess off.
Definitely wearing a threadbare tank top on purpose…
Awesome.
Now my dick is twitching, inconvenient for early afternoon on a Wednesday with no relief in sight. Jesus, it’s not even five o’clock yet—it’s not like I can waltz into her bathroom to rub one out real quick while she waits in the living room on the couch.
Not to mention, the damn cat hasn’t taken its eyes off me.
Desdemona McPussyPants is less trustworthy than I am.
I hiss at the cat and grimace when Abbott chastises me. “Leave the cat alone. She likes you.”
Lies. It’s all lies. The cat most definitely does not like me. I’m just waiting for the day Desi tears my balls off with her sharp kitty nails. Claws? What are those things called?
Abbott lifts an arm, resting her elbow on the back of the couch. “You know cats can smell when someone is a bad person. If Desi thought you were a douchebag, she would let you know.”
I stuff a tortilla chip in my pie hole and chew. “That cat wouldn’t know a villain if it flew through here wearing a cape.”
“She barely tolerates Nan, but she adores you. That’s saying a lot.”
As much as I hate admitting it, she’s right about the fucking cat. It really does like me, no matter how hard I try to make it stop. I don’t want or need that furball using my leg as an object of its affection. I don’t need it purring at me. I don’t need it meowing incessantly at the bathroom door when I’m trying to take a piss in private.