The Real Thing: Flirt Romance

by Cassie Mae

  “Daddy?”

  Tolani sighs, squeezing himself from the booth. “All right, buddy, let’s go.”

  Isaac gives my brother a big smile and jams another crayon into the potatoes. “That’s okay. I went.”

  “You what?” he says, leaning over and examining his son’s pants. A low growl rumbles from their side of the table.

  “Ah, shit.”

  It takes everything in me not to call him out on the language.

  Chapter 17

  Emilia Johnson

  about a minute ago

  OMG, this book is killing me!!!

  6 people like this

  ***

  “Curse you!” I scream at my Kindle, wiping the flood of tears from my eyes. I love and hate the ending of this book so hard. I think I’m going to get a major hangover. I’m already scrolling back to read the parts where my Max is alive and well, not saying his last good-byes. Gah!

  “I love you, Max. Don’t get on that airplane!” I shout it at my screen, as if it’ll change the words written there. But he gets on that plane and he . . . oh, I need a minute.

  I set the Kindle down and drag my pitiful ass to the kitchen. Food. I need comfort food. Why is there no chocolate in this place?

  The fridge holds nothing of comfort, so I move on to the cupboards, still sniffing as I pull them open and come up empty-handed—oh! Chocolate chips! Hallelujah! I’m sobbing and smiling all at the same time as I clip the corner of the bag open with the kitchen shears, snag the peanut butter from the shelf, and slip a spoonful into my mouth.

  That was, like, the best and worst book ever.

  I’m careful not to spill any chocolate as I flop myself onto the couch cushions. Time to get everything ready for some screwing around on the Internet until Eric gets home. The peanut butter rests by my left butt cheek while I settle the chocolate chips by my right. The spoon goes into the peanut butter, laptop on lap, then the spoon goes into the chocolate chips. Thank heavens I have a bottle of Gatorade on the side table, because I’m not moving for at least an hour—not even for a drink.

  I go to Goodreads and rate the book, leave a status update of a GIF with a girl sobbing uncontrollably, then hop to Twitter and type Dear chocolate, learn how to multiply yourself so I never run out of you.

  Facebook next, and I type a long status update about the love/hate relationship I have with unhappy endings, which always leans more to the love side because it’s a book. Then I do a “feeling emotional” tag on it, partly because it’s true, and partly because I like the emoticon that goes with it.

  Two seconds after I post, I already have a “like,” which makes me roll my eyes because no way did they read that long status already.

  I scroll through my feed, clicking on Amazon links for my next read and also on some Buzzfeeds, because they make me laugh. Rachel’s IM bubble bloops.

  Rachel: How’s the undercarriage? ;)

  Mia: :p SUPER smooth . . . and soft. It’s hard to imagine I had any hair there in the first place.

  Rachel: I was talking about the pain, but good to know! LOL.

  Mia: *blushes* whoops. Yeah, pain is gone. It actually wasn’t that bad even that night.

  Rachel: So . . . what did BF think of it? Totally worth the effort?

  I hover over the keyboard, not exactly sure how to respond. I’m still embarrassed about what happened . . . or didn’t happen.

  Mia: :)

  That’s vague enough, and doesn’t throw Eric under the bus either. I quickly type in a subject change so she doesn’t prod.

  Mia: Question . . . how late do I have to work on the Fourth of July?

  Rachel: Like 9-ish. We shut down before it gets dark.

  Mia: Oh good. :)

  Rachel: But we still get bonuses for working the holiday, so WAHOO!

  Mia: Even better! I need more chocolate in this place.

  Rachel: LOL, yeah, I saw. I Twitter stalk you.

  Mia: Creepy. *plays Syfy channel music*

  Rachel: I HAVE to stalk you on the Internet if I’m ever going to get a hold of you.

  Mia: Good point. Stalk away.

  Another IM bubble pops up, and I take the pause in conversation to eat another spoonful of chocolate-chip-covered peanut butter.

  Scott: Hey, what book was that?

  Mia: From my status update?

  I quickly get the Amazon link and paste it in.

  Scott: Thanks. I think I’m in the mood for a tragedy.

  Mia: o.O You read romance?

  Scott: Not really. But if it’s got you posting a few paragraphs on it, must be worth my time. It’s not like I’m doing much anyway.

  Mia: Are you bumming around? Sitting in your underwear, surrounded by spicy chicken wings, and listening to Adele?

  Scott: It’s been a year almost. I haven’t done that in months ;)

  Mia: I still sit in my underwear when I’m in a bum mood, lol. I wouldn’t blame you.

  Scott: I bet you eat frosting from the can, too.

  Mia: Peanut butter.

  Scott: Gross.

  Mia: I’m eating it right now.

  Scott: Liar.

  Mia: Not kidding. I’m even in my underwear.

  Scott: Want to Skype?

  Mia: *gasps* you perv.

  Scott: No, I’m serious. We should Skype sometime.

  My stomach slips right out my rear. Before I can even respond to that, I hear Eric’s key in the door and I click the “x” on Scott’s IM screen so fast I leave peanut butter all over my mousepad.

  Eric comes in, eyes kind of tired, but they brighten when they see me. Then they really brighten when he really sees me—messy bun, chocolate chips, underwear and cami, no bra, and . . . well, I just look like a sexy rock star. Not.

  “Welcome home, honey,” I say, but my voice is sort of shaking, and I’m still trying to wipe off the mess I made without making a bigger mess.

  Eric smiles and sets his keys on the counter. “Looks like you’ve had a productive day.”

  “Hey, I went to work. And I finished my book.”

  “Was it good?”

  I throw my head back into the couch cushion. “I’m still deciding.”

  He chuckles, slipping off his shoes and making his way over to me. My Facebook bloops again, and I tilt the screen down. It’s not that I don’t want Eric to see who I’m chatting with . . . okay, maybe it is . . . I just don’t know how he’d respond.

  “Sorry, I can put this away,” I say as he leans over the computer. He sets his hands on either side of my head, resting them on the couch. My heart’s slamming in my chest, dancing along my ribs, and making a real mess of my ability to think about anything but his lips and his eyes and his chin and . . . and . . . and . . .

  “You can still mess around for a bit,” he says, and it takes me way too long to comprehend. “I’m gonna hop in the shower.”

  “Oh . . . okay.” It sounds like he wants me in there with him, but unless he says it straight out, I’m not going to assume it. I’m not up for humiliating moment number three.

  His forehead knocks against mine. “I missed you today.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  He gulps, eyes dropping to my mouth, then he presses his lips against mine. I don’t know how the hell he does it, but the softest of movements, the slow pace . . . it should frustrate me. I know it should, because I want more, but when I’m in the middle of it, I don’t care. I want to go at whatever pace he sets.

  It’s afterward that I start wondering why he won’t speed things up.

  He pulls back with a smile. “Mmm . . . peanut-butter breath,” he teases.

  “Yummy.”

  “No offense, Emmy, but I hope you brush your teeth before I come back out here.” He slides his hands from the couch, and I’m tempted to grab him by the bottom of his scrubs and blow a breath in his face, but my laptop’s in the way.

  I watch his butt as he walks from the room, and I wait till I hear his door shut before closing the computer al
l the way and racing to the bathroom to brush away the chocolate-chip-peanut-butter breath.

  Eric can be my chocolate tonight.

  * * *

  I made the mistake of starting another book while Eric was in the shower, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. He made his dinner, sat next to me, and let me snuggle into his arm while I kept telling him, “One more chapter.”

  My phone keeps buzzing, and it normally doesn’t bother me—I’d just quickly look and then go back to my Kindle app. But Eric can clearly see my screen, and even though I’ve never met Scott, and he lives in Tennessee—according to his profile—and I have no feelings toward him whatsoever, I’m not sure how Eric would react. And it’s so nice right now, chilling at the condo with my boyfriend and reading a book, I don’t want to disturb the peace.

  Another buzz, and I just reached a page break, so I adjust on the couch, resting my feet in Eric’s lap instead, so my screen faces the other way. Then of course, I feel like crap about it, especially since the IMs are from Eve and I have a text from Dad—I told him I caught a fish this morning—and everything is totally innocent.

  But Scott’s IMs are innocent, too. I shouldn’t worry so much.

  “You about done with your chapter?” Eric asks, scratching the back of his head with the TV remote.

  “Um . . . yeah. Just a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” He clears his throat and says something else, but I don’t hear it because I’m reading Eve’s IM, which says she thinks her boobs are getting bigger.

  I laugh and type back.

  Mia: Oh, so you’re a B now?

  Eve: No, I think I’m up to the same size as your juggers.

  Mia: :P

  Eve: Paul’s enjoying the change.

  Mia: He might not enjoy it so much once they start spraying milk.

  Eve: Ew. Don’t remind me.

  “Uh . . . Em?” Eric says, slightly tickling my toes.

  “Sorry, what?” I ask, typing back another response to Eve. She’s now talking about walking around like a giant milk sprinkler and I can’t stop cringing and laughing.

  Eric moves on the couch again, blowing out a breath through his teeth. “Funny part?”

  “What?” That’s right, my book. “Oh, no. Eve was just messaging me.”

  “Oh.”

  He goes quiet, and I plink away, laughing as I go to Google Images and find some hilarious memes to go along with our conversation. Eric drums his fingers against my leg as he flips through the TV channels.

  I’m about to sign off when Scott’s IM bubble pops up.

  Scott: Settle an argument I’m having. True or false? That white-colored Mountain Dew was discontinued.

  I don’t know why it’s important or why he’s arguing about it with someone, but I feel like I need to answer anyway. Even though I have no clue what the answer is.

  “You remember that white-looking Mountain Dew?” I ask Eric, rubbing my foot against his thigh. “Did they stop making that?”

  “I don’t know.” He slides from under my legs, clicking off the TV. My eyebrows pull in as I look at his pursed lips. Wait . . . is he mad?

  He tosses the remote at my feet, and it bounces off the couch from the force. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Already?”

  “It’s eleven thirty. I gotta work tomorrow.”

  Eleven thirty? Seriously, when did that happen? I missed out on Eric make-out time. I swear I was only reading for twenty minutes, and chatting for, like, five.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.” I put the phone in my pocket. “We can—”

  “Don’t worry about it. Night.” He leans over and gives me the fastest peck in the world—so fast I’m not even sure it happened.

  His door clicks shut, and I’m stuck alone on the couch, wondering where the hell the time went and why I couldn’t put my phone down for two seconds to talk to him. Was he trying to talk to me? I’m so frustrated with myself I wrap my hands around the back of my head and slam my face into the throw pillow. No more. No more. I will unplug.

  Then my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Chapter 18

  Eric Matua is offline

  ***

  There’s a knock on my door not five minutes after I shut it. Em pokes her head in, letting the hall light flood across the floor and land right in my face.

  “Are you still awake?”

  “It’s been, like, five minutes. What do you think?” I swivel in the bed so I’m not facing her. It’s childish, but I don’t care. I’m betting that damn phone is still stuck to her palm. Whatever I say will float right past her ear without her even catching it.

  The light gets a little brighter before it shuts out altogether. Her feet shuffle across the floor and stop at the foot of the bed.

  “Can I still get my story tonight?”

  She’s got to be kidding. I turn my head enough to watch her tug on the end of her ponytail, corners of her mouth turned down and eyes wide. I don’t know whether to yell at her or kiss her. Damn it.

  I shove the covers down and she hops in, arms and legs immediately wrapping around me. I’m still pissed, but the fact that her touch isn’t making me freak out loosens some of the anger. It helps that she’s not carrying her phone either.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers into my chest. “I honestly didn’t think it was that late, and sometimes I get caught up and . . . I’m just, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

  Her fingers curl around the fabric of my shirt and tug me closer. I wanted to talk to her tonight. There was a reason why I took Xanax before I walked in the door. I was going to tell her about Dr. Shuman, about the panic attacks, explain everything about Ali and why I pull back so much, but I feel like the bird has flown the damn coop. Even though I’m pretty damn sure I’m falling in love . . . I don’t want to talk to someone who seems more interested in talking to other people while I’m in the damn room.

  She grips my T-shirt and her warm breath soaks into the material. “Eric, I’m so sorry.”

  There’s an ache in my throat when I hear her voice quaver. She’s got every right to do her own thing and talk to people. I have her all summer, and she didn’t know I had something on my mind. It’s just one night. I’ll have more chances, and maybe I’m being a damn douche about the Internet stuff.

  I put my hand on her waist and squeeze her hip.

  “I am Sam.”

  “What?”

  I press a tentative kiss to her forehead. “Sam I am.”

  Her eyes lift to mine, and I swipe away a strand of hair caught in the corner of her mouth.

  “That Sam I am, that Sam I am,” I recite. “I do not like that Sam I am.”

  She lets out a juicy laugh and snuggles back in to my shirt. “Do you like green eggs and ham?”

  “You know this one?”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  Her grip loosens, but mine tightens as I pull her against me. I continue the rest of the story by heart, with a few interruptions to kiss her nose and cheek and chin. By the time I finish, all the frustration is gone, and I hold my best friend for the rest of the night.

  * * *

  Buying shit for girls is hard. But I feel bad about overreacting last night, and she left for work before I got up. It seemed like I needed some sort of peace offering.

  The beach is crowded, and Em’s snow-cone shack has a line of guys in their bathing suits, with their surfboards, and I suddenly feel pretty out of place with my Target plastic bag, loose T-shirt, and cargo shorts. Well, if I look at the old folks, I fit in. I think my job is rubbing off on me.

  Some guy’s hitting on Em through the SnoGo window. I stare down at the Target bag and start to rethink the no-flowers idea.

  “Josh, seriously. I have a boyfriend,” Em says as she hands him a blue snow cone.

  “Two minutes with me and you’ll forget about him.”

  “It’s been five, and he’s still right here.” She taps her temple and I laugh, gripping the bag in my fist and kic
king up sand as I run over. Her eyes widen when she sees me, then her mouth splits into a smile as she fixes her hair.

  “Hey, you in line?” I ask the guy half hanging in the window.

  “Sort of . . .” He shrugs me off. Em smacks him upside the head before I get the chance.

  “What can I get you?” she asks, running a finger over the top of her shirt. That’s right, dude, that’s for me.

  “Something for my girlfriend. I think she gets off work soon.”

  “She does.”

  “Then whatever she wants.”

  She taps her chin and leans against the inside counter, studying the juice flavors. “I think your girlfriend wants yellow.”

  “Even though yellow isn’t a flavor.”

  She wrinkles her nose, and this guy’s brow furrows as he looks back and forth between us. It takes him the whole time Em is making the snow cone before his forehead smoothes and he gives me a head nod, like “Sorry, bro,” and then he turns down the boardwalk, waving at Rachel as he leaves.

  “There you go,” Em says, but I push her hand back so she can have it.

  “Almost off? I got something for you.”

  She looks over her shoulder at Rachel, and whatever expression she gives her makes Rachel laugh. “Fine, but you owe me.”

  “I’ll open tomorrow.” They hug and I get a good view of Em’s backside. Freckles speckle all the way up the back of her thighs and disappear into her shorts. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before opening the shack door for her.

  She bounds straight into my arms and kisses me. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  “You have a present for me?”

  “Don’t get overexcited. I only spent two bucks on it.” I hand her the Target bag and she hands me the snow cone. She bounces a little on her toes when she pulls out the creepy-looking sponge thing and kisses my nose.

  “He was at Target? I looked everywhere for a froggy and they only had the boring ones.” She wiggles it in my face and I bat her hand away. “And he’s yellow! I love him.”

  “I think I lucked out.” I tug on the leg. “Last one, and it was sitting in a big bin near electronics.”

  “Electronics? Someone needs to train their stock boys.” She ties it to her belt loop, then takes the snow cone back. Her chest presses against mine as she pecks my chin. “Thank you.”