The Friend Zone(13)

Josh, naked in my shower. “Sure.”

“I’ve got a date, and I don’t want to have to drive home and back.”

“And do we have Stuntman to thank for this date?” I asked, hoping I sounded adequately unaffected by this news. As I should be. The microwave beeped and I handed him back his plate.

“You were right. He’s a hunting dog,” he mumbled.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.” I grinned.

He gave me a sideways smile. “He’s a hunting dog. Are you happy?”

He’d taken Stuntman to the Home Depot on my challenge and he’d come back saying only, “Let me know when you want to do the photo shoot.”

He put an exploratory finger into the center of the lasagna, testing the temperature, and seemed satisfied. He put his finger in his mouth to suck the sauce off it and started eating. I put my own plate in the microwave and leaned back on the counter to wait.

My cell phone pinged.

Sloan: Are you behaving yourself with your cute carpenter?

I grinned mischievously.

Kristen: Nope. He just put a finger in my lasagna.



Sloan: WTH?!



I snorted.

Sloan: Okay, now my eyelid is twitching. Thanks.



Triggering Sloan’s nervous eye twitch was like hitting the bell on a strongman game. I loved it. You’d think after twelve years she’d be desensitized to my sense of humor, but she never failed to get flustered.

Sloan: Remember, you can look but you can’t touch. Unless you break up with Tyler

I narrowed my eyes. She’d love that.

Kristen: Not a chance.



Sloan’s prejudices against my boyfriend boiled down to, “I just don’t see it.”

It wasn’t him and me she couldn’t see. It was him and us.

I guess I kind of got why. I mean, Tyler didn’t ride a motorcycle. He didn’t hunt. Didn’t care for poker. Preferred an expensive glass of wine to whiskey or beer. Liked theater over movies. Brandon and he had very little to discuss the one time they met except for the Marine Corps, and Tyler’s job was so specialized they couldn’t even really connect on that front.

Tyler didn’t fit into Sloan’s vision of our future, full of pool parties and barbecues. He was more of a cocktail-party and charcuterie-plate kind of guy.

I didn’t like charcuterie plates. They always had weird stuff on them.

I took my lasagna from the microwave and sat down across from Josh.

“That party is coming up soon,” he said. “Do you mind if I got ready here then too? It’s thirty minutes in the wrong direction if I go home.”

Sloan had a dinner party planned for stuffing wedding invitations into envelopes and putting together the wedding favors. It was a mandatory bridal party activity and in typical Sloan fashion, she wanted everyone dressed to the nines to take pictures for Instagram.

“Sure. Wanna share an Uber? I want to drink.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

I smiled. I liked that we were going together. Aside from being fodder for my fantasies, Josh bore the distinction of being one of the few people who didn’t annoy me. I liked spending time with him.

A dangerous circumstance to be sure.

My cell phone rang and I answered it, leaning over in my chair to grab my order clipboard off the counter. I wrote the order down and hung up.

Josh gave me an amused smile. “Wow, you’re so different on the phone. So professional.”

“I only cuss on business calls when I’m upselling my Son of a Bitch and Crazy Little Fucker shirts.”

Josh chuckled and cut another bite of lasagna with the side of his fork. “What did they order? Any stairs?”

A part of me hoped he asked because he liked coming over and wanted a reason. That same part of me purposely dropped lasagna on my shirt as penance. If I had one more inappropriate thought about Josh, I was going to have to see if I had some old curlers to put in my hair.

“He has my stairs in every room of his mansion already,” I said, wiping the red sauce stain with a napkin. “Dale’s my best customer. He’s got six Maltese and millions. He owns a strip club in downtown LA. Spent two years in prison for tax evasion. I love the guy. Every month he orders twenty-four shirts for his dogs. He likes me to deliver them in person.”

His handsome brow furrowed. “You deliver goods to a felon by yourself?”

I gave him a cocked eyebrow. “He’s eighty-three. He’s lonely. And how dangerous can an arthritic old man with a ponytail and a dog named Sergeant Fluff McStuffs actually be?”

He chuckled. “Fluff McStuffs? Do all little dogs have stupid names?” He took a drink of his soda.

I balled up the saucy napkin and picked up my fork. “You should name any dog according to how it will sound while yelling his name and chasing him down the street in a bathrobe.”

He laughed so suddenly Coke dribbled down his chin. He choked a moment and I handed him a napkin.

“So have you planned the bachelor party yet?” I asked once he’d recovered.

“I’m working on it. It’s not for another month and a half, so I have time. How about you?” He was still smiling and shaking his head.

“We’re going to a day spa first. Then Hollywood in a limo to go barhopping. And I’m making her a suck-for-a-buck shirt,” I said.