Page 6 of RAKEish

“I don’t have that kind of sense of humor,” Doc said. “The demise of your penis is imminent.”

“I insist you stop saying that. You’re making it worse.”

“I did warn you.”

“Not hard enough.”

“That’s what she said,” Doc replied.

“That is not very doctorly of you.” Her unexpected humor softened his tone.

A huffed-out sigh, with undercurrents of dismay and distress, tickled his ear. “You’re right. I’m tired and my mouth is taking advantage of my brain’s inability to block it,” she admitted. “Listeners, please forgive me for this morning’s lapse in good judgment on my part.”

“And do I get an apology?” he pressed.

“You do. Mr. Landshire, I sincerely apologize for telling you your penis is about to punch its last ticket.”

“Please, stop saying penis followed by gloom and doom predictions.”

She snorted, as if she wanted to laugh, but couldn’t quite gather enough energy to pull one off. “On the bright side—for me, not you—I suddenly don’t feel nearly as devastated about my situation.”

And the sleep-deprived zingers just keep coming.

“And to think, I called in because I thought to apologize for being one of the men who’d swiped past your profile.” He hadn’t done so because of her image. Hell, he’d been on his phone and had barely been able to see it. He’d skimmed past her name in his quest to pair a newly single man with the ideal woman. A man he’d agreed to help because a fake fairy godmother, Ms. Birdie Faraway, had requested his help.

Ms. Birdie, the president of the Fairy Godmother Project, was quite the piece of work. She never took no for an answer. He’d tried. Not only that, but he was now being pestered by the dear to start up an offshoot of her program. The Fairy Godfather Project. Magic not required.

Doc cleared her throat. “Tell me, Your Majesty—”

“Your Majesty would be my father. You may call me Scott or Your Royal Highness.” The reply was automatic. Most Americans, he’d discovered, did not know royal protocol.

“Tell me, Oh Great Rake of Manhattan, do you stand behind your dating advice? Or is it offered tongue-in-cheek?” She spoke distinctly as if she’d just gotten her second wind and was ready to once again slip into the role of professional psychologist, albeit a snarky one.

Or the wounded animal is coming in for the kill.

“I’m not familiar with that saying,” he mused. “Is it equivalent to dick in hand?”

“I’m glad you have a sense of humor about your upcoming penile predicament.”

He’d walked right into that one. “Not funny.” It was damn funny.

“Too soon for dick jokes?”

There was that humor again. What other things would she surprise him with should he keep Doc off her stuffy game? “The way I see it, as long as your mouth is occupied with my dick, life is good.”

“Touché,” she said, after a beat of dead air. “And on that note, I do believe our time is up. Goodbye, Your Royal Rakeness.”

Scott put his phone away, turned the volume up on her show, and settled back in his seat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d not been able to dazzle a woman with his charm.

A damn woman who’d predicted he’d soon lose his penis.

CHAPTER 3

Forty-five minutes later, Scott made his way through the bustling cubicles located in the trenches of Naked Runway, his brain replaying his conversation with Doc. He was late for a staff meeting, in part thanks to the number of people who had stopped him on the way to his office to mention they’d heard him on Monday Musings.

“What’s today’s pitch?” asked Lucy, a gorgeous redhead.

“Oh, you know—”

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