The Knocked Up Plan(75)
I glance over at Jones, picking up where he left off in the insult volley. I eye his midsection suspiciously. “How’s your girdle fitting you, tonight? Is that why you look so nice and trim?”
He pretends to adjust it. “Yeah, I borrowed yours.”
“It’s a comfort fit. I can see why you’d need it.”
“You can wear it next. A blushing bride always needs one.”
That’s what the guys call me now. Bride. But hey, I’ll take it over Bridesmaid, since it comes with the starting job after three long years on the sidelines.
Violet shakes her head as she flips open the tube. “The two of you . . .”
“ . . .Are clever, brilliant and handsome devils? Why thank you,” I say, straightening my vest. I went three-piece all the way. If Jillian wants us to wear suits to rake it in, I’ll damn well do my job to bring home a four-peat. I’ve been the recipient of the highest bid the last three years, and since I love streaks, I want to keep it up this year too.
For the kids.
I want to win for the kids. The hospital does amazing work and I gladly support it.
Plus, bragging rights do rock.
If I win top honors, I suppose it’s a shame I won’t let myself enjoy the full benefits of the victory, should the opportunity present itself. But I can absolutely live with my decision to stay laser focused on the game. We’re closing in on a wild card spot in the playoffs, and these days my goal is to score only on the field. I spent enough time the last three years staying busy after hours. This season is a whole different beast.
Violet tips her chin at my attire. “I like the vest. You rarely see anyone wearing a vest here.”
We live in casual country, home of the hoodie, land of the jeans. “Is that your way of telling me you’re a vest woman?”
She laughs, then lowers her voice. “I’m an everything woman.” She lets that comment hang between us, and for a moment my head is a fog. Everything. What sort of everything does Violet Pierson like? Everything in bed? And why the hell am I thinking these thoughts about her? Violet’s not only my friend, she’s also my best buddy’s sister. I’m going to need to have a serious talk with my dirty mind and remind it to rein in these ideas. “And you’re going to clean up, my friend, since there’s little that’s hotter than an athlete dressed up in a suit.”
“Yeah?” I ask, meeting her eyes as she squeezes the goop onto her hands, and my mind continues to wander down the everything yellow brick road. Every position, every night, is that her sort of everything?
“Of course. You have great face, a nice body, and that top-notch suit fits like a glove,” she says, listing off these attributes like they’re hardwood floors, a quiet dishwasher and a front-loading washing machine. Violet meets my eyes and her tone is cheery. “Don’t worry. I’m only saying nice body empirically.”
I put on the brakes since clearly her compliments were more suited for appliances.
“Right. Of course.” I nod several times, like I’m wiping clean the everything thoughts from my brain too. After all, front-loading washers are the bomb, and yes, I do my own laundry. My mom would tan my hide if I didn’t. “It’s a completely clinical compliment.”
“Totally clinical.”
I adjust the vest anyway. Just in case it looks better empirically this way. Or clinically, for that matter.
She lifts her hands close to my hair. “Time to tame you.”
The auction is being carried live on local TV, and that’s why Violet is here. To give us a little touch-up before we go on air. She’s a hair stylist, which happens to be one of my favorite professions in the world. I learned the joy of regular haircuts at age sixteen. One afternoon during my sophomore year of high school, my mom pressed a twenty-dollar bill in my palm and told me to get my shaggy locks cut after school or I’d be grounded. I headed for the regular shop in downtown, the one run by the grizzled old dude who plays rockabilly and tells tall tales to the other gruff, gray-haired guys who sit for hours shooting the breeze. He wasn’t working. His twenty-two-year-old granddaughter Joy filled in.
What a joy that day was.
When she cut the front of my hair I experienced a heavenly vision. I witnessed angels. Also known as . . . cleavage.
And, man, do I ever love haircuts now.
The view can be fantastic.
But I’m not checking out Violet like that, even though her breasts are precariously close to my face as she runs her goop-covered fingers through my hair.
I’m absolutely not thinking of the angels I’m seeing.
I can’t think of her that way.
She’s Trent’s sister and he’s my best friend for twenty years, since all the way back in elementary school. That places her firmly in the not-allowed-to-even-consider-whether-she-might-be-hot category. I’ve never ever thought of her as a babe, not once in all the years I’ve known her. That feat is all the more impressive considering she has a rocking body, lush chestnut brown hair, and big amber eyes. Oh, and she has a wicked sense of humor. But I don’t think of her as smoking hot, even tonight, even in those black jeans, the kind that look as if they’ve been painted on, and that silvery tunic thing that clings to her chest.
Nope.
That’s why I talk to her like a buddy. Or an appliance, for that matter.
“Just don’t make me look like a douche,” I say, as she finger combs the goop into my hair.