Just My Type(36)

Ember “Moscato is for Pussies” Hastings

To: Ember Hastings

From: Baker Matthews

Subject: Re: Fuck Right Off

Whatever. So I like my “me” time with a little bubbles, some crisp, fruity wine, and soothing music. I’ll have you know, my bubbles are very manly. They smell like worn leather, a pine forest, gunpowder, and sawdust. MANLY SMELLS. Fuck the soft, fluffy loofa. I scrub my body clean with chicken wire.

I have taken it upon myself to do some googling for you in regards to your pet decision, and have come up with a few excellent options: The Golden Poison Frog. He’s cute and yellow, and I really think he gets a bad rap with that whole “poison” thing. He’s just misunderstood. No potty training required. Just a living will.

Feral Cat. Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s afraid of people and doesn’t allow anyone to touch it! Exactly, Ember. Exactly. It doesn’t need constant attention like a puppy. And you know what’s more exciting than a goldfish? Not being able to sleep at night because you’re afraid it will chew off your face. Which this antisocial living creature won’t do, as long as you remember to feed it. Which would instill a sense of responsibility and stark terror in your son from now until the end of time. Hashtag, life lessons.

Friday it is, then. I’ll just go with you to pick out this living creature, since my expertise is clearly needed. I’ll pick you up at ten.

Baker “I Smell Like a Man” Matthews





CHAPTER 16





Ember

Fluffy-Wuffy


“…tell him I’ll call him when I get home tonight. Email me a copy of Eric’s assessment from last week, and I’ll look it over.”

Baker glances over at me and mouths, I’m sorry, the work call that he got right when I got in his vehicle keeping him on the phone the whole ride to the pet store. I spend entirely too long blatantly staring at his profile after he turns away from me and puts his eyes back on the road. Not wanting to get caught staring at his dark scruff-covered, chiseled jaw, his teeth biting down on that bottom lip as he thinks about something the caller just asked, or drooling over the way his bicep flexes as he holds the phone up to his ear, I quickly look out the passenger window at the passing landscape, and try to think about something else. Anything else, aside from the man sitting next to me, whose delicious scent swirls around me in this small, confined space, making everything south of the border pulse and tingle until I have to cross my legs and squeeze my thighs together.

I’ve been wracking my brain since the day I met Baker in Starbucks a few weeks ago, trying to figure out what that smell is, and I’ve finally figured it out. He smells like cedar. Motherfucking cedar. Goodbye, any hopes of keeping things professional until this interview is done. I have a weakness for that clean, woodsy scent. And now all I can picture is Baker naked, taking a bubble bath in my cedar chest that I brought from home and currently sits at the foot of my bed, while water droplets and bubbles slowly slide down his bare, rock-hard chest and abs, curling his finger at me to come closer with the hand that isn’t holding a glass of white, vagina wine.

That image shouldn’t even be a turn-on, Jesus!

And let’s just talk about the fact that we’re currently weaving in and out of traffic in a Jeep. An old-school, black Jeep Wrangler, with a soft top that can be removed. I should have made fun of him as soon as I walked out my front door and saw it parked at my curb. I should have climbed inside this damn thing and said something like, “When you’re cruising with the top off, do you wink and make that shooting gun motion with your thumb and finger at every hot chick at a red light?” But no. Of course I didn’t say anything like that. I walked toward the Jeep in a daze, picturing Baker doing something all rugged and manly with that Jeep, like driving through plowed corn fields after a summer rain, kicking up mud all over the wheels and side panels, which would then require him to hose the Jeep down in his driveway, and then of course he’d need to turn the hose on himself to get all that… dirty off of him.

Don’t judge me. It’s called mudding. It’s a country thing, and you can look it up.

The first thing I said to Baker as soon as I got in this fucking Jeep? “You must have to wash this thing a lot, huh?”

Thank God he got that phone call right then and didn’t have time to say something sarcastic about my inability to make sense in his presence, because I was most likely picturing him naked.

Which I absolutely am. Especially when I can’t stop thinking about that damn audio recording of our night at The Hatchet House. I never should have transcribed that thing at home alone, in my dimly-lit bedroom, with a few candles burning, while sitting on my bed with pillows propped behind me and my headphones on, wearing my usual pajamas of just a tank top and underwear. It wasn’t until I had rewound Baker saying “You’re staring at my mouth. Probably imagining what it would feel like on your skin” for the thirty-seventh time with one hand, while my other hand slid its way down inside my underwear, when I glanced around the room and finally became rightfully shooketh. Without even realizing it, I had set up a goddamn masturbation den in my bedroom… to transcribe a work document… from my boss.

I decided right then and there to burn Brooklyn’s stupid red-and-black flannel T-shirt dress. I’m only having these stupid thoughts and fantasies, because I thought it would be a brilliant idea to dress a little sexy for once, and maybe have a little fun with Baker in the process, turning the tables to see how he likes getting all hot and bothered when he’s trying to work. And then I pressed my body up against his. And touched his impressive arm muscles. And ran my hands over his hips and strong thighs, which I could picture being all tense and ridged between my legs with the strength of his forceful—