Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Hmm.
If I wanted to plan an un-date for tonight with an easy escape hatch, what would I do? I stare at the ceiling for a minute, running through options. I’m not a dating expert, but I’ve taken an immersion class these last few days, digesting dating how-to article after dating how-to article. I’ve learned that a gal needs an eject button.
After last night, I need to have my parachute ready to pull.
That means no wine. No dark corners. No low-lit rooms.
I’ve got it, thanks to his last text.
A smile forms, and I feel pretty clever. I will see his brownie offer and raise it.
Rachel: Baking. Cookies. My place. Eight.
There is nothing sexy about milk and chocolate chip cookies. It’s the perfect smoke screen.
That evening, I tie on my pink apron with black cartoon mustaches on it, courtesy of Juliet. She has a cat named Mustache, who has a mustache.
Now, I will wield this mustache apron like the disguise it is.
In my kitchen, I prep all the cookie ingredients, measuring the flour, white sugar, brown sugar, and baking soda. I set the vanilla on the counter, then two eggs, butter, the mixer, and a bag of chocolate chips. I preheat the oven. I grab my lucky spatula from the utensil drawer and place it next to the mixer.
There.
I’m ready for whatever tonight brings—cookies or cock.
But when Carter arrives ten minutes late, I’m not thinking above-the-waist thoughts.
Because I’m looking at his warm brown eyes and the way they lock on my face. Then his mouth, curving in the slightest smile, like he’s happy to see me.
I’m not thinking about his dick, because all I can think about are his soft, lush lips.
And how desperately I want to kiss him.
18
A DICK REVIEW
Carter
Call me a detective.
Rachel seems off tonight, and I’m adding up the clues.
First, when I came over to plan our dates, she was like a jack-in-the-box.
She swung open the door, then she gave me a kiss on the cheek like she was a cheerleader, all boppy and oh-so-friendly.
Now, as she slides a tray of cookies into the oven then sets the timer, she asks, “Can I get you a drink?” But she sounds like she’s auditioning for the role of bright and peppy server on a new sitcom.
“Sure. I’m always up for a beer or a bubbly water.”
She tilts her head. “Or milk? Milk goes well with cookies?”
Not sure I want to down a glass of milk. For fun. “A LaCroix would be great,” I say.
“Great idea! Me too,” she says, like she’s just learned we’re both from the same hometown and OMG isn’t that so cool.
Yeah, I’m Inspector Poirot all right. Something is suspicious because Rachel likes wine, even with cookies.
She grabs two bubbly waters from the fridge then thrusts one at me. I take it then ask, “What’s going on with you?”
Flicking a dollop of cookie dough off her apron bib, she looks away from me. “What do you mean?”
The question comes out pitchy.
As she pops open her can, I wave a hand at her. “You’re kind of…off.”
“Me?” She brings her free hand to her chest, like I could possibly be talking about anyone else.
“Yeah, you.”
“I’m fine. Totally fine. Just a busy day. You know how it goes. Busy, busy, busy. Customers. Which is good. So good, right? Like yes, this is what I want. Customers!” She stops talking long enough to take a quick drink. “I mean, especially after the other week. And oh my god, did I ever tell you about that guy’s wife?”
Holy shit, my head is spinning from the speed of her chatter. “The guy who left the dick review?”
She nods exaggeratedly then sets down the can on the counter with a loud clang. “Yes. His wife came in. It turns out she’s the spa owner up the street, and she’s basically my brand-new enemy. I told Hazel, and Hazel put her name on her whiteboard. You know about Hazel’s whiteboard, right?”
What the hell? She’s doing it again, spinning like a top. “I don’t know about Hazel’s whiteboard,” I say, then lean against the kitchen counter, taking a drink as I try to figure out what’s up with my friend.
Rachel motors around the kitchen, cleaning up baking supplies as she talks. She reminds me of me, keeping busy, doing something while her mind races—right along with her mouth. “She has this whiteboard where she writes down things that irritate her. People and places and events,” Rachel says, and I try, I swear I try, to feign interest in Hazel’s fucking whiteboard, but I don’t care.
Because Rachel is not Rachel tonight.
She’s like Rachel on helium. She’s Rachel times ten servings of caffeine. And if there’s one thing I know about Rachel, it’s that she’s a terrible liar.
Like that time our friend group went to a bonfire on Stinson Beach our senior year and stayed out too late. I dropped her off at her house an hour past curfew and took the fall. “My fault, Mr. and Mrs. Dumont. I forgot to set an alarm to leave on time. My bad,” I said.