Page 8 of New Year, New You and Me

“Well, it sounds like Kevin was on to something.”

“Wait.” I shake my head. “Who’s Kevin?”

She gapes at me like I’ve suddenly grown a third boob. “You know Kevin. He took us to the New Year’s Eve party.”

“Huh. Are you sure? Because I could have sworn his name was Chad. Or Thad.”

“Umm, I’m pretty sure I’d know. I went home with him.”

“Eww. You did? Why?”

“Because it was fun.” She shrugs. “Look, I know he may not have the best personality?—”

“—Try any personality?—”

“—But the man is really adequate in bed.”

“Adequate in bed.” I cluck my tongue. “That is a ringing endorsement.”

“I know. But I feel like he’s at least coachable.” Her sly expression tugs on her lips. “You know who I bet would be better than adequate in bed?”

“Please.” I hold up a phone to stop her. “Just because he was nice to me one time at the gym, it doesn’t mean Bradley isn’t stillmy enemy. I do not want to think about how well he would—or would not—perform in bed.”

“I guess that’s fair. It’s not like you saw the size of his dick before you tried to knock it off his body.”

We’re both still hysterically laughing when there’s a knock on my front door.

“Speaking of dicks…” I clear my throat. “I think he’s here for dinner.”

“Try not to make him cry again.”

Setting my phone aside, I open the door to find Bradley holding a bottle of red wine on the other side.

“You’re late,” I say.

His brow furrows. “Am I?’

“I don’t know.” I pull the door open wider and usher him inside. “I just thought that’s how we greet each other now.”

He flashes that signature smirk of his, and my heart skips a beat. Whoa. That was weird. My blood sugar must be low after all that working out today.

“I hope this wine is okay,” he says, following me into my small but tidy kitchen. “The lady at the store said it would go well in and with a bolognese.”

I accept the bottle and turn it over in my hands. “Nice. This is a great vintage.”

“Good. I know shit about wine. Or how to make homemade bolognese.”

“Have you ever made any kind of pasta sauce before?” I ask washing my hands.

“Oh, sure. I’m thirty-five. Of course, I’ve made pasta sauce before.” He joins me at the sink. “It came out of a jar, but for a bachelor like me, that’s fine dining.”

“Whoa. Look out, Gordon Ramsey.” I give him a playful nudge with my hip. “Do you at least know how to chop vegetables?”

“Sure. As long as they don’t need to be in even pieces.”

“Come on. Fair’s fair. You helped me at the gym.” I tug him to the island. “I’ll show you a few tricks in the kitchen.”

He eyes the knife in my hand cautiously. “Do any of your tricks involve removing any of my fingers?”

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