Muffy’s cousin. They’re both staples around the arena, though Kami’s an utter angel, and Muffy is a matchmaking goddess of doom.
A sexy matchmaking goddess of doom who can quote Dr. Who as easily as she can quote Schitt’s Creek, and who has the most gorgeous heart-shaped ass that I can’t get out of my brain, but that ship sailed back at the start of the season, and I don’t look back.
Don’t we? my junk asks.
Is it wrong to junk-punch yourself?
We don’t look back. My fascination with Muffy was merely because she resisted me for so long, rightfully so since we have mutual friends, and not because we’re interested.
We don’t get interested.
We do one-night stands with women we never have to see again, or who won’t care when we move on to the next woman.
Women like Athena and Cassadee, who like sex for fun.
“Your cod pieces will be right up.” Muffy flings my card back at me and slams the drive-thru window shut.
Screw this.
I whip my car around the corner, park, and hop out to stroll into the dining room, which usually has a fun Ren Faire vibe but tonight feels like a dungeon.
“Hi, sir, the dining room’s closed, but—holy shit. You’re Tyler Jaeger.”
I nod to the teenager mopping the floor, who’s probably actually college-aged, but he looks about thirteen, like all the college kids do these days, despite my own college years not being that long ago. “Just need to talk to Muffy.”
“Your fish is frying,” she calls from somewhere beyond the counter. “The dining room is closed. Go back and wait in your car.”
“What are you doing here?” I yell back.
“Working.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone needs a job, and every job is worthwhile. Please return to your car, sir.”
“Quit calling me sir.”
Fuck.
Did my dick twitch because she called me sir?
Or am I having a phantom hard-on?
I yank my waistband out and peer down at it, then remember I’m in a public restaurant, with a teenager mopping a floor behind me, and wonder if I actually drank something tonight and forgot.
I don’t think I drank anything. It’s November. I might stay out late at the bunny bar, but I eat and drink clean during the season, with few exceptions when I need a shot of Jack or a bundle of fish and chips.
Which means it’s the Muffy factor driving me utterly insane.
And my dick is soft and limp as ever.
“What the hell are you doing?” Muffy’s peering at me from around the fake stone column between the ordering counter and the kitchen, clearly horrified.
For the record, I did not whip my junk out. I gave myself a view of it, and no one else. “Taking you home,” I reply.
“Muffy. You know Tyler Jaeger?” the teenager asks.
“No,” she replies.
“If you need a job—” I start.
“I have a job. Clearly. It’s for research, not that it’s any of your business. And you will not speak of this to anyone, because whoever this Muffy person is doesn’t deserve you spreading rumors that I’m her. Your fish is almost ready, okay? And then you can leave. Immediately. Also, leave a nice tip for D’Angelo, since you’re getting footprints all over his clean floor. And if you ever, ever speak to anyone about seeing a woman you keep calling Muffy here, I’ll tell Nick Murphy you asked to see my boobies.”
D’Angelo laughs. “She’s so hilarious.”
Hilarious?
More like a walking disaster.
And if my junk wasn’t already malfunctioning, now it’s shrinking back into my body.
Telling Murphy, aka the Thrusters’ number one goalie, aka Muffy’s overprotective-to-a-fault cousin-in-law, that I asked to see her boobies?
Murphy is legendary for what he’s done to his sister’s ex-boyfriends.
He’s mellowed since he got married, and even more so since his son was born, but I don’t need to be the one to re-spark that wrath over something I said wrong to his wife’s cousin.
Also, Muffy still trying to pretend she’s not Muffy while threatening to have Nick disembowel me?
Classic Muffy.
See again, I’ve jacked off to thoughts of that smart, hilarious, nonsensical mouth more than once in the last year or so.
Back when I could still jack off.
“Is my fucking fish ready yet?”
“Don’t use foul language in front of the crew, please.”
She’s still half-hiding in the kitchen, and I’m not having this anymore. I march myself behind the counter, making D’Angelo mutter a reverent Whoa behind me, and Muffy squeak out a protest in front of me. “What are you doing?”
“We need to talk.”
“I’m none of your business.”
“Tell that to Murphy. What the hell are you doing working