Just My Type(80)

“You’re an idiot,” Brooklyn says again as I walk out of the kitchen and head up to the spare bedroom, which used to be mine growing up.

“He does not think that. Shut up, you dick!” I shout over my shoulder as I storm up the steps, thankful that Lincoln and his cousins Mia and Grace are out of the house and down at the barn with Clint.

I continue stomping through the house until I flop down on the bed, grabbing my laptop I left there when I quickly threw my things in here this morning, and pulling it toward me. I sent off a rushed transcription job as soon as we landed that I finished on the plane, and I want to check to make sure the client received it. As soon as I get that done, I’m calling Baker and confirming that Brooklyn is wrong.

I snort to myself as I open the lid of my laptop and click on my email.

I know I should have made time to talk with Baker first, but I figured he’d understand that I needed to make sure my family was okay with my decision first, before everything was final. There’s no way he would just assume. No way. That’s just ridiculous, even for him.

As soon as my email pops up, I see that I have a new transcription request from Just My Type. It’s another rush job, which means double the money, and it looks like it’s a really short file, under two minutes. I can knock that out fast, call Baker, and be done with everything before Clint gets back with the kids and we go into town for dinner at Sheila’s Diner.

Sitting up and crisscrossing my legs, I put my laptop on my lap and decide to forego the headphones, since the house is quiet right now. Logging into my account, I accept the transcription request and hit Play on the file.

The voice that comes out of the speakers of my computer instantly makes my heart start beating faster, and I smile so hard my cheeks hurt. And then I keep listening. And then my heart starts picking up even more speed for a whole other reason.

“That motherfucker,” I mutter.





CHAPTER 28





Skanky Giggler


Skanky Giggler: (Giggles) “You said you wanted to do a quick wrap-up interview for this magazine article now that everything else is finished. Something a little more personal. (Breathy sigh) I knew there was something between us when I first met with you a few months ago. I’m so glad you asked me to come back and interview you again. (Chair scrapes back, scuffling)

Baker: (Loud yelp) “Whoa, whoa! Hands to yourself! Stay over there on your side of the table. This is a professional interview, and I have a girlfriend. At least, I think I have a girlfriend. It’s a long-distance thing now, but it’s fine.

Skanky Giggler: “So, you’re basically single then.” (Chair scrapes back)

Baker: “She didn’t even ask me to go with her. I would have moved to Montana. I’d still move there, but does she even want me there? Everything she loves is there; it’s where she wants to raise her son. She needs to be there. I don’t need to be there, and I have a business to run here that I’m trying to expand, but I want to be there. I want to be wherever she is.”

Skanky Giggler: (Sighs)

Baker: “I should have told her I love her. But I couldn’t make her as happy here as she is at home, so what would it even matter? It would just make things harder on her right now. Montana is where she needs to be. Where she wants to be. Where her heart is. She still needs to know, though, right? Even if she gets sick of the long-distance thing and this doesn’t work out, I love her. I fucking love the shit out of her. And Lincoln. And Ron Jeremy. And every time she calls me a dick. I love it all. I’m still all in, even if I have to do it from far away. I’m not fucking with that pinky swear.”

Skanky Giggler: “Did we already cover your favorite color?”





CHAPTER 29





Ember

Just My Type


“You are such an asshole!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Probably not the wisest decision, standing in the middle of a gym filled with a bunch of military vets who probably know how to kill me in two-point-three seconds, but I can’t help it. I’ve been pissed for an entire twenty-four hours. That’s like seven years in female anger time.

In the same grungy yoga pants and T-shirt I’ve been wearing since I woke up at the ass crack of dawn to help out at the farm, spent all day catching up with people, had a goodbye dinner with my family, and then flew back without even stopping at home to change, I look up at the idiot I’m in love with, who’s covered in sweat and panting in the middle of the boxing ring.

Jesus Christ, he’s hot.

Focus! We’re pissed!

But it’s been years since he fucked me on the couch.

It’s been forty-eight hours; get your shit together.

Baker’s eyes came right to mine when I stormed in here, stopped next to the ring, and yelled at him. I’m trying really hard to remain pissed off, but the shock in his eyes at initially seeing me here has been replaced with blatant want. His eyes trail up and down my body, and I know I look like shit, but I don’t feel like I look like shit, not when he’s staring at me like he wants to pull me up into the ring and screw me against the ropes.

He thought you up and moved away!

This motherfucker.

Right when my anger is there, bubbling at the surface, waiting for me to let loose holy hellfire all over him, a fist comes out of nowhere and slams into the side of Baker’s face.