big muscles and his even bigger smile. He sure looks good to me. I don’t say that, though. Instead, I offer a small hum of agreement.
“Exactly. No need to waste any time on that. Why don’t I get you a cup of coffee? Maybe it’ll turn your morning around.”
“Yes, please.”
He jumps up from his chair and then turns back to get my order. Or so I think.
“By the way, if you would like to set up all messages from your dad to forward to me, so I can screen them for you in advance, I’d be more than happy to sacrifice my time.”
I flip him off, and he just smirks like he’s been named Funniest Man Alive. I almost forget to breathe when he leans down, so close to my face I can smell the caramel scent his coffee has given his breath. “Mochaccino?”
“Sure.” I normally don’t go for such a fancy brew, but man, I’m impressed he realized how important chocolate is at a time like this. “And extra whipped cream, please.”
“You got it,” he says, running the backs of his knuckles against the line of my cheek. It’s so gentle, so tender…so unexpected.
I never knew a hand against my face could feel that good.
I watch with interest as he saunters up to the counter and orders my drink with ease. He doesn’t look hurried or uncomfortable or like he’s affected by the traumatic messages he’s just read from my father.
I mean, is he wondering at all about the context? Because he sure isn’t acting like it.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I look down to see what else Chatty Chadwick has to say. It’s a nickname given to my dad by my grandparents, and there’s a reason it’s stuck for all these years.
Dad: You turned out pretty good, though. So, I guess my sperm have something going for them.
Good gravy. How is it possible that receiving a message from your own father with the word sperm in it doesn’t instantly make your phone explode? There should be a fail-safe built in.
I look back over to the counter to Jake again. He’s leaning against the glass of the dessert case, and his phone is to his ear. He’s smiling and laughing, and for one tiny, irrational moment, I freak out that he might be telling someone about me and my messages.
But I realize pretty quickly how incredibly self-centered that thinking is. He has other things going on in his life—lots of them. He doesn’t need or want to spend all his time spreading info around about me.
I shake my head at myself and look back down to my phone. I only let myself feel slightly strange that the messages from my dad are the only messages I’m getting. Clearly, I don’t want to miss having a girlfriend to confide in, but if I open up that Pandora’s box, I’ll have to admit that I’ve never really had one.
My dad is the closest thing I’ve got. On that note, my phone buzzes again. I sigh as I pick it up and read it. My dad is persistent, I’ll give him that. I haven’t even responded to any of these texts, but that hasn’t stopped him from charging onward toward Crazy Town.
Dad: You need a vibrator? I’m into hip Christmas gifts. I could find one for ya somewhere, I’m sure. I bet the flea market has a selection at good prices.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Seriously? I think it’s officially time to pack it up for the day. Because I doubt it’s possible to recover from this.
Eventually, I find the strength to respond from my hole in the earth after being swallowed right up. It’s at least cool enough for sweatshirt-wearing. I might be okay to stay here for a while.
Me: Please. I beg of you to stop right now. Never utter those words to me again, Dad. PLEASE.
Jake takes the seat across from me once again and sets down my coffee. I reach for it like the desperate woman I am and down about a quarter of it in one gulp.
I gasp though, because—goodbye, taste buds!—coffee is hot.
“Jesus,” Jake remarks. “Are you okay?”
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure I don’t have third-degree burns on the inside of my mouth and down my throat.
“Oh yeah,” I croak. “Great.”
He raises his eyebrows, skeptical, but I choose not to respond.
Instead, I wave him off and dig in my bag to pull out the folder on Bianca, Bachelorette Number One.