He cringes. “Only it wasn’t Gretchen and the woman punched me in the knee? Yeah, I remember. Why the knee? Such a strange and hurtful place to punch someone. Not to mention hard to get to in a crowded bar.”
I fill a glass with water and push it across to him. “But she got her point across. You never grabbed ass without making sure the ass was your girlfriend’s again.”
“No, I didn’t,” he says, his smile fading.
He sighs, glancing down at his water.
I can feel him gathering the guts to say the hard things—to tell me “no” or “hell no” or whatever it is he came here at seven a.m. on a Sunday to do—and I can’t let it happen. I have to head this off at the pass!
“New Year’s Eve,” I blurt out, loud enough to drown out whatever he just tried to say. “Kayley’s party. You’re finally going to be in town for the big day! You have to be my plus one. It has everything you love—great food, good friends, and weirdly competitive sledding. And a game room with twenty vintage pinball machines, and you know how much you love pinball.”
He clears his throat, his expression still foretelling certain doom.
“And karaoke and cornhole,” I add, though I’m pretty sure Elliot hates cornhole. At least he did that one time we took a ferry to Red Hook in Brooklyn for a tournament that he lost in the first round. “And dancing!” I say, suddenly realizing I have an ace in the hole. “Kayley hires this amazing band every year. They play 80s songs all night and everyone sings along. It’s the best time. I bet they’d even play “The Power of Love” if you asked nicely and put a five in the tip jar.”
“The Power of Love?” he echoes, the spark creeping back into his eyes. “I’ve never heard it played live.”
I hum meaningfully as I ease cheesecake onto a plate and slide it over before grabbing the steaming kettle and filling the French Press. “Really? Well, that sounds like a dream that deserves to come true. And you know we’d have fun. We always do.”
He picks up his fork, hesitating before he digs into his cheesecake. “We do.”
I grin as I lean across the island to whisper, “I wonder what people thought when they found a slice of ogre poop in their gift bag last night?”
He laughs. “Misty Sykes called Holly Jo to tell her a gag gift was in poor taste, and Holly laughed until she cried. Then a couple of Luke’s friends from the office texted to say how glad they are that he’s fun now.” Elliot shrugs and forks up a big bite of caramel and chocolate goodness. “We agreed to keep the fact that you and I are actually the fun ones a secret. It’s our wedding present to my brother.”
“We’re so kind,” I say, digging into my own slice.
“And generous,” he agrees.
“And going to have a kick ass New Year’s Eve,” I say, my shoulders relaxing away from my ears when he chuckles and agrees.
He’s not mentioning sperm, which must mean he’s still considering my request. Or at least not rejecting it. I didn’t blow my opportunity. And he can take all the time he needs to think about it, as long as he says yes before I’ll be a geriatric pregnancy.
Half an hour later, he gives me a big, bear hug by the door—the really tight, lovely, sweet kind only Elliot can give—and heads home without another word about what happened last night.
Thank. God.
And cheesecake. And 80s music.
I’ve bought myself time to plan and come the thirty-first, Elliot will be my captive audience for an entire twenty-four hours.
Now, to ensure I make the most of it…
Opening my laptop, I get to work on a “Why You Should be my Sperm Donor” presentation that will knock Elliot’s socks off.
And maybe his boxer briefs, while you’re at it.
I frown and push the weird thought away. I don’t want to see Elliot in his boxer briefs, let alone out of them. I want his sperm, not his body.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that while you replay how good that hug felt, over and over.
“I don’t like Elliot in that way,” I say out loud to Thor, who has located the bull penis chew toy I hid from him yesterday and is happily gumming it at my feet while I work.
He looks up with a grin that seems to say, “Yeah, right. And I’m not super into this bull penis,” and I begin to suspect I might be in trouble.
Do I have a secret crush on my best friend?
Do I actually want his peen as much as Thor enjoys bull peen?
I have no idea, but…looks like I’m about to find out.
Chapter Four
ELLIOT
“So, she hasn’t said a word about the baby thing since the wedding?” Bran slows, searching for the turn into the resort.
“Nope,” I squint into the glare of the sun bouncing off newly fallen snow. “I meant to tell her no, but somehow the words never made it past my lips. Then when she didn’t bring it up, I didn’t want to make it awkward.”
“She asked you to jerk off for her. It’s already awkward.”
That makes me snort. Bran isn’t wrong.
After a storm last night, the roads are clear, but the evergreen trees and street signs are mounded with white, making this familiar stretch of mountainside look strange. Off-kilter.
It’s a perfect reflection of my strange, off-kilter soul…
No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about making a baby with Nancy, which is insane for many reasons:
Having a baby was nowhere on my radar until last weekend, and it still isn’t. I’m not ready for a baby…am I? How does one know that they’re ready? Is that warm, full feeling in my chest when I think about Nancy pregnant with our child enough? Or should I be fantasizing about warming bottles and changing diapers?
Nancy seems to have dropped the issue.
Most of my baby thoughts have nothing to do with a baby and everything to do with Nancy. Baby-making with Nancy. Baby-making in a variety of positions and with so much intensity that I wake from steamy dreams several times a night and have to fight the urge to jerk off to fantasies starring my best friend.
“She’s probably embarrassed, then,” Bran says. “I’d say pretend it didn’t happen until she brings it up again. If she brings it up again. It might just have been one of those weird things that happen when you’re drunk at a wedding.”
“Maybe,” I say, but I’m not buying it. I’ve known Nancy for too long. She’s not the kind of person who says things she doesn’t mean—not even when she’s drunk—and once she has her mind made up, she never backs down.
My gut insists that she’s simply biding her time, choosing her moment to approach the subject from a different angle.
And what better time than tonight? When we’ll be cooped up together in an elegant, but oh-so-cozy, two-bedroom suite all night long?
All night long…
I’ll be lying in bed, sweating, while Nancy is right next door, fully able to hear me if I start moaning her name in my sleep.
And how on earth would I explain that with anything other than, “Yep, I’ve been having graphic sex dreams about you, Nance. Super porny ones where you’re riding me reverse cowgirl and even more troubling ones in which I’m confessing my love for you in regular old missionary position. Sometimes I dance with happiness after. Sometimes you dance. Sometimes specimen cups dance. Either way, it’s the cheesiest recurring dream I’ve ever had, and I’m really sorry, but I can’t seem to help myself. And really, you can’t blame me. This is all your fault! You broke my brain with that sperm sample thing and now it can’t seem to remember that we’re just friends. At least, not when I’m unconscious.”