The Lineup(28)

His jaw works back and forth, irritation evident in his eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“Afraid not. Walker is what dreams are made of.”

“He is so hot,” Lindsay says, leaning into me. I take that as my cue to take her to the kitchen for some water.

“Walker is an ass,” Jason says as I start to walk away, Lindsay in tow.

“Did you say he’s an ass, or that he has the best ass? Don’t be jealous, Orson; it’s not pretty on you.”





“Dottie, why are you ruining this party for me?” Emory asks, sitting next to me on the couch.

“What?” I sit taller. “How am I ruining it?

“Well,” she huffs out, “technically you’re not ruining it, Jason is, but you started it.”

“What did I start?” I glance over to where Jason is standing next to Carson and Knox, showing his ass off to them. He’s insufferable.

“All Jason can talk about is who has a better butt, him or Walker. Why did you find it necessary to turn him into a neurotic mess?”

In a calm voice, I say, “I had no idea he was going to be such a whine-baby about it. And,” I whisper, “Lindsay was spouting off facts I didn’t want Jason knowing.”

“Ahh.” Emory nods her head. “Loose Lips Lindsay.”

“Exactly. I had to distract both of them and get the hell out of there.”

Biting her lip, Emory looks around and then says, “He really is a nice guy. You should give him a chance.”

“A chance? At what? He brought dinner to my office to fulfil our charity date, because he was worried he’d offended me. About his potato salad, I think. And as an aside, he makes . . . from scratch . . . the best potato salad I’ve ever had in my life. And I know how he used to cook for the boys in the loft. He’s been a total jerk tonight—so have I—but you’ve told me how nice he is, and you and both know I don’t do nice. That man has boyfriend potential written all over him. He’s not someone I would date.”

“Who’s not someone you would date?”

I jump to the sound of his voice as the couch dips next to me, indicating his arrival. I swear he has a super sense and knows when I’m talking about him. What I want to know is why he keeps coming back for more. He can’t possibly see anything in me that he likes. Not many people do, unless they’re looking at my bank statement.

“You,” I say, without being discreet anymore. “I would not date you.”

“Who’s asking?”

I thumb toward Emory. “This girl. She seems to have it in her head that you’re not a bad guy and that I should give you a chance.”

Jason laughs . . . loud.

Loud and hard.

Even slaps his knee.

Okay, it’s not that freaking funny.

“You and me?” He motions between us with two of his fingers and then laughs again, this time buckling over. “Oh, that’s just rich.”

Who says rich? What is he, an eighty-year-old man? From the way he’s coughing from laughter, I’m going to guess yes.

“That’s great. Oh man, good one, Em. Wow, yup, me and Dottie, suurrrre,” he drawls out.

I was okay with a little bit of laughter. I would even let the knee slap pass, but now he’s just being rude. What’s so funny on the off chance that we would date? It’s not like I’m a bad catch. I have a fun personality when I want it to show, and I have amazing boobs. Any man would be lucky to have me.

“It’s not that funny,” I say through clenched teeth as he continues to laugh, drawing the attention of everyone else in the room.

“Oh, but it is. You and me.” More laughter as tears fall down his face.

Actual tears.

“Dorothy Domico and Jason Orson. Keep wishing, you witty wench.”

“Witty wench.” Emory bursts out as well, joining Jason in the humor parade. “Oh, that fits her to a T. She’s such a witty wench.”

“Hey,” I snap at my friend. “That’s not true.”

“Did I hear witty wench over here?” Lindsay asks, walking over with Milly.

Emory nods. “It’s what he called Dottie.”

The drunkard in front of me claps her hands obnoxiously while saying, “You. Are. Such. A. Witty. Wench.”

It’s official, I hate my friends. The only person I possibly like at this minute is Milly—

Wait, hold that thought. She’s smirking, so nope, she’s dead to me too.

“Well, I’m glad I can give you all a good laugh.” I stand from the couch and step away just as Jason calls out.

“Wait, Dottie.” I turn around and he holds his hand out to me, as if he’s clutching something.

“This pole just fell out of your ass. Don’t want you to forget it.”

I HATE him.





“Are you leaving because you really have work, or because you’re a little butt hurt?” Emory asks, walking me out to the elevator of her apartment.

Did she have to use the term butt hurt after the whole flagpole comment?

“I’m not butt hurt, so get that out of your head. I don’t get butt hurt. I’m leaving because I have work to do and to be honest, if I have to hear that man’s voice one more time, I might stab one of your cushions with a knife.”