Page 32 of Smut

He scratches at his cheek. “Not really. I’m trying. His mum has been working more and more, she’s a lawyer, and I feel like I’m the only one he has lately that seems to care. My dad is so invested in the shop and trying to save it and…” He trails off and clears his throat, as if he’s said too much.

And of course I can’t help but bite. “Is the shop in trouble?”

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, peach,” he says dismissively.

I raise my brow. “I told you not to call me peach.”

“What’s with your hatred of nicknames?”

“I don’t have a hatred of nicknames,” I argue. “I have a hatred of your nicknames. Believe me, I’ve had plenty.”

Oh great, now I’ve said too much.

“Such as?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “We should get back to work.”

“You can work after meeting Fluffy? It usually takes me a pint afterward to calm down. I’m supposed to feed him tomorrow and I usually have to get pretty bombed in order to work up the nerve.”

So that explains the chirping box in his car. “Crickets?”

“Yeah, live ones. It’s pretty barbaric.”

“And how does your revolving door of women handle Fluffy?”

His head jerks back as he stares at me quizzically. “Revolving door of women? Who says that? And why do you care?”

“I don’t care,” I tell him, looking away. “It’s just something you’re very proud of. You’ve slept with nearly half the class.”

“Not you,” he points out.

“Because I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Not Rio either,” he says.

“Because she’s not stupid either.”

“I don’t think a girl has to be stupid in order to have a good time,” he muses, tapping the top of the bottle against his lips. “Rio does seem like a lot of fun. It’s a wonder the two of you are even friends, she’s like sunshine and you’re just this angry red windstorm that knocks down trees sucks the juice out of everything.”

I can’t help but grumble at him. “Rio is way too good for you.” I don’t need to point out if he pursued her enough, she’d probably give in. She does like a good time and she’d probably be the only one in class to not pen an anti-Blake poem. Still, I add, “You stay away from her.”

“Forbidden,” he says with a sharp nod. “I like those ones the best.”

“I’m serious. She’s not your type.”

“You don’t know my type,” he says. “I bet you don’t even know your own.”

What is with this question lately?

I straighten my shoulders, raising my chin an inch. “I know exactly what my type is, what kind of person I need and want.”

“Need,” he repeats, lightly mocking. “Will you listen to that, the All Powerful Oz has just admitted that she needs things from time to time. I thought you’d be entirely self-sufficient.”

“Oh I am,” I shoot back. “You should see my vibrator collection.”

His eyes widen and I refrain from clamping my hand over my mouth. I’ve said too much. Way, way too much.

I clear my throat, looking down at my beer. “Any smart young woman should always have a range of suitable man substitutes.”

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