Just My Type(29)

Baker “Don’t Cut Off My Balls Because I Gave You an Order” Matthews To: Baker Matthews

From: Ember Hastings

Subject: Re: Eat a Dick Interview

I sent my address (UNDER PROTEST) to your sister. I don’t trust you to have this information. You could still be a creeper.

List of topics I’d like to discuss on Sunday: Why Baker Matthews is a pain in the ass.

Why Baker Matthews is annoying.

Why Baker Matthews no longer has balls.

Ember “Maybe I Like People Who Smell Like Onions” Hastings





CHAPTER 13





Ember

Turtle Chinchilla


“Wear the flannel T-shirt dress I left last time I visited,” Brooklyn says from my phone.

Tonight’s FaceTime call is taking place in my bedroom, where she’s currently perched on my nightstand.

“That’s a sexy outfit. I’m not wearing a sexy outfit to a business meeting,” I remind her, holding up a hanger from my closet in front of me and turning to face my phone.

“You cannot wear a pink cardigan. You’re not a virgin librarian. Wear the goddamn flannel T-shirt dress. My stomach is going to be the size of a Volkswagen soon. Be sexy when I can’t, Ember. You’re my only hope,” Brooklyn wails.

“Stop being overdramatic. Your stomach won’t be the size of a Volkswagen. More like one of those mini, electric, smart cars.”

“Suck my dick.”

“Such language from a mother,” I admonish with a playful tsk.

“Really? Says the mother who’s going out to get herself a good dicking from her boss while her son is away.” Brooklyn snorts.

I mask the blush I can feel heating up my face by whirling around and disappearing back in my closet to put the cardigan back. “There will not be any dicking!” I shout back to Brooklyn over my shoulder as I shove as hard as I can to move aside my clothes and wedge the cardigan back in.

The only thing I miss about the three months we spent in that massive apartment when we first moved here is my closet. It was the size of this entire bungalow, and even had one of those fancy couches with no arms or back right in the middle of it. I never understood the purpose of those things. Do you really get so tired trying to pick out something to wear that you need a nap? I used that uncomfortable couch as a dirty clothes hamper.

“I don’t date jocks, remember? They are nothing but douchebags in the end,” I yell out of my closet, groaning as I shove my shoulder in between some clothes, and push back as hard as I can so I can swipe through the hangers.

“He’s hot. He’s a wounded war veteran. He opened a gym for other wounded war veterans. He’s funny. He likes that you’re a smartass. He’s protective of his sister. He likes kids. It turned him on when you threw up your baggage all over him. Am I forgetting anything?”

Halfway through Brooklyn’s spiel, I stepped out of the closet and stared at my phone screen in annoyance as she counted off Baker’s many attributes on her fingers.

“That means nothing. Just like every other jock I was attracted to, he’ll still wind up being a douchebag in the end,” I remind her.

The conviction in what I’m saying leaves my voice before I even get to the end of that sentence until I finished it off in barely a whisper. I don’t even believe what I’m saying, so why am I still saying it?

Because I’m afraid.

“Stop being a chicken shit,” Brooklyn orders, making me smile that even so far away, we still share the same brain sometimes. “Fine, so every hot, athletic guy you’ve dated before wound up being dickholes. You switched tactics, went for the polar opposite of what you’re typically attracted to, married him, and he turned into a dickhole. Do you see what I’m getting at here?”

“That I’m clearly a magnet for dickholes and I should never date again? How many cats does one person need to procure the title of Crazy Cat Lady, exactly? More than five, but less than ten?”

“For fuck’s sake, who’s being overdramatic now?” Brooklyn scoffs. “Stop being afraid that every man you’re attracted to is going to turn into a douchebag. There are genuinely good guys out there. They aren’t just in romance novels. Baker sounds like a pretty good guy.”

“Yeah, you did get a genuinely good guy with my brother,” I reply.

“Oh, fuck that. Clint is a dickhole. He ate the last piece of pumpkin dump cake you sent home with me to freeze the last time we came to Chicago,” Brooklyn complains. “Seriously, stop being a pussy about this and give the guy a chance to prove you wrong.”

I sigh, staring down at the outfit I pulled off the hanger before I exited the closet. I know Baker is a good guy. But I absolutely am a chicken shit. He scares the hell out of me. I’ve never felt such a strong connection to someone I just met. Hell, Brandon and I didn’t even go on our first date until I’d known him for a year, because a heavy conversationalist, he was not, and it took forever to get to know the guy. Unless he was talking about drugs, and not the fun kind. He never shut up about work stuff. I like talking to Baker. I look forward to it every time I see his name in my inbox, or walk into a room with him. Brandon and I also didn’t even have sex until we’d been dating for six months. He wasn’t really big into dirty talk or foreplay. His idea of getting me in the mood was saying, “I’ll meet you upstairs after CNN Tonight is over.” Baker’s foreplay is… him. Everything about him. He’s a goddamn weapon of mass sexual destruction.