Yup . . . hard up, all right.
“You didn’t even try,” she says pushing my shoulder when I finally make it to her.
“You caught me off guard.” With your ass.
“I have to keep you on your toes somehow. Come on.” She nods toward Snow Roast. “Let’s grab some breakfast.”
I don’t budge. “I think I’ll skip breakfast today. Not really feeling the whole oatmeal and kale combo.”
Not saying a word, she takes my hand in hers and walks into Snow Roast where Beck is at the counter. His eyes fall to my hand clasped in Ruth’s. He cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything.
“Beck, can you hand me the breakfast I prepared for me and Brig?”
“Yeah, sure.” He reaches below the counter and sets two plates in front of us, each containing the biggest cinnamon bun I’ve ever seen.
“Ruthie Girl, I might just kiss you,” I say, taking both plates in hand.
“I’d love to see that,” Beck says. “Kiss her.”
Not even thinking about it, I lean down and place a kiss on her cheek before walking over to our table. “Grab some waters, Ruthie,” I call out, my mouth watering. I take a seat and situate myself, ready to eat all the calories I just burned, when I look at Ruth to see where the waters are at.
She’s hunkered down next to Beck whispering something to him. He’s smiling and laughing. He says something. She pushes his shoulder. He laughs some more. And an odd sensation heats the back of my ears.
Do I detect . . . jealousy?
No. There’s no way I’m jealous.
Just then, Oliver from the general store walks in. The quiet, brooding man lights up when he sees Ruth and to my surprise, he gives her a high five. She motions up and down her body and I watch him slowly scan her, starting at her legs, up her bare stomach, to her . . . hey, those are my tits to stare at.
Wait a second.
No, they’re not. They’re not my tits . . . but, why do I feel like I’ve staked a claim on them? She says something that makes him laugh, and I watch in horror as he reaches out and tugs on one of her French braids.
What the shit is that about?
Is he . . . oh fuck, maybe he really is the guy Ruth has been pining after, because from my vantage point, it’s easy to see the rosiness of her cheeks and her flirtatious body language.
Unwelcome anger seeps into my veins. My fists grow tight with irritation. Is she really going to flirt like that in front of me?
Of course she is . . . you’re friends, you doofus.
What the hell am I thinking?
Yes, we’re friends. I shouldn’t be getting angry, I should be asking her when the wedding is.
Finally, she departs, giving Oliver a wave, and comes to our table with two glasses of water. She sets them down and says, “What do you think of the overnight oats and kale?”
Her cheeky grin has no effect on my current state of mind. “So, when’s the wedding?” I ask, taking a sip of my water.
“What?” she asks, her brow pulling into a thin knot in the middle of her forehead. “What wedding?”
“Your wedding with Oliver.” I pick up the cinnamon bun and break off a piece to shove the yummy gooeyness in my mouth.
She looks behind her and then leans closer. “Are you insane? Why would you say that?”
“Uh, I know flirtation when I see it.”
“Do you, Brig? Do you really?” she says, her tone entirely too sarcastic for my liking.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Ruth stands and snags her plate. “Brig, you wouldn’t know what flirting was if it was a neon sign that slapped you across the face.” She pushes her chair in. “Beck needs help. I’m going to take a shower. Enjoy the bun.”
“Wait,” I say quickly. “Hold on, Ruth. No need to get mad.”
“I’m not mad. Just . . . God, I’m so irritated with you.”
“Why? What did I do?” I ask, feeling more confused than ever.
“Try opening your eyes, Brig. That might help.”
Okay, now she’s lost me. “But my eyes are open—”
“Figuratively. Jesus,” she says before stomping off and leaving me wondering what the hell just happened.
Open my eyes?
To what?
Dear Whoopie Pie,
I’m glad you’re still alive and well and made it through the heavy wave of tourists. I was nervous that maybe we’d hear about a local Port Snowian being gobbled up by ravenous tourists after a sugar high from The Lobster Landing.
Very happy that’s not the case.
So you want to know if I’m a blonde. Hmm, I don’t know if I should divulge that kind of pertinent information. Isn’t that going against the rules of this experiment? Then again, is anyone really keeping track?
*Taps chin*
If I tell you my hair color, you have to give something up too. And I don’t want to know something as simple as eye color or hair color. I want to know something more private, something that would excite me.
How about I tell you my hair color and boob size in exchange for inches?
Yes . . . those inches.
Happy inches, not flaccid. And you better not lie, because I feel like there will be a day when I can confirm this. I have no problem busting out a ruler.
So what is it?
For me: Blonde, 34B.
Your turn.
Hugs (+ Shimmy),
Summer
Dear Summer,
Okay, these letters just took an unexpected left turn, and I’m not mad about it.
Damn, girl, I was not expecting that. You seem so calm, thoughtful, and then you go and ask for my dick length. I laughed so hard while reading your letter in Snow Roast that I grabbed everyone’s attention, even Ruth, the shop owner.
Do you know Ruth? She’s fucking awesome. < - - Sorry for swearing. But she deserves a swear word. I would say she’s closing in on the title as my best friend. Anyway, if you don’t know her, you should stop into Snow Roast. I swear you two are sisters and would get along so well.
Anyway, blonde and 34B. Didn’t have to do much to get my dick happy to measure for you. I’ll be honest, I’ve always found myself attracted to brunettes. I was obsessed with one of my brother’s friends for a hot second who has brown hair, but lately, blonde has been taking up the forefront of my mind.
When do you think we get to meet? Any time soon? My brother’s wedding is coming up and I figured maybe after that is over? That way I can dedicate my time to you. What do you say?
As for . . . inches. Attached is an outline of my inches. Getting my dick to lie on the paper when excited was painful, but figured an outline would be better than a statement of inches. This way you can tell what you’d be working with.
Hugs (+ Helicopter—with my Cock)
Whoopie Pie
P.S. A friend told me when in the bedroom, you use the term cock. After your last letter, I feel like we’re one toe in the bedroom.
“You have to find the studs, Brig.”
“No need, I’m right here,” I say with a wiggle of my brow.
Ruth rolls her eyes. “Why are you so lame?”
“Why are you so testy today?”
“Excuse me?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest.