Luckily, it wasn’t wrapped up in paper like usual, so I wouldn’t take twenty years unwrapping the damn thing. I brushed across the little tag. “Open the fucking present,” was scrawled on it.
“Fine, I’ll open it.”
“You’re slower than a fucking sloth.” He laughed.
“At least sloths are cute as hell,” I rebutted, winking at his Cheshire grin.
I opened the bag. Inside was a note attached to a bicycle figurine. What the fuck? My gaze scanned it, trying not to laugh at the absurdity. My fingers fumbled over the bike, wondering what the hell it was supposed to be. I glared at him, confused. His reddened face holding back so much hilarity and probably a shit ton of laughs too said it all. I opened the little note. “Under the bed” was written on it. This boy.
I maneuvered off the bed. An object laid there. Reaching my stubby t-rex arms, I attempted to get it, but my arms were too short to get a good grip. Good freaking grief.
“I swear if trying to get this shit doesn’t kill me, I’m coming for you, Kidd,” I grumbled, annoyed, crawling away from the bed.
“Don’t be a poor sport, princess.” He stuck his tongue out. “I’ll get it.”
His long muscular arms grabbed the item a lot faster than I ever could. As he handed it to me, I can’t help the tilt of my lips. In my hands sat an old-fashioned type writer. It was hot pink with aqua buttons.
“I had it hand painted and restored,” he said, his voice full of delight.
Aw! My eyes were in awe over the design and absolute thoughtfulness of the gift. I’d never be able to type on it. It was far too pretty to ever use.
“It’s so adorable!” I squealed.
My fingers brushed over every letter, enjoying the uniqueness of it. Not one person in my life had ever been this thoughtful. A single tear escaped my eye. I didn’t deserve such a caring man.
His arms wrapped around my torso, his lips meeting my cheeks, nose, and forehead.
“I’m glad you like it, princess.” His sweet and soft voice brought my heart such joy.
Setting the gift to the side, I hugged him, his hardened exterior a perfect fit for my soft one. What did I do to deserve this man? Honestly, I had no goddamn clue how I lucked out.
But we had so much to discuss like the fact that hoe-bag was pregnant and his health at risk from his career.
“You said you leave tomorrow. What’s the plan, babe?” I asked nonchalantly. In reality, my stomach churned from all the thoughts warring in my head.
“I swear hearing you say babe is the best fucking thing in the world. I never want you to stop.” He kissed me, brushing his lips on my neck.
He was avoiding my hard questions. I sighed and pulled away. Coen noticed my anxiety. How could he not? He made it his job to ignore things that upset me, but right now, he was upsetting me.
“I think I’ll play it by ear,” he finally said. “Go, get my shots, and be careful.”
“If that’s what you want, I’ll support you,” I breathed out.
“Don’t be upset. I’ll be safe. I always am,” he said to reassure me but failed miserably.
“Okay, I trust you.” My admission was half-assed.
“We should get our butts moving for the day. I’ve got to pack to head out.” His voice sounded defeated.
16
The Irony of Speed Dating
Author Dating Rule #666: Make me laugh. Chances are you’ll be in my next book.
Rebel
It’d been five days since Coen left on his long tour. We’d ignored all topics that actually meant something. He called every night and texted silly daily quotes that were insanely hilarious. He said it was to give me book ideas like the fifty-thousand words for vagina he came up with.
Instead of calling a guy a player or fuckboy, you should call him a va-genius. No one knows vaginas like a va-genius guru would.
Yeah, his personality was that colorful.
Va-genius wasn’t horrible, but the way fuckboy rolled off my tongue and fingertips while typing made va-genius only subpar in my eyes.
I sat on my bed, debating on working on my book with Stace, or going back to Bo and Cara. My daily dose of Coen finally came through.
Your tunnel of love shines the light for my veiny love tree.
The floor met my body as I laughed my ass off. How the hell did he come up with this horrible shade of poetry?
I can’t even. I texted back.
Oh, but you can, princess.
Good God, Coen. You need help.
Dr. Payne, will you alleviate the strain in my jeans?
Fuck, he would be the death of me. I couldn’t decide if I should be turned on or full of amusement, but either way, I felt both almost equally.
Too bad you’re several states away. I could definitely fix your “problem.” And, man, would I love to.
Luckily for me, there is such a thing as lube and an imagination.
Goodbye, perv.
I’ll be “thinking” of you. Got to run anyway, we’ll talk soon.
Instead of texting back, I put my phone on silent and prepared for my next adventure. I had decided to further my writing material with speed dating. I’d told Coen I’d be going, and there would be no funny business involved. He supported my next adventure. The word would soon no longer be unfamiliar to my vanilla mind. Google is my bitch. I’d never done this kind of shit before, but Cara’s story needed more. It didn’t lack in the sexual department, I always knew how to weave that into the story, but books required more than sex.
There was this restaurant far into town, about a two and half hours’ drive. Stace promised to come with me.
The rules at this event swore to a good time. If your date acted like a creep, it didn’t matter. For one, the sessions were only fifteen minutes, and two, you got a little buzzer if they were inappropriate or straight up fuckboys. You tap that shit faster than Ronda Rousey did an opponent in the ring.
I scrutinized the itinerary. The funniest rule they listed caught me off guard. Rule Seven: Ever judge a book by its cover? You are welcome to do the same here! Fast, quick, and easy choices in the short span of fifteen minutes, and maybe you’ll find your soulmate if you believe in that malarkey. If you are satisfied with your date, pass your email and phone number over on the slips of paper we provide. Don’t be scared to give every single one your info.
As an author, I found this rule hilarious. Though none of us truly enjoyed admitting it, we all judged books by their covers mostly because it was hard not to. If they weren’t easy on the eyes, there was a fifty-fifty chance we’d scroll past and not select that one-click button.
Blurbs could outweigh the disgruntled feeling of covers, because those too, were important. We all knew the hell of writing those things too. I scrolled over the rest of the rules, smiling to myself. This would be fun, or at least that was the hope.
“Babe!” Stace squealed, jumping up and down.
“What’s up?” I questioned, still eyeing the list. These rules were blasphemous but oh so hilarious. I caught myself chortling at them.
“You have a package,” she sang out, over-exaggerating the last word. She pushed it into my hands. A twelve-by-twelve box nestled in her arms.