Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(30)

“Tell me how I’m supposed to help without bossing you around! Go ahead, tell me.” I open my mouth to respond, but Kip silences me with, “I can’t. It would be impossible.”

“Just don’t be a jerk and we’ll get along just fine.”

“So you agree to let me help you?”

Do I? “Not really—it’s more like you’re wearing me down, like a dull pencil after too much use.”

“Mission accomplished then, eh?” He looks oddly satisfied with himself.

I’m this close to planting a facer on the tabletop. “I can’t believe I’m considering this—with you.”

“You’ve been waiting for a guy like me to come along and help you.”

“Stop making this my idea—it was yours. I’m still not convinced I should let a matchmaking giant follow me around.”

“Hairy godmother—not the same as a matchmaker.”

“Whatever. You’re still being ridiculous, whatever you want to call yourself.”

“You know, come to think of it, a hairy godmother would make an amazing Halloween costume. I’ll have to remember that come next October.” Kip stares off into the distance, imagining what it would look like. “Dude, like the Tooth Fairy, with tiny wings and shit? I could pull off a tutu, right? Camo would be badass—or brown.”

A brown tutu?

“It would be pretty awesome,” I relent begrudgingly.

“Hairy godmother, at your cervix,” he jokes.

“If you went anywhere near cervixes,” I mumble under my breath with a chuckle.

“Ha ha.” He isn’t laughing.

“I thought it was funny.”

“Think we should establish some ground rules?”

“Probably—I can see you’re getting overzealous and amped up to do this. If we could curb that from the beginning that would be outstanding.”

“Me? Overzealous?”

And I’m becoming powerless to stop him. Or maybe curious enough to go through with it. He’s crazy and fun—and perhaps I could use a bit of both in my life right now.

“Yes, you—you’re like a bored frat boy, minus the frat, minus the boy, itching for something to entertain himself with. I am not that something.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“But, I’m curious enough to go along with this stupid plan of yours.” I mean, who could say no to that furry face? He looks like a dog. Or a shaggy lion. Kind of scary, but adorable.

“First rule: we are a team, Teddy, and there is no I in team. Write that down.” He looks at me expectantly, but I don’t have a pen. “Got a sheet of paper?”

I quirk my head to the side—I don’t have that either. “Uh, no.”

“Napkin it is then.” Kip’s brawny arm reaches across the table, fingers plucking a couple napkins from the shiny, silver dispenser. He whips a pen out of his man bun, and why he even has one in there is beyond me.

I waste no time. “Rule number two: the five-foot rule.”

His pen hovers. “Five-foot wh…what is this nonsense?”

“I don’t need you breathing down my neck. Five feet is close enough for you to stand while we’re in public.”

“How can I instruct you from that far away? It’ll look strange with me stage-whispering from five feet away.”

Oh brother. “I’m sure you’ll get your point across in other ways.”

“How will you hear me giving you directions?” The level to which he is apparently affronted knows no bounds.

“Well, good point: I don’t want you stage-whispering at me, let alone giving me directions.”

“Then what is the point?” He taps on the table. “Two feet.”

Oh, little guy wants to negotiate? Fine by me. “Four.”

“Three.”

God this is exhausting.

I nod, accepting three feet. “Next rule.”

“Rule number three: you can’t go home with anyone.”

That makes me laugh. “That won’t be a problem.”

“It sure could be—guys will screw anything with a pulse. Someone will want to take you home if you’re going to quit playing barmaid.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Kip shrugs, clicking his pen. “Rule number four: wardrobe.”

He’s going to nitpick my clothes? No. “You’re not telling me what to wear. Look at you!”

His brown eyes roll. “This isn’t about me. You’re the one who needs help.”

“Jerk! I do not! My clothes are fine—I didn’t sign up for a makeover. God you’re an asshole.”

“Fine isn’t going to have anyone hitting on you.”

“You literally just said guys will screw anything with a pulse.”

“That’s true, I did say that, but we’re looking for quality, not quantity.”

He. Is. Infuriating. “Besides, I don’t want those guys anyway.”

“Good, because they won’t be interested if that’s the shit you’re going to wear out.” He smiles, laughing into his cup of coffee, barely concealing his idiotic smirk.

“Dickhead, this isn’t about my clothes.”