I Pucking Love You

by Pippa Grant

  Thank god Veda’s family aren’t religious.

  Why can I not get out of my own head?

  Because you know he’s faking it, Muffy.

  I sigh and my whole body sags in defeat, which Tyler apparently takes as a sign that I’m fully surrendering to his kiss, because he deepens it even more.

  And oh.

  Oh, my.

  Is that a petrified bratwurst in his pants, or is he just happy to be kissing me?

  And is that me that I smell, or are other people getting turned on watching us make out?

  Am I an exhibitionist?

  Holy hell. My panties are soaked. My nipples could cut glass. And I’m thrusting my tongue into Tyler’s mouth like there’s an ice cream cone waiting at the back of his throat.

  Tyler Jaeger is a kissing god.

  I did not realize this the night of the private club fridge incident.

  But he is. Everywhere his hand roams, my nerves spontaneously light themselves on fire. I want to strip out of my dress and beg him to lick me from head to toe. I want to ride him like a mermaid riding a dolphin and drown in this intense feeling of being a sexy, desirable, untamed woman with her whole life together.

  Am I unbuttoning his shirt?

  Oh my god.

  I’m unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Hate to break up the party,” a voice that sounds like Veda says somewhere in the hazy distance, “but if you two don’t quit pawing at each other, I think my uncle’s going to have a heart attack, and one funeral in a week is quite enough with me.”

  Tyler freezes with his tongue in my mouth.

  I squeak.

  Kind of.

  Oh my god, I can smell myself. I really am turned on.

  I need to change my underwear before I can ride home in the same car as myself for the next three hours, never mind riding in the same car as Tyler.

  How, exactly, does one unentangle her tongue from someone else’s when there’s an audience?

  Not asking for a friend.

  Tyler abruptly pulls back, wipes his thumb over the saliva left dangling on my lip, and clears his throat. “Sorry, Veda.”

  “Oh, no, don’t apologize to me.” She grins at him. “I’ve never seen Connie Bra-cow-ski silenced so quickly. That was glorious. You’re forgiven for being an ass at breakfast. Thanks for coming to my dad’s funeral.”

  I wipe my mouth too, but it doesn’t scrub off the feeling of Tyler kissing me. “What else can we do? Need anything else? We don’t have to leave for…what? Another hour or two?” I look at Tyler, immediately wish he had the decency to look like someone who wasn’t just kissing the stuffing out of me on top of a grave, then look at the ground. “When did you tell the coach you’d be back?”

  “Team meeting at four.”

  “Oh, no, then you should get going,” Veda says. “Thank you so much for being here. And for the margarita. And dinner. And breakfast.” Veda hugs me tight and drops her voice. “Oh my god, Muffy, that was the hottest kiss I’ve ever seen. If you don’t do something about that and give me all the details, I’ll basically never forgive you.”

  “We should tell Daisy we’re leaving,” I reply.

  “Not a chance,” Tyler says. “She’s in her zone. We go over there, we’ll be partying on a riverboat for the next three days.”

  “Seriously?” Veda grins at him. “That’s an option?”

  He shakes his head, also not looking at me. “Two years ago? Definitely. I was there. Now? No chance. Disgusting as it is, she’s way too into my brother, and he’s not much of a partier.”

  “If he ever decides to throw a three-day riverboat party that he lets her plan, let me know.”

  Tyler laughs, and my vagina fangirls like a middle-aged woman at a boy band reunion concert. “You got it.”

  Neither of us say a word on the way to his car.

  I don’t ask if we can stop somewhere so I can change my panties.

  He doesn’t ask if I need any more Donettes.

  And when he opens the door for me, he doesn’t touch me.

  Instead, he looks down at his phone.

  Right.

  That kiss?

  It was all for show.

  And this favor?

  It’s over.

  20

  Tyler

  I have a boner.

  And not just any boner.

  It’s like my first boner after my junk developed and I found my buddy’s dad’s anime magazine collection and stole an issue with one of the hottest anime girl drawings to look at with a flashlight under my sheets, spanking the monkey and not understanding why I had that infernal ache in the pit of my stomach when it felt so good to yank on my dick.

  I have a boner so hard I actually feel physically ill.

  And I’m supposed to drive three fucking hours like this.

  Gratitude. I should have gratitude. My dick is no longer broken. He’s fully capable of standing up for himself. But it’s so hard I’m nauseous.

  I could text West. Tell him Muffy and I need to “talk” and I need his hotel room for twenty minutes.

  He’d know I was asking for space for a booty call.

  I wouldn’t care.

  It’d be quicker than checking into another hotel. More efficient. Even if there’s traffic between here and Copper Valley, I’ll be back in time for the team meeting if I can use a pre-paid hotel room.

  Or we could find an abandoned parking lot and bang it out in the back seat.

  I cut a glance at Muffy, who’s staring straight ahead as I pull out of the cemetery, lips drooping, eyes sad, arms crossed over her chest in exactly the right way to offer a hint of cleavage at the top of her dress, and my boner grows another inch.

  Not a good sign for my performance if we do stop.

  Or maybe it is a good sign. Maybe she needs comforting.

  “You need a bathroom or anything?” My voice is rough and also higher than normal. It’s like I’m sliding backwards into puberty again.

  Muffy doesn’t seem to notice. She keeps staring straight ahead. “No, thank you.”

  “Food?”

  “I’m full, thank you.”

  “Want to change?”

  She twists in her seat to face me. “Thank you for being basically the perfect date for Veda’s dad’s funeral. I’m fine. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but it could’ve been, especially if you weren’t here. Thank you for worrying. That’s very kind of you. But I’d prefer to get on the road. I need to get back to work on helping a client get a first date, which isn’t going well, if I’m being perfectly honest, and it makes me mad, because she’s this awesome person with the biggest heart and a great sense of humor, and she’s so real, but she’s not conventionally pretty, and everyone judges her by her shoulders.”

  Is this a trap? Is this one of those times when she’s actually talking about herself but pretending she’s talking about someone else, and I’m supposed to tell her I find her very attractive, both inside and out?

  Do I find her attractive?

  Or do I simply like that I was right, and the solution to getting my boners back was to go back to the woman who took them away from me?

  Holy shit.

  Muffy’s a witch.

  She heaves a loud sigh and flings herself back into her seat.

  I clear my throat. Right. Didn’t reply for too long. And she’s probably not talking about herself. She did that plenty in front of me with Veda last night. “I could ask a few guys on the team to take her out.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

  Translation: I’ve met your teammates and I think they’re all superficially judgmental assholes, just like you are, Tyler Jaeger.

  I’m not a superficially judgmental asshole, which I’d think she’d know by now, so why am I calling myself one?

  And yet I still have a raging hard-on.

  Shit.

  Is this like one of those things I should call my doctor about?

  Or is it
the reflex boner after weeks of no boners?

  “Do you want me to take her out?” I ask.

  It feels like the wrong question, but I don’t know what else to ask.

  Her answer is equally wrong. “Do you want to get married?”

  “No.”

  “Then no, thank you. My clients are looking for long-term, committed relationships.”

  She doesn’t sound angry or irritated by any of this.

  She sounds tired and defeated.

  Much like my junk was until that kiss.

  How many guys has she kissed like that?

  Was she a virgin when we banged in the bunny bar kitchen?

  She’s thirty, I think. Maybe a year or two older? I don’t actually know. The odds of her being a virgin seem slim.

  But at the same time, I’ve never heard her talk about a boyfriend. I’ve never seen her with a date, and she’s been pretty vocal about not dating. And if she was a virgin in her final year of med school, she was at least—dammit, math is hard when I have the boner from hell—okay, I don’t know how old she would’ve been, but I know she would’ve been through at least four years of college and at least two or three years of medical school—or four? I don’t know—which means she made it past the prime virginity-shedding years with her v-card still intact.

  Jesus, this woody hurts.

  I shift in my seat to try to relieve some of the pressure.

  Distraction.

  I need a distraction.

  And not a distraction that involves thinking about funerals, friends dating married guys, my family, or anything other than getting to know Muffy a little better. “What made you get into matchmaking?”

  There’s a long pause while Phil Collins sings softly in the background.

  Phil Collins?

  One, who changed my radio station?

  Two, how did I know that’s Phil Collins? I don’t listen to Phil Collins.

  “I want to help people,” Muffy says quietly. “Especially the people who are usually overlooked.”

  I glance at her. She’s staring out the window at the row of stores we’re passing on our way out of Richmond. “Help people find love?”

  “It’s the greatest power on earth. Can you imagine what the world would be like if we actually loved each other the way we pretend to? I can’t fix the world. I can’t fix their bodies. Clearly. Medical school drop-out and all that. But if I can help one person who feels different find someone who loves her the way she deserves to be loved, then I can change her world. And I don’t always get it right.” She snorts quietly. “Okay, I often don’t get it right. I could write a book about all the awkward dates my clients have had because of me, though I’m getting better at making sure that doesn’t happen anymore. But I hope I’m also showing all of my clients that they can love themselves. That they’re worthy of love. And that their needs are as important as anyone else’s.”

  Now my dick isn’t the only thing uncomfortable.

  My chest is feeling some tightness too. “That’s pretty cool.”

  “It would be if it worked,” she mutters.

  I’ve seen Muffy sassy. I’ve seen her confident. I’ve seen her not give two shits and I’ve seen her tell off people to defend her friends.

  Hell, she’s told me off a time or two. Not that many days ago inside a Cod Pieces, actually.

  I even saw her scared this weekend. Angry, too.

  But I’ve never seen her defeated.

  “You have a higher calling,” I say. “A purpose. That’s cool.”

  “What’s a purpose without results?”

  “You got Kami and Nick together.”

  “No, I didn’t. Kami would’ve found herself other dates on dating apps with or without me, and Nick would’ve come to his senses all on his own. He did come to his senses all on his own. I was a tool in her belt. I wasn’t the magic. She was the magic.”

  “But she trusted you.”

  “Above all things, Kami is kind, and she called me because she didn’t want my feelings to get hurt if I heard she was using a dating app. You don’t have to pretend I’m a good matchmaker. I’ve made a fine art out of failing for a long time, and I know it. I’m okay with who I am, because I keep trying, and that’s what’s important.”

  I floor the gas pedal as I hit the on-ramp to I-56. Muffy is not okay with who she is, and she doesn’t even know it. “You said you’ve made a few matches lately.”

  She makes a face. “A few isn’t anything to write home about.”

  “Tell me three good things about yourself.”

  “What?”

  “Three good things. Tell me.”

  “I’m no longer in Richmond, I’m not my mother, and I can burp the alphabet.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. I accidentally burfed once at a dinner party my dad was hosting for his boss, and I’ve made an effort to never burp in public again. Private either.”

  “Burfed?”

  “Burped and barfed at the same time? Like when you think it’ll be a quiet burp that you can subtly stifle, but then stuff comes up? Like a shart in your mouth? Oh my god. This is exactly why I can’t get a date, isn’t it? You kissed me. We slept in the same bed together. We’ve had sex. We ghosted each other. And now I’m talking about sharts and burfs.”

  “You have a name for it. That’s hot.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I’m serious. I like made-up words.”

  “When they’re about bodily functions?”

  “I also like that you’re not afraid to speak your mind. You care enough about your friends to get physically and emotionally uncomfortable to be there for them. And you want to make the world a better place.”

  She’s eyeballing me again. I can feel it, and it makes me want to squirm.

  With good reason, given what comes out of her mouth next.

  “Why don’t you ever want to get married?”

  Is it hot in here? Or is it that she’s going right for the balls? “I grew up with four sisters. That’s enough for one lifetime.”

  “Being married would be like living with your sisters again?”

  I open my mouth to reply, and nothing comes out.

  They talk about childbirth seems like a dumb thing to say. So does they nag me.

  I love my sisters. They’re all great.

  But I wouldn’t marry them.

  Still, I’m not a big enough idiot to suggest that the four of them encompass every personality of every woman in the world.

  Plus, West also nags me, so I know it’s not only a sister thing.

  So why don’t I want to get married?

  Heartbreak and expectations.

  “Yes. That’s exactly it,” I finally say. “It’d be like sleeping with my sisters and listening to my sisters and fighting with my sisters.”

  “So you’re afraid of commitment.”

  “You know what it takes to be a low-ranked draft pick, spend years playing minor-league hockey and still never give up on that dream of making it to the top tier of the pros? Commitment. I’m not afraid of commitment. I’m here because of commitment.”

  “Commitment to a job and commitment to a person are two very different things.”

  “Not really.”

  “Yes, they are. You know you can only play hockey for so many years, and then you’ll retire and find a new job. Maybe it’ll be sports-related. Maybe it won’t. Maybe you won’t find a job at all and you’ll go somewhere with a low cost of living and raise goats for fun. Your teammates will change over the years. Maybe your team will change too. The only thing that’ll stay steady is that you’ll strap on your pads, lace up your skates, grab your stick, and spend your days getting paid to chase a puck on the ice until your body gives out or you get tired of it. Commitment to a person, though—that’s a lifetime. And that person? They’ll love you back. They can hurt you, or they can complete you, and some days they might do both in a span of a few seconds. When that person’s sick, you’ll f
eel sick. When they get life-shattering news, you’ll feel it so deep in your gut you know it’ll never leave. When they’re happy, you’ll feel the sunshine and rainbows. The game? The game doesn’t love you. It won’t be there for you the next time you have to go to a funeral. It won’t throw you a surprise birthday party. It won’t know when you need a hug or someone to talk to, and it won’t keep you warm at night.”

  “You don’t know the game the way I know the game.” I’m sweating. She’s right.

  “Maybe not. But I know fear of commitment when I see it. And you, Tyler Jaeger, are afraid of commitment.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe don’t try to diagnose what’s wrong with me if you’re not willing to put the time in to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

  “Why does not wanting commitment have to be wrong? I like myself fine the way I am.”

  Yeah, that’s why we’re malfunctioning, idiot, my junk offers.

  It doesn’t get to talk, because it’s still a raging stiff rod of someone pet me!

  “Good,” Muffy says. “Because I like myself fine the way I am too, broken and incapable and everything.”

  “You’re not broken.”

  She eyeballs me and doesn’t answer.

  “And I wasn’t embarrassed by you this morning,” I add. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. You sit here and talk about being broken and incapable, and I didn’t—fuck, Muffy, I feel like a failure next to Daisy sometimes, and I didn’t want you to feel judged or insignificant or unsuccessful when you are doing something pretty cool with your life.”

  More crickets.

  But my mouth won’t quit moving. “Were you still a virgin the night we hooked up?”

  I know. Shut up, Jaeger. Throw it in reverse, back it up, swallow the words down, don’t let them come out of your mouth.

  But I want to know.

  I need to know.

  “This isn’t Regency England, and I’m not the kind of girl who made chastity vows.”