by Pippa Grant
I still can’t believe that was the line that had me pulling him into the kitchen and hiding in the walk-in refrigerator before the chef spotted us the night Maren took me to the secret club.
Or that a guy with an actual six-pack took his shirt off for me, showing off his tattoos for me, hoisted me up against a shelf full of boxes of tomatoes, and then popped an actual boner that size for me.
Not that it got better after that—it didn’t, really, and I don’t know why I thought it would—but still.
It was probably my fault it wasn’t great. I didn’t exactly tell him what I liked or didn’t like, or why I didn’t know what I liked or didn’t like, or maybe I couldn’t get out of my own head, or maybe, I don’t know, most guys are overrated?
That’s what they say, right? That women fake it all the time?
It’s not like I’ve never had an orgasm. I do masturbate.
And yes, my mother’s caught me at it before, and no, I don’t want to talk about that.
“Would it turn a guy off if I licked something like this in front of him?” Brianna asks.
She’s still sniffing the fish like it’ll get better with age, or maybe like she needs a private minute with it.
As much as I love fried fish too, I’m honestly a little uncomfortable. And not because I was visiting that memory where Tyler Jaeger was into me while I’m supposed to be concentrating on a client. “If a guy walks away because he can’t handle you enjoying your food, then you deserve better than him.”
She frowns. Her pale skin is dusted with a thick layer of freckles, and her glasses are smudged like she’s gotten up close and personal with the fried batter already. Her hair’s still cut short, and like me, she’s not exactly a waif.
Pretty far from it, actually. She fought to be allowed to wrestle in high school, and she kicked ass.
“I’m not what most guys are into.” Her shoulders are drooping, and I want to hug her.
“Who wants most guys? That’s why you’re here. To find something better than most guys.”
“But can you really do that? How do you find the guys who are better than most other guys?”
With a lot more work than I wish it took.
People like Brianna deserve love as much as people who look like they have it all together, and believe me, I know plenty of people who look like they have it all together, but underneath it all, they’re a mess.
Or they have been.
Even Kami was a disaster for a bit last year, and she’s one of the kindest, smartest, prettiest, most-together people I know.
Also?
She doesn’t think she’s all that pretty or smart. She does know she’s kind though. I love that she owns it.
“Are you willing to give a few guys a chance?” I ask Brianna.
She frowns again, picks up her fish, bites into it, and moans.
And moans.
And moans.
I squirm, because this is starting to feel like being on a porn set, and not gonna lie, I’m getting a little warm in some spots. One of the day shift people drops a bucket or something that clatters loudly, and a customer walking to the counter turns to stare at us, trips, and falls onto another customer at a different table.
It’s When Harry Met Sally, fried fish edition.
Mental note: add she’s a moaner to Brianna’s file.
Other mental note: do real people actually moan like that during sex? Is it ever actually good, or is it a myth that women tell men because a large portion of the female population has a biological need for babies and so they pretend it’s good so that everyone gets what they want? Have we been so trained to coddle men’s egos for so long that no one actually knows if there’s legitimately good sex out there?
Brianna slumps back in her seat with a blissful smile on her face, her shoulders relaxed, one leg cocked out funny from beneath the table. “You’re single too, aren’t you?”
I clear my throat and stifle the urge to wipe my forehead with a napkin.
That question is the worst.
How do you know how to set me up with someone when you can’t even set yourself up?
It’s not what she asked, except it’s usually what people mean.
Time for my standard answer. “You know how you sometimes have that friend who’ll be like, does this rash look weird, and you tell her to go to the doctor, but if you have a rash on your own skin that looks weird, you write it off, because of course it’s fine and it’ll go away on its own in a few days?”
“Fuck, yeah. Actually, I’ve got this skin tag on my toe, and I think it’s growing. Do you think I should see a doctor?”
“Can’t hurt, right?”
She nods and eyes her fish again, and once again, I’m back in that fridge with Tyler squeezing my ass while we played tonsil hockey and yanked off all of our clothes.
He moaned sort of like Brianna when he came too, now that I think about it.
And now I need a shower before my shift, which sucks, because the sex wasn’t all that great, but here I am, getting hot and bothered at the memory.
Maybe if we hadn’t been in a thirty-five-degree fridge?
No, it’s probably more that Tyler’s ego is bigger than his skill. I know that’s a thing.
Brianna points at me with her half-eaten fish stick. “Wait. We were talking about you being single.”
“Right. I’m that friend who’ll tell you to go to the doctor but refuse to do it for myself. It’s easier to have clarity for other people, and I like making other people happy, so I’m okay with being single, and it doesn’t interfere with my ability to help you. If anything, it makes me more objective about the men I screen for you since I have no interest in them myself.”
Which is good, especially considering how I’m meeting men to screen these days.
She’s still frowning while she takes another bite of fish. “Oh my god, this is so good. I would date this fish. I would take this fish to bed. Have you tried this? Here. Have a—no, you know what? I’ll give you ten bucks to get your own.”
“That’s okay.” I wave her off as she reaches for the wallet in her back pocket. “I can afford my own fish, I promise. And I’m going to find you a man who makes you moan as much as that fried cod does.”
Her eyes go round. “Oh, shit. We’re in public, aren’t we?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse here.”
“Muffy! Dude! You’re here early too.” D’Angelo swings through the door and stops at our table, holds out a fist, and we do our usual bump-slap-shake routine, which we both miss at least one step of, and we end up staring at each other for a split second before cracking up.
We are such dorks.
I hope that doesn’t turn Brianna off.
Probably not, considering she’s looking at him like she was looking at her fish a minute ago. A piece of cod dribbles out from between her lips. I make a quick wipe your mouth gesture, and she jerks to grab her napkin, bumps the table wrong, and spills her Coke all over both of us. “Oh, shit.”
“I gotcha.” D’Angelo leaps into action, grabbing a leftover stack of napkins on the next table and helping me attack the mess with the fervor of a guy who doesn’t want to mop the floor twice in one night.
“Sorry,” Brianna stutters. “Sorry. I—you’re gorgeous.”
His brown eyes glow with the kind of warmth that makes him one of my favorite people. “Aw, not next to you. You okay? Didn’t get any on you, did you?”
She shakes her head.
“D’Angelo, this is my friend, Brianna.” I smile at both of them.
Brianna gapes.
“Hey, Brianna. Nice to meet you.” D’Angelo smiles back, and I congratulate myself on my instincts.
Brianna needs the kind of guy who’s a little protective, a lot of good humor, and a dash of hard work, and D’Angelo has been bemoaning his lack of courage to talk to girls lately.
They’ll become friends, realize they like each other as more, and boom.
It’l
l be my first all-organic match, no side scheming required.
He tilts his head at a stunning woman behind him. “And this is Willa, my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend?
Girlfriend?
Since when does he have a girlfriend?
“We hooked up last night,” he adds in a whisper to me.
Oh, fuuuuuuuck.
Muff Matchers fails.
Again.
I’ll find a guy for Brianna.
I will.
My bad for thinking this time might be easier.
8
Tyler
In the three days since I told Muffy I’d be her date to this thing, I’ve almost backed out twice an hour, but my dick is still playing dead, and Nick cornered me after the game last night and told me Kami doesn’t have details, but some shit happened to Muffy to make her leave medical school, and if I do anything to make her life difficult today, I’ll wish getting an atomic wedgie on my way to a swirly of death was the worst thing looming in my future.
So here I am, pulling up to a two-story house with faded siding and patchy dead rose bushes in need of pruning in an older neighborhood in Copper Valley, hoping Muffy comes running out so I don’t have to talk to Aunt Spanky-Spanky—ah, I mean Muffy’s mom, who has an unfortunate self-given nickname in the locker room—before I play the gallant gentleman who saves the woman who faked it the one time we hooked up.
Yeah.
I want karma points for my dick.
My overnight bag is in the trunk. Coach let me out of practice tomorrow after making me do extra sprints and shooting practice today and promise I’ll be there for every charity event he wants me to do in the next month. I’m in a suit, as requested, since we’re apparently going to a pre-ceremony reception tonight basically as soon as we check in, and I’m ignoring the bruise on my side from a puck that snuck between my pads at the game last night.
The front door opens as I’m stepping out of my car, and—shit.
It’s Muffy’s mother.
I scramble for my phone, put it to my ear, and make the one minute gesture.
My phone screams out an old Bro Code song in my ear, and I drop the damn thing.
Jesus.
Do all my sisters have to have awful timing? I fumble with it again, drop it twice, and then send the call to voicemail.
Staci can wait.
Also, for the record, I don’t usually listen to boy band songs. It’s simply an appropriate ringtone for my sister.
Muffy’s mother is marching down the steps.
Shit again.
I give up pretending I’m on the phone, retrieve it from the asphalt, and stand back up to look at her over the roof of my car.
Best to leave the beast between us. “Morning, Ms. Periwinkle. Muffy ready?”
She’s in knee-high leopard-print boots, baggy black leggings, and a ruffly orange blouse that she’s belted at her waist. She’s making pouty lips as she reaches my car and strokes the hood of my red Maserati GT convertible. “My, my, you’re certainly taking Muffy out in style today, aren’t you?”
“I—yeah.”
My phone dings six times in rapid succession, which means my sisters have re-activated our group chat text. The call from Staci—who doesn’t usually participate in the group texts—probably means I’m on a gossip page somewhere.
Awesome.
And by awesome, I don’t actually mean awesome.
“Ooh, it’s a four-seater.” She peers in the window. “I could come along.”
The last time I was around Hilda Periwinkle, she asked if she could get a selfie with me licking her face so her online friends would know that she wasn’t lying when she told them that she got busy with half the Thrusters in the off-season.
And I didn’t know if she was joking or not.
I do know that hanging out with Hilda Periwinkle will not improve my broken dick situation. And neither will any of the text messages continuing to blow up my phone. “Is Muffy ready?”
“She’s still in the shower. Why don’t you come on in? I did a boudoir shoot with my dear friend Aubrey Innsbruck, and I got the proofs this week. You could help me decide which one you like the best?”
You have to admire her confidence.
But I still don’t want to see anyone’s boudoir photos. Not Hilda’s. Not any of my sisters’. Not my mother’s.
Again with the not helping the broken dick situation.
“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Periwinkle.” I wave my phone at her in the crisp morning air. “Family situation. I need to check these—”
“Mom, leave him alone.”
I can’t see Muffy, but I can hear her. She’s—oh.
There she is.
Window. Second floor. Peering through a screen.
“I don’t like you going off on overnight dates with men I don’t know,” Hilda calls back.
“You asked if he’d show you his pee-pee at Kami’s wedding last year. You should be more worried that I’m going on an overnight date with a man who knows you. He might not bring me back.”
Hilda gasps.
“I’ll be down in a minute, Tyler. Please ignore every syllable that comes out of her mouth, and do not agree to see her new pictures.”
“I have them on my phone.” Hilda circles the hood while I pretend I’m not backing away to circle my trunk and keep the car between us. “You’ve heard of Aubrey Innsbruck, haven’t you? He’s renowned in art circles for his creative interpretations of the human body.”
I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to either. “My sister’s twins are having tonsillectomies today and I really need to check in and see how they’re doing.”
“Both twins?”
“Yep.” No. Not at all. They had their tonsillectomies about three months apart in the spring. Also, I don’t think doctors schedule tonsillectomies on Sundays. “They’re identical.”
They’re fraternal.
And hilarious for being so small.
“I didn’t see that on Daisy’s social media.”
There are a ton of upsides to having Daisy Carter-Kincaid as a sister-in-law.
This is not one of them. “There’s a lot of stuff Daisy doesn’t post about our family on her social media. We like our privacy.”
Hilda winks. “Some of you do. I saw Daisy’s boudoir photos from a few years back too. Hoo, mama. I’m lifting my weights so I can look that good.”
For the record, I don’t look at Daisy’s old boudoir photos either. My brother might have over a decade on me and be a retired Marine, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone soft.
Far from it.
Looking at his wife naked or nearly so?
Bad idea.
Bad, bad idea.
No matter when the pictures were taken.
The front door flies open. “Mom, Rufus is in your closet.”
Hilda shrieks. “Why did you let him in there?”
“I didn’t! You left it open!”
Hilda darts for the porch.
As soon as she disappears inside, Muffy’s shoulders droop and she squeezes her eyes shut, but only for a minute before she pastes on a smile and walks the short distance to my car.
I eyeball her as I take her small suitcase and fling it into the trunk. She’s in a black dress that lands just below her knees, a fluffy light blue coat on top of it, with her hair back and makeup on and her bag slung across her body again, and it strikes me once again that Muffy’s one of those unique women who manages to be steal-your-breath pretty in unexpected ways.
Which still isn’t making my dick do anything other than sit in my pants like he’s having a drink-beer-and-watch-ESPN-while-lounging-on-the-couch kind of day. “Is your cat really in your mom’s closet?”
“No. He’s trying to eat the fake goldfish on the aquarium channel in the living room. Get in the car. We need to go before she tries to come along.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
She doesn’t wait for me to get her door
either, so I dive into the driver’s seat in time for her to swing her purse into the backseat, miss, and smack me in the face with it instead.
“Ow!”
“Oh, shit! Fuck! Shit! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Did I get you in the eye? Can you drive? Can you see? Did I knock out a fake tooth?”
I open my jaw wide to stretch my nose while my eyes water. “Had worse. What the hell do you keep in that thing?”
“Chocolate and brass knuckles.”
“Brass knuckles?”
“No. But I do have like seventeen dollars in change in case we hit toll roads, plus my favorite candle that I give out to all of my clients when they sign up for Muff Matchers. Oh, crap. I’m sweating. Do I smell like fish? I swear I smell like fish when I sweat these days. Do I need to drive? Seriously, not to be pushy after I assaulted your face, but my mom will be back out as soon as she realizes Rufus isn’t harking up hairballs on her fur boots, and I really don’t want her coming with us today. I, erm, don’t have enough hotel rooms for that. Actually, the entire city of Richmond doesn’t have enough hotel rooms for that.”
My phone dings a bunch again.
I blink to clear the last of the sting, crank the engine, toss my phone in the cup holder, and glance at her again.
On second peek, she doesn’t actually look like Muffy.
She looks like a professional, dolled-up version of Muffy who might start talking about the stock market or the abstract meaning behind a literary fiction novel or offer to take my coat and show me to a special waiting room?
I glance down at my dick.
He doesn’t seem to realize that’s a fantasy about getting a blow job before a business meeting.
Also, a fantasy about a business meeting? I don’t do business meetings.
Even for blow jobs.
And Muffy isn’t making innuendoes either. Plus, she’s right. We don’t need her mother tagging along.
“What was it like growing up with her as your mother?” I ask as I peel away from the curb, now with my phone hooked up to my stereo system, which is announcing every text message from my family.
“Normal? Do you ever really know any different than what you grow up with? My friends were all embarrassed by their parents too, so it’s not like I realized her lack of filters are different from other people’s lack of filters. Do you always get this many text messages? Holy crap. Your phone hasn’t stopped with the notifications since I got in the car.”