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.
I fold my arms as well, standing my ground. “You’ve been short with me all day. Lighten up.”
“Are you really telling me to lighten up?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say in a tone that doesn’t seem to please her. Her eyes have turned into flames and I fear she’ll chuck the hammer in her hand right between my eyes.
“I waited for you all morning to help me with these shelves and when you finally show up, you’re not taking it seriously.”
“Ruth, they’re shelves. We’ll get them up.”
“That’s not the point. After our run, you said you’d be here at nine, but you didn’t show up until eleven. I could have been baking or helping out at Snow Roast. You might have people running your garage, but I still have to do work for Snow Roast, and I can’t waste time waiting around for you.”
“Wow,” I say holding up my hands. “I told you my mom called and asked for some help at The Lobster Landing while Griffin took Ren to the doctor.”
“Well, a phone call would have been nice,” she says, looking away.
“Is this . . . is this all a ruse so you can get my phone number?”
“What? No.”
I take a step forward. “Bullshit.”
She tightens her arms around herself. “It’s not.” She’s still not looking at me, so I close the space between us until there’s nothing but inches separating us.
“You don’t have to start a fight, Ruthie.” I push a stray piece of hair that’s fallen loose from her ponytail behind her ear. “You can just ask.”
“This is not about your number,” she says as I back her up against the wall. Her eyes widen and her hands fall to the wall behind her for support.
“All you have to say is, Brig, can I have your number please?” I draw in an inch closer and set my hands on her hips.
“I don’t want your number. This is about respecting people’s time.”
“Uh-huh.” I smile wickedly. “So why were you tense this morning during our run?”
“I wasn’t tense. I was conserving energy.” She sucks in a sharp breath when my thumbs rub over her hips. I have no idea what I’m currently doing, but the past few days it’s felt next to impossible to be near her and not touch her.
Two days ago, I went into Snow Roast, went around the counter, and pulled her into a hug. She was in the middle of serving someone, but I felt this overwhelming desire to hold her.
Yesterday, when we were walking to the hardware store to pick up some new knobs for the kitchen, as well as a new kitchen faucet, I held her hand and told her it was windy, and I didn’t want her flying away. But in reality, I had this consuming need to hold her hand.
Just like I have this consuming need to touch her right now.
To invade her space.
And she’s been feisty lately. Seems like with every passing day she gets more agitated and more irritated. I’ve tried asking her what’s wrong, why she’s so short with me, but she doesn’t answer. She just moves on to the next thing, the tension building and building.
Well, I’m over it.
“You were tense, just like you’re tense now. What’s going on with you?”
Her deep chocolate eyes search mi
ne, flitting back and forth, her mouth barely falls open so her tongue can wet her lips.
Entranced, I watch the smooth pink of her tongue run over the plumpness of her lips. Hell, they look good. Glossy, ripe . . . ready.
My thumbs drag over her hipbones, my body heating up, erupting a thrill of need through my spine, igniting my soul, messing with my head. What would she taste like? Would she taste as sweet as I suspect? If I moved in a few more inches, would she push me away?
Would she—
“We’re pregnant!”
I shoot off Ruth like a rocket, nearly slamming her through the wall as I bounce a good five feet away from her.
“We weren’t doing anything,” I say, hands in my hair as I face my oldest brother.
Griffin and Ren both stand in the doorway of the Parlor, holding hands, amused looks on their faces.
I straighten my shirt, trying to fidget with anything I can, feeling like I just got caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing, even though I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Or maybe I was.
Was I?
I shouldn’t have been thinking what my friend’s lips taste like, that’s for damn sure.
Since no one is saying anything, I speak up again, “I know what you’re thinking and no, we weren’t doing anything. It might have looked that way, and I might have reacted like we were, but we weren’t. Not even close, nope. We were just talking about why Ruth is being so nasty to me lately. A real wench. Testy. Moody. I told her it’s because she wants my phone number, but she denies it. But if we’re laying all the cards on the table, and it feels like that’s what this moment is all about, showing our cards, I secretly think she’s been witchy lately because she might be horny—”
“Brig,” Ruth snaps at me.
“Is that not the case?” I ask, wincing when I see the violence spurting from her eyes. Swords swish and swoop from her pupils, actual swords. Pirate swords. Jagged pirate swords, flying at me with such velocity that I metaphorically worry for my penis.
“Uh, maybe we should come back,” Ren says, looking between us.
“No, Brig was just leaving.” Ruth comes up behind me and starts pushing my back, but I dig my heels in.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re leaving.” She continues to push, now digging her bony shoulder into my back, trying to gain leverage, but lucky for me, I am a giant compared to her small stature, and I don’t move.
“Still not going anywhere.” I fold my arms and stubbornly hold my ground. “Is that all you’ve got, Ruthie?”
She pushes.
I lean against her.
She pushes some more.
I lean even further.
“This is entertaining,” Griffin says, watching from the doorway.
“I think we should leave. They seem to be going through something.”
“Get . . . out . . . of . . . here,” Ruthie grunts behind me.
I examine my nails, acting bored. “Nope.”
“Ugh,” she growls and to my surprise, gives up and pulls away, only for me to land flat on my ass.
Oompf.
“Oh my ass,” I say, rolling to the side and clutching my tailbone. “You broke my ass.”
When I catch a glimpse of Ruth, she’s just standing over me, arms crossed, looking less than amused. “You’re fine,” she says, showing zero compassion.
I am fine, but figured I’d try to milk it at little. Looks like she’s not in the mood.
“Well, this is a moment I’ll never forget,” Ren says as I stand to my feet and brush off my backside.
Addressing Ruth, I say, “Would it hurt you to show an ounce of compassion? You have been—” I pause, think about why Griffin and Ren are standing in the Parlor, watching us. Slowly turning to them, I ask, “Wait . . . did you say you’re pregnant?”
“We are,” Griffin says, an overjoyed smile on his face. “Ren hasn’t been feeling great lately—”
“And you know how protective he is with me.” Ren rolls her eyes. “That’s why he went to the appointment with me this morning. Thanks for covering for us at The Landing.”
“See,” I say to Ruth, who’s sporting an endearing smile. “I told you I was helping them out.”
“Still, you could have informed me. The town is two feet long, so you could have walked over to let me know,” she snaps back. She then walks up to Ren and Griffin and gives them both a hug. “Congratulations, you guys. I’m very happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Griffin says, pulling Ren into his side. “A little ahead of the plan, but we’re excited.”
I walk up to both of them as well and give them a hug. “This is amazing. Do Mom and Dad know?”
“We just came from telling them and calling Ren’s parents. You were the second to know since you covered my shift,” Griffin says.
“Did Mom want you to propose right then and there?” I ask, forgetting Ren is standing in front of me.
Griffin chuckles and kisses the top of Ren’s head. “Yeah. She subtly mentioned it.”
“I told him he doesn’t have to marry me because we’re having a baby,” Ren cuts in. “Marriage will come.”
I glance at Griffin, who winks, and I have a feeling there’s going to be a proposal in the near future. He better ask me to help him. Proposals are my jam.
“We should head out and tell Rogan.” Griffin points at me. “Don’t tell anyone. I swear to God, Brig, if this reaches the town gossip line, I’m holding you accountable, and I have no problem damaging your manly goods. Got it?”
“Jesus, man. I know how to keep a secret.”
Everyone in the room laughs, even Ruth, who then sneers at me when I glance at her. Okay, that needs to stop.
“Prove it, don’t tell anyone. Got it?”
I hold up my hands in defense. “Got it.”
We say our goodbyes, I give my brother one more hug, and the realization that I’m going to be an uncle hits me harder than expected. Fuck yeah, I can’t wait. I’m going to spoil that baby so hard.
I’m caught up in an uncle fantasy when I catch Ruth putting tools away and packing up.
“Uh, what are you doing?”
“I can’t work with you today.”
She unplugs the drill that was charging and sets it to the side.
“What do you mean you can’t work with me today?”
She straightens and gestures toward the door. “You called me horny in front of your brother.”
“Well . . . aren’t you?”
“That’s none of your business, Brig.”
“It is when I’m your friend, and I know you’ve been crushing on a guy for years now and haven’t done anything about it. He could be the one helping you, not me.”
“I didn’t realize I was inconveniencing you.”
“You’re not.” I blow out a heavy breath, realizing how that sounded. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . . why haven’t you gone after this guy?”
She plants her hands on her hips and looks me square in the eyes. “Because, Brig, he’s the biggest, most clueless moron I’ve ever met, and frankly, I don’t have time for him anymore.”
“What? Did you talk to him? Tell him your feelings? Did he reject you?” I pause and wince. “Was it Oliver?”
“I swear to God,” she mumbles, grabs her keys, and blows past me, her shoulder bouncing off mine. “Please, for the love of everything, do not stop by Snow Roast today. I need a break.”
“Are you Ross and Rachel-ing me?” She walks out the door, slamming it. “Ruth?”
The door snaps behind her and I let out a low breath.
Hell, that didn’t go very well. Did she talk to the guy? And if she did, who in their right mind would turn her down?
She’s perfect.
* * *
Dear Whoopie Pie,
Attached is a picture of my breasts just for you. And before you get too excited, it’s not an actual picture. I just painted them and then stamped them on a piece of paper.
I know what you’re thinking—how has this friend driven me to drink? Well, you see, he’s not very intelligent when it comes to seeing something that’s right in front of his nose. And having to constantly deal with his inability to connect dots has driven me to the booze.
Normally, I’d handle the situation differently, but the last week has made me lose my mind, so I’m sorry in advance for this letter.
Enjoy the boobs.
Hugs and hell . . . Hugs and Kisses,
Summer
* * *
Dear Summer,
Umm . . . your stamped tits made me really fucking hard.
I’m currently drinking as well, thanks to a friend.
She’s been fucking grouchy lately. We’re working on renovations together and she’s stopped showing up now. She’s avoided our morning runs, and whenever I go to see her at her job to see what the hell her issue is, she brushes me off.
Women . . . why do you have to be so difficult?
Promise me, if you ever get grouchy with me, just tell me what the hell I did wrong, because this silent treatment is a real killer.
I feel sleepy.
I think I’m calling it. I’m going to snuggle into your tits tonight.
Hugs and So Many Fucking Kisses,
Whoopie Pie
* * *
Brig: Anyone know why Ruth is mad at me?
Griffin: *Rolls eyes*
Reid: You’re such a fucking idiot.
Rogan: I think everyone in town knows why she’s mad at you.
Brig: REALLY? YOU KNOW? Tell me!
Griffin: *Walks away*
Reid: You’re truly hopeless, man.
Rogan: Hell, I’m even mad at you now.
Brig: This is not helpful. You’re family, and you’re supposed to help me. If you know why she’s mad at me, tell me so I can fix this. She barely talks to me. She stopped running with me in the mornings. She won’t hang the shelves at the Parlor. She hasn’t even been to the Parlor all week. I miss her, and I have no idea how to fix this.
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