Junk Mail(5)

I remind myself to expunge inappropriate thoughts from my mind. My dick got me in trouble last night. No way is that sneaky bastard getting me in trouble now. But, fuck me, I seriously need some action.

She and Toby turn to me.

“This is Josh Hanson! He’s my boss! And he’s also a rock star in one-on-one basketball. He kills me every time we play!”

Um, we played once. But Toby’s right. I did destroy him.

I give him a self-deprecating grin. “You played valiantly. It was an even matchup.”

The woman stands, revealing long, toned legs that I do my best not to stare at because I’m not an asshole who objectifies women—especially not women I want to do business with. But right now, I’m waging an internal battle between my dick and my brain. And the longer I stare at her, the closer my dick is edging to victory.

Not cool, man. Not cool.

I focus on her eyes and that’s a whole new challenge, because they’re sky blue, a gorgeous contrast to her lush dark hair. She stares at me a little longer than I’d expect, like she’s studying my face.

I extend a hand, and after hesitating for a second, she takes it.

“Nice to meet you, Josh.” She swallows a little hard on my name, like it surprises her or is hard to pronounce. “I’m Peyton.”

I blink. What the actual fuck? What are the chances she’s the same Peyton?

Slim to nil, right?

Has to be.

Because there’s no fucking way she can be the same Peyton. Her name isn’t a common one, but this has to be a weird coincidence.

As we shake, her gaze drops to my hands and she stares for an awkward beat or two. Like she’s cataloguing them now too. Like she’s doing the math—big hands, big feet, big . . . all over.

When she looks up and meets my gaze, the chance of her being the Peyton just surpassed one hundred percent. Red splashes across her cheeks. Her eyes are huge and wild. Her face is the picture of embarrassment.

Well, shit.

I cringe, and Peyton coughs. She recognized me from my childhood photo . . . not the dick one, obviously.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, as if she’s straightening out her words and trying to speak for the first time in ages.

“Good to meet you too, Peyton.” Trying to keep my tone as even as I can, I turn to Toby. “And thanks again. Especially for the cat tales.”

He laughs as he leaves, and when Peyton and I take our seats, there’s a tiny smile on her face too.

“Cat tales,” she murmurs with a little laugh.

“I personally prefer taking my pills with peanut butter,” I say, hoping to use humor to defuse the situation. We both know what she has seen, and it’s hella awkward.

This situation is all kinds of fucked up, and I need to unfuck it. Stat.

She stares at me, her nose crinkling. “So, last night . . .” She shakes her head, frustration etched on her face.

Which means it’s time for me to launch into a full-court apology. After all, we can’t risk losing her business to someone else.

“Look, Peyton. I’m sorry. I had no idea who you were. Your number must have been on my phone because of the file Brody sent me. I did not in any way, shape, or form intend to send you that picture. I’m so sorry.”

It’s the only explanation. I mean, how else could I have mistaken her number for ButterflyGirl6’s?

Peyton lets out a heavy sigh and presses her hand to her face as if checking to see if the temperature is still high. “I seriously can’t believe you sent it to me.”

I sigh as well. “I can’t believe I did either.”

“And I can’t believe you sent me your elementary school photo too.”

Yeah, that was weird. I see that now.

I frown, scrambling to fix the problem. “In my defense, I was trying not to seem like an asshole who sends unsolicited dick pics.”

She holds up a hand to stop me. “Can we just not talk about that picture?”

“The kid pic or the junk shot?”

She raises her gaze to mine. “Both. Can we have a whatever you call it in basketball? A mulligan?”

I chuckle. “That’s a golf term. But we can just call it a do-over.”

“Yes, we need a do-over,” she says with an earnest nod. “We need to pretend it never happened and go about this meeting like we’ve never met before today.”

Yeah, good fucking luck with that.





Chapter Four


Peyton



“I can do that,” Josh says with a confidence I don’t share. He grabs a sheet of blank paper from the conference table, crumples it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. “There. Done. Out of sight. Out of mind.”

I give him a shaky smile.

If only it were that easy.

Over the last eighteen months of growing my business, I’ve done a hundred things that I never thought I could do.

Quit my job to pursue my dream? Did it.

Build my own website from scratch? Done.

Interview with a popular blog for a piece highlighting my accomplishments? The post was published last Wednesday.

But hold eye contact with this perfect ten of a male specimen without letting my gaze venture down to sneak a peek at that bulge? Is this really going to be my breaking point?

“Brody and I were really excited to meet you. Thanks again for coming in. Can I tell you a little bit about Wine O’Cock—I mean, Clock?”