Full Package(12)

“Clever.”

Her eyes twinkle. “But what was truly clever was how in middle school I discovered Lyle Lyle’s real purpose. You see, he came in quite handy for this early bloomer. When I was twelve and started getting these,” she says, gesturing to those absolutely fucking magnificent globes, “I started sleeping with Lyle Lyle.”

“You slept with the stuffed crocodile?” I ask, my throat as dry as my dick is hard.

She nods and hugs the green pillow tighter between her breasts.

“Why did you sleep with him?” I ask because the answer eludes me.

She shifts her weight so she’s leaning a bit to the right. “Because when you sleep on your side, the girls kind of fall on top of each other and smash each other. It can be a little uncomfortable.”

Yeah, like the tightness in my pants right now.

“I bet,” I choke out.

“So Lyle Lyle got a job. I enlisted him as a boob friend. I slept with him every night, and he delivered complete and utter boob comfort.”

That lucky fucking inanimate animal. “I want to grow up to be a stuffed crocodile.”

Josie’s green eyes widen, then she laughs. “I like you just fine as you, though.”

I hold up my forearm. “Then consider this. Would this work as a boob friend? Hypothetically, of course. I’m pretty sure my hand would fit nicely between a pair of boobs.”

She swats me. “If the pillow fails, I’ll rap twice on the wall.”

“Honestly, you don’t even have to knock. Just come into my room, grab my hand, and slide it between the girls.” My eyes drift to her 36Cs. What? I can tell from looking. It’s a scientific gift of mine.

“What color are my eyes?”

Her question doesn’t compute. I snap my gaze back up to her face. “Green.”

She points to the bridge of her nose. “And they’re here.”

“Seriously? You were talking about boobs. Pragmatically speaking, I had no choice but to look at the topic of conversation.”

She gives me an I-caught-you stare.

I hold up my hands. “This is not a Swedish Fish moment. You brought it up.”

She lifts the green pillow and bonks me on the head with it. “And your hand offer is noted.”

“Just trying to be helpful. That’s all.”

“And I appreciate it. I’m also buying this pillow.”

When we reach the counter, I pay for the pillow and hand it to her. I pay for her baking goods, too. “Have I ever told you I give amazing gifts? It’s kind of a special talent of mine.”

She rolls her eyes, but as we leave, she lets go of the teasing and drops a soft kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for the amazing gifts. That was very sweet of you.”

Later, as we spend our first night together as roommates, I’m weirdly jealous of a pillow.

But a week or so after that, it’s not pillows I’m jealous of.





7





From the pages of Josie’s Recipe Book

Air-Popped Popcorn for Nights Hanging Out on the Couch





* * *



Ingredients

1/4 cup unpopped corn kernels

One popcorn popper





* * *



Directions

Place the kernels in the popcorn popper.

Put the top on.

Stick that baby in the microwave.

This is the toughest part. Gather close. Wait for it . . . hit the popcorn button on the microwave. Watch it. When the microwave dings, voila!





* * *



Serving suggestion: Dump the popped corn into a bowl, sprinkle with a little salt, grate a small bit of parmesan cheese, and prepare to enjoy the hell out of a snack as you curl up on the couch and watch TV.



* * *



Special instructions: Resist placing your feet on Chase’s legs. Refrain from snuggling up next to him. Keep your hands out of that hair. That golden brown, slightly wavy, looks-so-damn-soft hair. You are friends, and you like hanging out with him. It’s that simple, and don’t presume that friendship means you get the chance to touch his hair. Even though you really, really, really want to touch his hair.





8





Six things I’ve learned about women from living with one. . .



* * *



One



* * *



They use a lot of toilet paper.

Okay, hold on. I don’t mean anything untoward. What I mean is this—it’s like an epic fiesta of tissue in the bathroom.

“Can you pick up TP on your way home?” Josie asks on the phone one evening as I’m leaving the hospital after an insane day of sprains and broken bones. “We’re almost out.”

“There’s half a roll,” I say, because that’s good for three days, right?

Nope.

I’m wrong.

“Chase,” she chides as I head down the street. “That’ll be gone in a couple of hours.”

And I know why. The chick loves toilet paper. She’s like one of those cat memes, where the pussycat’s paws are wrapped around the roll, and she’s gleefully tugging it off the holder. Josie uses it for everything.