Page 60 of Stroked Long
Bodi: I know what he looks like.
Ruby: Yes, but you’ve never seen him contemplating the multiple options in the coloring book world.
Bodi: Something I’ve always wondered . . .
Bodi Banks is a smart-ass in text messages. I kind of like it. Actually, I’m pretty sure I love it. Seeing him come out of his shell little by little is a small victory in my book.
Angling my phone over the cap of a diet coke bottle, I zoom in on Reese who is running his hand through his hair, that distinctive tattoo bright as day, and I snap a picture.
Ugh, it’s blurry.
Trying for a better angle, I scoot a little closer. I lean on the bottles and poise my camera just as the bottles tilt, shooting me forward and straight onto the floor. Two liter cans whiz around me, one of them spurting out dark liquid and coating the floor, me, and to my horror, Reese.
“Bloody hell,” I murmur as I scramble to find my feet, trying to get away from the screaming Coke bottle twirling around on the tile.
“Hey, are you okay?” Reese asks from afar, dodging the Coke vomit with precision.
“Good.” I wave him off, hiding my face and cowering next to my cart, trying to push it out of the way. But,of course, it’s stuck on the corner of the display.
“Are you sure? Want me to call someone?” he asks, coming closer.
“Not necessary,” I call out. Humiliation must be written all over my face. “Just getting some soda and, uh,” I look around at the displays near me and toss some Matchbox cars in my cart as well, “and some Matchbox cars. Can’t get enough of the little things. Zoom zoom,” I say with a shake of my fist. Stupid coloring book section. Not only am I creeper, stalking Olympic swimmers around the store, but now I’m a creeper with toy cars and a bottle of soda drenching my dress.
“Can I at least call for a clean-up on aisle five?” His voice is jovial and all it does is make me blush some more.
Waving him off, I ignore his question as well as his chuckle and take my cart to checkout. That’s what I get for creeping on a celebrity in the grocery store.
I blame Bodi.
Once I’m checked out and sitting outside my car, which was recently fixed, I pull out my phone and see a few texts from Bodi.
Bodi: Did you do it? Did you say hi?
Bodi: I’m assuming from your delay in response you must have introduced yourself.
Bodi: Please tell me you steered him toward a My Little Pony coloring book. Knowing you, I have no doubt you would be able to convince him.
The last text makes me smile. He’s right. Out of everyone, I’m pretty sure I would be the person who could sell aMy Little Ponycoloring book to a rugged, tattooed, and very handsome man.
Well . . . not as handsome as Bodi. When it comes to the looks department, there is no doubt in my mind that Bodi Banks, oozing sumptuous man meat, takes the cake. Because, ha-cha-cha-cha *cue shimmy*.
I don’t answer his question aboutMy Little Pony. I do take a selfie of my drenched outfit which clings terribly to my body. Crap. I look like a used condom. A grape-flavored, or maybe cherry-flavored used condom. Well, that’s at least how I feel. Wet, deflated, and floppy.
Pressing send, I wonder why I feel so comfortable with the man that I don’t mind sending him a picture of myself portraying dick plastic? Hmm . . . either I have no self-respect or I’ve come to the point in my relationship with Bodi that I believe he won’t run away screaming from my quirky behavior. I think it’s a little bit of both. My self-respect quota is lower than the average human, after all.
Just as I start my car, a text beeps back from Bodi.
Bodi: Should I even ask?
I smile to myself, connect my phone to my Bluetooth and dial Bodi’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Do I even want to know?”
“Depends. Are you interested in hearing a story about how I embarrassed myself so much I may never be able to show my face to Reese King ever again?”
“I’m very interested.” There is lightness in his voice, causing my heart to leap in my chest.
Baby steps. All it takes is baby steps.
