Page 14 of Rookie Recovery

“Wow,” was all Jamie said in return.

“Wow? Good wow? As in, Bowie, what incredibly sexy thighs you have? Wow, as in, would you like to go for coffee with me?”

He ignored my offer. “Wow, as in, you made it a full twenty-three seconds without talking.” He was counting? “Must be a record. I’m proud of you.”

I wondered how long he’d been cooking up that one for. “Aw, look at you getting all paternal.” I paused. Took my time. Waited until he was facing me again. “Would you like me to call you daddy?”

He sputtered. “I … Jeez. No, that’s …” Jamie turned his back to me, but not before I spotted two red patches blooming high on his cheeks.

Jesus, he was adorable. And as per, I was acting like a bellend.

I knew I was doing it. That was the thing. It wasn’t as though I was unaware. I just couldn’t shut it down.

You get a guy like Jamie, who was success personified. A doctor with a job he loved, and I could tell he loved it, even if his office was teeny and didn’t have any windows. He was rich, probably—those teeth looked expensive—and gorgeous. I looked at his ring finger. Single? Maybe, hopefully. Smart too. Like computer smart, if the papers and textbooks on his desk had anything to say on the matter.

He was everything I’d dreamed of being. I was in awe of him. Complete and total awe. I just had a funny way of showing it.

I’d known the guy twenty minutes, and I was already addicted to making him squirm. Why was it so satisfying watching this giant, incredible, intellectual man lose his cool?

I wanted to stop. Really, I did.

But the rush of endorphins I got every time I made him stutter, or scratch the back of his head, or gently tug at his collar, wouldn’t let me. I knew, deep down, it would take a monumental force of nature to bring me to a halt. An earthquake, or a hurricane, or Slimer spraying ectoplasm all over the room.

Jamie’s hands slid down to cup my calves, and as though he sensed what might come out of my mouth next, he said, “Do you even remember what you said or did last night?”

Okay, turned out Slimer was merely the impending horror of finding out how much, on a scale of one to total wanker, I had been at the bar.

Surprised by my sudden taciturnity, Jamie pressed on. “Your teammates, your new buddies, gave you an almost lethal number of shots.”

I nodded, feigning indifference. This I knew. Was used to it. “Suppose I was a little …” I attempted to rein in my smirk and threw a gibberish made-up British word at him. “Wazoomgulled, last night.” A snort left my nostrils as I imagined the giant man going home that evening and telling his … cat?—I could totally imagine him with a cat—that he’d learnt two new British words that day.

Jamie paused as though he could smell the bullshit. His fingers froze on my ankle and he side-eyed me, probably looking for the lie. “That’s not a real word.”

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Alright then, Dickens, you tell me what appropriate British slang I should be using.”

“I … No. I’m not playing this game.” He shook his head. Flexed and extended my foot. Chewed on his lip. I could practically see himself holding back the words. His desperation to prove he held the answer.

Spoiler alert, there were a lot of British words that meant drunk. I mean, you could take almost any verb or noun, add “ed” to the end, and you’d have an authentic sounding synonym for half-cut. Wait, was half-cut British? I looked around Jamie’s office for inspiration. To the computer on his desk. I was totally monitored last night. See? It worked. Pen-potted. Scaled. Couch-rolled. Rubber-gloved. Hot-doctored.

Jamie cleared his throat softly, and my chest filled with inexplicable excitement. “Okay, how about you were off your trolley?”

“Rude!” I pretended to look outraged, but it was belied by my dorky smirk. “Yeah, that’s not how you use that phrase. Off your trolley means you’ve lost your mind.”

“Does it?” A little furrow appeared between his brows. Oh no, he actually seemed disappointed. Or maybe embarrassed. Jamie had no doubt been thinking of the term trolleyed, but I wasn’t about to offer him that lifeline.

See also, adding ed to any old noun.

He paused once more, the cogs visibly turning behind those dreamy chocolate eyes. “What about knackered?”

“Wrong again. That means exhausted.”

He gave a subtle, “Hmm,” and flapped his hand to indicate I should lie flat on my back. Jamie made a big show of not watching the muscles in my abdomen extend as I reclined. “What about …” He frowned, shook his head. “Oh, listen, it doesn’t matter, you were very dru–”

“No, go on. What were you going to say? What about …?”

Jamie took a deep inhalation. “Sh–” he started, stopped himself. And then, in the most uncertain and adorable voice ever, said, “Shagged?”

I had to slap myself in the face with both hands to keep the laughter in. Too cute. “Shagged also means knackered, exhausted. And it’s the past tense of shag. So, I don’t know, I can help you be both things if you like? Utterly shagged and shagged out?” I offered him a wink.

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