Page 50 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“You know—the one where your soul floats six inches above your body and starts monologuing about emotional intimacy and why hot, emotionally repressed guys feel like home.”

My brows go up. “Is that what I look like?”

“Worse.”

I huff out a laugh, fiddling with the corner of my paper napkin.

“Maybe I date these guys because it’s what I’m comfortable with. I know when they need space, when they’re upset, when they’re using sarcasm to hide the fact they’re butt hurt.”

“Mm,” Poppy hums. “Sounds like someone I know who happens to share your DNA.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. My brother. I’m familiar with the theory.”

Poppy leans forward again, expression wise beyond her years. “And now you’re finally tired of playing games.”

I don’t say anything.

She grins suddenly, like she can’t help herself. “Which brings us to the most suspicious non-date date of all time. Grocery store boy.”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”

Poppy lights up. “Oh, we areabsolutelydoing this. Nova, you’re going on a date at agrocerystore. This is not normal.”

“Says who?” I think it makes perfect sense. “We’re going to have fun and fly under the radar.”

Poppy rolls her eyes. “Because sneaking around the produce aisle is so much fun.” She snaps her fingers. “Maybe you should bring a recipe, shop the ingredients together, then invite him to your place to cook it.”

Uh, no.

That will not be happening. “I’m still feeling him out, okay?”

Poppy gasps as if I’ve personally insulted her. “You’re not even gonna let him see your kitchen? And by kitchen I mean—vagina.”

I choke on my latte.

“Poppy!”

She grins, completely unapologetic, stirring her drink like she didn’t just casually weaponize my sex life. “What? I’m just saying. Let him see where you keep your spices.”

I glare at her. “That is not a metaphor I’m unpacking before noon.”

“Stop being a prude.”

“Can’t help it.” I sigh. “I am one.”

My best friend studies me. “Remind me again when the last time you got laid was?”

I level her with a stare. Of course she would bring this up.

“Honestly, my vag has cobwebs.” I take a casual sip of my drink, unbothered. “Like, full on haunted house situation. I think there’s a ghost down there, probably named Mavis.”

Poppy loses it.

She laughs so hard she snorts, which only makes us both laugh harder.

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “You need an exorcism. An out of body experience, preferably with a man who’s good with his hands.”

“And mouth.” Another sigh.

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