Full Package(20)

“Twenty-four/seven dude-deciphering service,” I say, then take a bite of a delicious square of waffle. “What about Henry? Will you see Mr. Peanut again?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. He was nice, but there was no spark.”

I pump a virtual fist, and rein in a wild grin. “What does it take to get a second date with the inimitable Josie Hammer?” I ask as I slice another chunk of waffle. “Tell me. What is it that you’re looking for in a man?”

The corner of her lips quirks up. “I want what every woman wants.”

“What’s that?”

She cocks her head. Gazes right into my eyes. Licks her lips. “The full package. I want the full package.”





12





When we return to the apartment, I grab her sleek silver laptop from the wooden coffee table. It’s late on Saturday, but I don’t care. “I’m off tomorrow and so are you. There are no excuses. Show me. Let’s see who’s got you swiping right or whatever you call it on your dating site.”

I sink into our comfy couch, settling into one of the millions of pillows that have multiplied like bunnies thanks to Ms. Hammer’s pillow-philia.

She grabs a hair tie from the table and loops her light brown strands into a knot on her head. A few pieces fall around her face, framing her cheeks with pink strands. Her lips are glossy, and it occurs to me she must have reapplied lipstick at some point. Maybe when I made a pit stop in the little boy’s room at the diner. I’m sure I would have noticed her slicking some on. I would have watched, liking the way she looked when her lips formed an O. I linger too long on that letter and all its delicious possibilities. How she’d look when her mouth fell open in pleasure when she called out my—

Shake it off, buddy.

I remind myself of my special talent—separating feelings and thoughts. Because appreciating her lips doesn’t mean I want to kiss them. And it doesn’t mean I can’t be her lookout.

“You really want to see the guys?” she asks, parking herself next to me and tucking her feet underneath her.

“Hell, yeah.” I can’t let her be Damiened again. I guarantee I would have been able to tell he was the kind of asshat who’d do that shit. No disrespect to Josie, but chicks can’t always tell. I speak dude perfectly, and I’m going to translate for her to make sure she gets what she wants and deserves in life.

She flips open the screen, toggles over to her dating site, and clicks on a profile picture. The guy looks to be about forty, and he smiles like a realtor.

“This is Bob. Apparently, he messaged me tonight.”

I rub my palms together. “All right. What does Bobby boy have to say?”

She opens the message on the site and reads aloud, “Hey there, Baker Girl. I like your pic. You’re totes cute. We have a lot in common. I like books, too.”

I stare her down, bring my hands to my armpits, and sway my shoulders back and forth like an ape. “Me like books. Books are good.”

“At least he didn’t start with asking me what kind of sex I like,” she says, like that makes his opening line less Neanderthalic.

I shake my head. “Allow me to the do the honors.” I swipe him closed for her. “What else have we got?”

She peers at the screen, pointing to a message from FireTrev. “How about Trevor? He’s a firefighter.”

I read the tagline on his profile. “Baby, can I light your fire?” I arch a brow. “Swiped.”

She grabs my arm. “Is that any worse than you saying, ‘the doctor is in’?”

“One, I’m not on an online dating site, so I wouldn’t be saying that. And two, no. Which is why if I ever said that on an online dating site, you should throat-punch me.”

Her lips twitch mischievously. “With a crème br?lée torch?”

“Consider it your throat-punching device of torture when I exceed the maximum acceptable level of douchery.”

“There are actually acceptable levels?”

I shrug. “Look, you can’t expunge douchiness completely. It’s like a cockroach. It’ll survive a nuclear explosion. It’s a very tenacious quality in a man. I find it best to accept that there are levels of douchiness one can live with, usually manifesting as cockiness, confidence, or bravado.” I narrow my eyes. “You gonna be okay with that harsh reality?”

She nods, intense as a soldier. “Those seem an allowable standard.”

I tip my chin to the screen and inch closer to her. “What else have we got?”

Grabbing a cranberry red pillow between us, she tosses it on the back of the couch. Interesting. She’s made more room. She pats the vacated spot, so I move closer as she clicks on a new message. The profile pic is a too-suave image of a dark-haired man in a sharp suit. “That screams I-got-my-profile-pic-from-a-stock-photo-site.”

“Probably. Let’s see what he says.”

The message fills the screen as she reads, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Here’s the first. Would you ever date a guy who likes to wear your panties?”

I snap my gaze to her. “Is this shit for real?”

She laughs. “Yes. Sadly, it is.”

“This is ridiculous,” I sneer. I’m this close to swiping when an evil idea lands in my brain. “Can I reply?”