Page 219 of Forbidden Billionaires: Vol. 9
"Ow." She snatched it from me. "If you're not going to cook, do you want to go out for dinner? Drinks are on me."
This sounds like margarita night all over again."No, I'll cook." I got up and tried to hide my wince. The spray that the lifeguard had used on my legs had initially helped. But it had quickly worn off.
"What took you so long at the beach today?" Kristen asked. "Usually you're back at 5:05. And by usually, I mean always."
I opened up the fridge. "Nothing."
She laughed. "You're lying."
"I'm not lying."
“You are. But it’s okay. A few drinks in and I’ll get the truth out of you. I made a pitcher of sangria!”
There was no way I was drinking with her tonight. Confessing that I was attracted to the lifeguard in the first place was bad enough. A confession about being turned on just from the lifeguard’s touch was too much information. I barely knew Kristen, even if she was my bestie.
I ignored the pitcher of sangria and pulled out some broccoli, garlic, eggs, and cheddar cheese. “How does a quiche sound?”
“Not as good as tacos.”
"You know, you could always feed yourself."
She stuck out her bottom lip. "But the food you make is always so amazing.”
“Quiche it is then. Trust me, you’ll like it. The secret ingredient to a great quiche is red pepper flakes. It’s got that kick that you like.”
“Mmm. Okay, I trust you, Chef Mila.”
I laughed and started chopping the broccoli.
Less than an hour later, we were sitting on the couch, balancing plates precariously on our laps.
“What do you want to watch?” Kristen asked as she channel surfed.
Honestly, I didn’t want to watch anything. I liked enjoying my food after I cooked it. But if we had a show on, Kristen was less likely to badger me about my lifeguard. “Want to watch the next season of Project Runway?”
“Yaasss!” She blew me a kiss, Tim Gunn style, and pulled it up on Hulu in two seconds flat. She had definitely already queued it up and was just waiting for my okay.
I smiled and took a bite of my masterpiece. We had been making our way through all the old seasons of Project Runway since we moved in together. We’d both never seen the show before and now we were totally hooked. Especially on Swatch. A Swatch sighting when the contestants were shopping for fabric was a jump-up-and-down moment. And I didn’t even like dogs. If I ever lost my mind and decided to get a pet, it would probably be a Swatch dog. But clearly it wasn’t meant to be, because I didn’t even know what type of dog he was.
I shifted on the couch to get more comfortable and grimaced. Geez, who knew jellyfish bites stung so freaking much? It felt like I was doing an unconventional materials challenge on the show and got burned by a hot glue gun.
Kristen turned the volume down. “Okay…seriously, spill it. Clearly you got rammed and for some reason have decided not to tell me and I’m hurt.” She put her hands over her heart to show her pain, almost dropping her quiche on the floor in the process.
“Rammed?” I was trying my best to focus on the show instead of her sad face.
“You know.” She made a rude gesture of putting her index finger through an “O” shape she’d made with her other hand. “Boned. Laid. Stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. Hanky panky. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”
I laughed. “Gross, stop it.” I slapped both her hands.
“Tell me.”
“I promise I didn’t get stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey.”
“So no anal…”
“That’s not what getting stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey means.”
“Of course it is. Because you ram the stuffing up the turkey’s ass for all that extra flavor.”
