Total pages in book: 12
Estimated words: 10676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 53(@200wpm)___ 43(@250wpm)___ 36(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 10676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 53(@200wpm)___ 43(@250wpm)___ 36(@300wpm)
Maybe we get lucky on the first round. It only takes us fifteen seconds of Hannah’s drawing for me to spit out “pizza sauce” after scrutinizing my sister’s circular artwork.
“Nice one!” Flip marks down our time, and gives Hannah a kiss.
I look away.
Then it’s their turn, and I have to admit they’re a good team. Flip isn’t an artist. But his skier is easy enough to discern, especially after he hashes out a mountain in the distance. Then he draws circles around the figure’s eyes, and Asher blurts out “ski goggles!” for the win.
“Wow, eight seconds,” I say. “You guys have a mind meld.”
“This is Zermatt, right?” Asher points at the peak in the corner of the drawing.
“You know it!” The two high five each other.
I roll my eyes.
Our next turn doesn’t go as well, though. The card I choose reads “vegetarian.”
Christ. What does a vegetarian look like?
“And . . . go!” Asher says.
I hastily draw a face on the whiteboard, with an open mouth. Um . . . okay. I will draw a vegetable. I try a turnip. “Apple mouth!” my sister yells. “Bobbing for apples!”
With the side of my fist, I erase the turnip and draw a carrot instead. And then another carrot. And then a bunch of grapes, which take forever. And a banana.
“Monkey! Hungry! Fruit eater!”
“Time’s up!” Flip calls.
“Vegetarian,” I gasp.
Hannah slaps her forehead. “Ohhhhh . . .”
“Is it just me?” Flip asks. “Or were you thinking—”
“—Blow job!” Asher says, and the two of them burst into laughter, while high-fiving each other again.
Now I’m thinking about blow jobs.
And Asher’s wicked mouth.
Shit.
“Your turn, boys,” Hannah says sweetly. “Let’s see if you can do better.”
I say a modest prayer. Please, Lord, if you’re going to make my sister gaga over this player and his insanely sexy friend, at least please give them a difficult word.
Asher takes the marker as Hannah readies the stopwatch. He picks a card from the deck, squints at it, and places it facedown on the table.
“Ready?” my sister prompts. “And go!”
Asher begins to draw. And . . . WTF, God? Really? Asher is clearly a damn artist. In the center of the board he draws a perfectly articulated leg. A manly leg, where the calf muscle curves artfully beneath the knee.
Then he draws an arrow to the shin.
Moving to the left, he sketches . . . a big, flaccid penis. My sister hoots with laughter as he deftly adds the curve of a testicle at each side, just in case Flip can’t identify a peen without the balls.
Asher puts a plus sign between those two drawings.
Penis plus shin? What?
Then he moves to the right and draws a sort of messy cloud. At which point Flip yells, “DICTIONARY!”
“Twenty-nine seconds!” Hannah cries.
“You’re a fucking genius!” Flip shouts. He and Asher embrace like they’ve just won the doubles tournament at Wimbledon.
Which, admittedly, they kind of did.
“Dick-shin-airy!” my sister says. “That really was a mind meld.”
When the Boarding School Wonder Twins break their bro hug, the stupidly hot one winks at me.
My chest heats up. I’m rattled by him. The word flustered takes on a whole new meaning since I have no idea how to behave around this Asher guy.
This is going to be a long game night.
NOTHING BUT A PAIR OF BLUE BRIEFS
MARK
My one-eyed cat is perched on the kitchen counter, watching me hide grated cauliflower in the homemade mac and cheese when the buzzer rings. That’ll be Hannah and my daughter.
Most days, the babysitter picks up Rosie from kindergarten and spends a couple hours with her before I return from work. But a few times a month, my sister leaves work early and handles afternoon kid detail. Which means, Hannah spoils her niece rotten before depositing her home again.
After buzzing them in, I quickly cover my masterpiece with enough shredded cheese to disguise the vegetables. Then I wrap it with foil. “Don’t tell her there’s veggies in here, Blackbeard,” I say to the cat.
He looks away.
I shove the dish in the oven to bake when Hannah’s key clicks in the lock.
“Daddy!” my little girl yells a moment later. “What's for dinner?”
“Hey,” I chide as she tears into the kitchen, jacket and backpack still on. “How about a nice hello before you start making demands?” I bend down and scoop her up into my arms. When I kiss her chilly red cheek, she smells suspiciously like chocolate.
“Hello, Daddy. I love you.” And she melts my heart with three little words. She blinks at me with her mother's eyes. “What’s for dinner?”
“Mac and cheese.”
“The good kind? From a box?”
Hannah cracks up in the doorway, still bundled up from the cold January day.
“The good kind from scratch. Are you hungry already?”
“Not really. I had snacks. Yummy snacks!”
My gaze flies to Hannah, who looks like she’s been caught red-handed. “Is that so?”