Heidi's Guide to Four Letter Words(15)

Well, here we go. I wanted something new and exciting in my life. I don’t think it gets much more thrilling than listening to Jameson Kenter casually talking about a pulsing… thing and offering his wife up to me for help.

Hmm, Heidi’s Discount Erotica. That actually has a nice ring to it.





Chapter 7





I stare down at my phone and sigh heavily as I walk out of my garage and head toward the back of my house. All of the homes on this street, as well as all the others in the neighborhood, have their garages separate from the houses. There is an alley directly behind our houses that is just lined with everyone’s garages. Even though this is a small town and the crime rate is pretty low, it can still be a little creepy, which is why I only park back here when it’s still light outside.

Not even the excitement of meeting Jameson today and chitchatting with him like we’ve been friends for years or the nervousness of wondering if a serial killer is lying in wait for me in the alley can put extra pep in my step. I drag my feet along the sidewalk, my shoulders hunched in shame. I should have just pretended like that stupid drunk podcast I recorded the other night never happened, but as soon as the memory of what I did came back when Dave so kindly pointed it out in front of Jameson, I got curious. And I checked my blog to see if there were any comments, hoping against hope that Dave was the only human being on the planet who heard that thing.

I don’t even know why I still have a blog. It was just the thing you did in college, so I followed the herd and randomly posted silly stories about stuff that happened at school or recipes I found online that I thought sounded good.

I pause in the middle of the walkway between my house and Brent’s, rereading the two comments that were left on my blog post with the podcast on it.

That was hilarious! You need more smut in your life. Go get ’em, tiger!

You suck. Never record a podcast ever again. Go eat farts, Heidi.

You can probably guess which one was Dave’s comment. The second one was left by “Anonymous.” I took a chance and put myself out there for anyone and their brother to hear, and this person gets to escape behind the anonymity of a computer to insult me. Sure, I didn’t exactly plan on recording a podcast and uploading it to my blog, and I had no clue what I was doing, but still. They could at least have the decency to use their real name if they’re going to tell me to eat farts. Luckily, when I checked my blog stats before leaving EdenMedia, it said only three people listened to the podcast. I can handle that, I guess. Three people isn’t bad. Two people commented, and the third person was probably so horrified they couldn’t even bring themselves to say anything, good or bad. I mean, if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say it at all, so I like that third person the best right now.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

A squeak of surprise flies out of my mouth and I quickly look up from my phone to find Brent standing right next to me on my walkway.

I quickly press my phone against my chest to hide the screen. At least none of those three people who listened to my podcast were Brent.

At least, I hope none of those people were Brent. Oh, God. Oh no! What if he was the third person? I mean, the odds are against it. But what if for some strange reason he decided to Google me, just like Dave did? I still haven’t listened to that stupid thing again, but going by the comments Dave made at work, I definitely said way too much about Brent. Okay, worst-case scenario—the third person was Brent. But maybe I never said his name and he has no idea I was talking about him. Maybe I just referred to him as my “shirtless neighbor.” Really, I could have been referring to anyone on this street. Mr. Charmichael two houses down likes to take his shirt off in the summer and relax on his front porch after a long day of working at the local manufacturing plant. Yes, Mr. Charmichael is also a sixty-three-year-old man who’s covered in so much dark body hair that I often wonder if Mrs. Charmichael has to brush it every night so it doesn’t tangle.

But still. I could be attracted to Mr. Charmichael. Brent has no idea what my taste in men is.

Ugh. Maybe I should just find a new place to live.

“I saw you pulling into your garage the same time as me and thought I’d come over and see how work was today,” Brent says. “Better than your first day?”

I’m more than a little surprised he actually took the time to walk all the way over here to my walkway just to talk to me. Not unpleasantly so.

Since Brent works for a local construction company, we typically keep the same hours, so it’s not unusual for us to get home at the same time during the week, but he normally doesn’t stop to chitchat.

I realize I’m still standing here staring at him in shock and quickly look down at my phone. My inability to stop gawking at his dimples or sighing whenever I hear his voice would be a dead giveaway of what kind of man I’m attracted to.

Why couldn’t Brent be a mean, average-looking man? It would be much easier to talk to him if he wasn’t so good-looking and nice and didn’t make me feel all tingly whenever he looked at me.

At least he’s wearing a shirt this time.

“Yeah, well, contrary to what X-rated movies say, it’s kind of frowned upon for a construction worker to use dangerous power tools without wearing a shirt.”

My head whips up from my phone to find Brent smiling at me with humor sparkling in his eyes, and I realize I said that last thought in my head out loud.