Page 4 of My Not So Wicked Stepbrother (My Not So Wicked 1)

Unknown Number: So, you’re using me for entertainment?

Me: I’m not sure how entertaining you are. Do you know any good jokes?

Unknown Number: This is Sawyer King.

I sat up from my prostrate position on the couch.

Me: Haha, Jenna. Whose phone are you using? This isn’t funny.

I knew I shouldn’t have told my best friend about Sawyer, but she’d had a crush on him like every girl this side of the mountains. That was, until she finally figured out that Brad, my other best friend since preschool, was in love with her since he was an embryo. Jenna and Brad fancied themselves jokers. I guess since they owned a comedy club they were, but this wasn’t funny at all.

Not So Funny Best Friend: Who’s Jenna?

Me: Seriously, Jenna, the joke’s over. Sawyer King, god among men. Mr. I Hold the State High School Record for Touchdowns in One Season isn’t going to text me. An angel doesn’t text. He appears in your living room, hopefully wearing something akin to his cousin Cupid.

Jenna and I had stalked Sawyer on Facebook after I talked to my mom. Dr. King had grown up just fine. As in, he was ridiculously gorgeous and I’m so embarrassed my mom tried to set me up with him. How could she possibly think he was meant to father my children? Not that my ovaries didn’t scream that they deserved to breed with someone as beautiful as him, but even they knew it was a pipe dream. To punish me for not being able to snag such a catch, my period started early—while I was at work and without a tampon in my purse. Did I mention I worked with all men?

Really Not Funny Best Friend: You think I’m an angel? And I didn’t know Cupid was related to heavenly beings. I guess it’s the wings.

Me: Jen, joke’s over. Don’t you have work to do? I thought tonight was comedy sports night and you and Brad were facing Heidi and Oscar. I’m going now. I need to pluck that one stupid hair on my chin that acts like its high on miracle grow.

I threw my phone on the couch cushion next to me, wondering if maybe I should let the hair chin grow out and tie a bead to it. That could be fun. I could ask my friends, “What’s hanging?”

My phone rang before I could fully explore the possibilities of the fun conversations I could have about my chin hair. I picked up my phone to find it was Jenna calling from her mystery number. I bet she asked to use some random person’s phone at their comedy club, High on Laughs. It was a tribute to Colorado’s new marijuana law and all the potheads who now called our state home.

“Okay, Jen. I forgive you.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” a gravelly masculine voice replied.

“Uh . . . Brad?” Please let it be Brad. He was good at imitating voices.

“It’s me, Sawyer. Mr. Ninety Touchdowns in a Season.”

No. No. No. I mean anyone could know that stat. Right?

“I’m sorry I’m not related to Cupid. No wings, and I haven’t worn diapers in years.”

I was losing feeling everywhere except in my brain, which remembered all the embarrassing things I just said, including plucking my chin hair.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Um . . . yes. Why are you calling me?”

“I promised your mom I would.”

Grr. Mom. “Whatever she bribed you with, I’m willing to pay double if you forget our little texting conversation and my number.”

He laughed the most fantastically beautiful laugh I’d ever had the pleasure of hearing. “Are you sure? The price was pretty steep.”

Oh my gosh, she had resorted to paying people? I had been joking, as in figurative speech. “How much?” I internally cringed.

“Cinnamon rolls every week for a year.”

“Oh.”

“I refused the offer,” he said hastily.

“I thought you said you were smart. My mom’s cinnamon rolls are to die for. So, why are you contacting me then?”

He thought for a second. “I wanted to see for myself if it was true.”

“What?”

“Well, your mom made it sound as if you could walk on water.”

Of course she did. “You know you can too?”

“What? How?”

“If I tell you, do you promise to never ever reveal our little discussion even under threat of torture?”

“What if someone is pulling out my fingernails?”

“They grow back.”

“You’re harsh.”

Extreme measures for extreme possible embarrassment. “Walking on water is pretty amazing knowledge.”

“True. But what if I don’t want to forget your number?”

Uh, why wouldn’t he? “You don’t even know me.”

“That’s why I’m calling.” He thought for a moment. “How about this, in exchange for learning how to walk on water, I will forget everything except your number and that you think I’m god-like. And perhaps I can negotiate how you came to that conclusion and how you know about my football record.”

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