Page 12 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
But no.
Nope.
I’m here for Birdie.
ME: Fuuuuuck babe. So hot. You’re killing me. But I really have to help my buddy with this thing. Rain check for tomorrow night?
ALANA: Sure.
ALANA: I need to get up early for work anyway.
ALANA: Kiki and Foo Foo can’t wait to meet you! xoxo
And then, she sends a photo of the two foster dogs who are sleeping on her bed. Which is cute. She fosters dogs. She’s a big animal rights activist. And I like that. But I’m here for Birdie.
And Imore thanlike everything about Birdie.
I think I’m confused.
And I don’t like being confused.
I need to pull it together because Birdie is my friend and Alana is my girlfriend. That’s how it is. I’m not some fifteen-year-old guy who has to jerk it to every girl he sees. I’m a man. A rational twenty-six-year-old man. Who is going to think about his friend’s tits the entire time he walks back up to his friend’s apartment and then never think about them again—until he gets home later.
I need to be the captain of this Friend Ship. That’s my goal. I need to steer us back in the right direction and all will be right in the world again. As Birdie has pointed out to me many times—I have Resting Flirt Face. So, I just need tonotflirt with my face. Or my abs. Or my butt.
I knock on her front door before using my spare key. That’s how close we are—we have spare keys to each other’s places. She waters my plants when I’m out of town and she felt weird about having my spare key if I didn’t have one of hers. That’s how much she trusts me. And how do I repay her? By obsessing about her delicate petal pink nipples.
I scan the living room and spot her in the kitchen.
Shit, she took her cardigan off.
Now she’s only wearing a strappy top thing.
Now there’s one less layer of clothing between me and her boobs.
She took it off because she wants me to make a move.
But she also took out her contacts and put her glasses on.
Mixed messages.
But also hot.
“Howyoudoin’?”
Shit. I Joey’d her. From twenty feet away. Knee-jerk reaction. I am definitely flirting with my face too.
She rolls her eyes at me, but she’s grinning. And blushing. And pouring herself another glass of wine.
Which is interesting.
“I am well. Thought I’d lost you. You want to help me finish off this wine? There’s only a little left in this bottle.”
“I really shouldn’t.” I lift my sweater up and pat my rock-hard belly. Which counts as ab-flirting. Shit. “Got a couple of shirtless scenes coming up. I shouldn’t have had the Guinness.”
“Awww, come on,” she chides, pouring out about two mouthfuls of red wine into a coffee mug. “Your abs called while you were out. They want a pizza. And wine.”
“Oh yeah?” I join her in the kitchen and pick up that mug. “Your brain called while I was out. It wants an orgasm. Or twenty.”
