Page 2 of Falling for the Quarterback
“I said, hopefully not literally.” He turns to me then, dimple pressed firmly into his face, eyes twinkling with humor, and a shocked laugh escapes me.
“Out of everything you could say to me, that’s what you come up with?”
His brows shoot up. “I take it you were looking for these, and I found them first.” He holds the package out tome.
With a resolute nod, I take the clear plastic container holding four overpriced hooks and offer him a small smile. My face is flaming, did I mention that? It’s just this filter on my mouth abruptly broke when I hit this stage in life, and half the time I think I’m being funny or super-duper-smart when in reality, I probably sound like a bitch.
I don’t want to be bitchy. Ever. “Oh, thanks.”
“For the record,” he pauses, turning to me fully. He crosses his arms over his wide chest, and it’s a glorious chest, before continuing. “I could come up with something better, but why fill you with added B.S. when I already got you to laugh a little?”
“Touche.” I raise the package, give it a little jiggle, and say, “Thanks again for this.” Then turn and walk away, headed for the plant section. Even if the last thing I should be doing is spending money on more plants, I’m not going to show up at the big orange store, and at leastnotlook at what they have to offer. God forbid they have a new kind of watermelon or corn seed I don’t already have, and I miss it. That would be tragic in a plant lover's mind.
I’m not actually a plant lover. I’m kind of adopted to it. I’ve had a black thumb my entire life until this last year, when I decided I’d do whatever I had to in order to keep those green babies alive. I won’t lie; some have died. But – a big BUT, some are still green and growing, and I’m learning more by the day. I’m a Virgo, so of course I had to go down the rabbit hole and basically become obsessed with learning whatever I possibly can to help my case. I’m determined to be a master gardener, eating from the earth by the time I’m considered an old lady. Some fuckers would already call me old, but you know what? I’m perfectly okay with that. My boobs are real and they’re phenomenal, so I have other attributes going for me than my increasing age.
I’m not old, by the way.
Those people have no idea what the hell they’re talking about. Forty-five isn’t old; I’m seasoned. A Goddamn warrior mom of newadults who has been through too much shit and come out the other side of it, smarter than ever before. I know exactly what I want, and what I’m willing to put up with. It’s not much, in case you’re wondering, on both aspects.
Exhaling a sigh, I pick my way through the seed packets, my mind flashing back to Mr. McDreamyPants back there in the nut aisle. The man was on another level. Well over six feet tall, with a wide chest and shoulders that seemed strong enough he could handle carrying sacks of flour around easily. That’s the baker in me talking. Am I actually a baker?
Also, no, but I dabble.
His arms were cut, the muscles firm and thick in a beautiful sort of way. Bet he lobs around tree trunks or something else like that guy who got famous on that one app for posting videos of him chopping wood. The guy didn’t even have to speak, just chop some wood, and boom! Instant internet sensation amongst the ladies.
On the downside, when I saw that gorgeous mug of his, dimples popping and all, he had a major hang-up. He was young. I’m so tired of young pups. I basically mothered my ex, and that shit was exhausting. Also, a huge turn off, I don’t want another child to raise, a youngin’ to train. I want a fucking partner who isn’t scared of shouldering half the load. No such luck, though, so when I saw that cutey was no doubt ten or fifteen years my junior, it was an instant bright red flag.
I’m not blind to the flags anymore. Got new glasses and everything, so trust me when I say that I’m never ignoring another red flag. Only green banners waving beautifully in the wind for this girl’s future. Fuck those fixer-uppers, I want a fully assembled model who has manners and a sense of the love languages. A grown ass man who isn’t scared to bust some suds when there’s a sink full of dishes, or cook dinner, simply because I don’t feel like it and it’s not my fucking job to doit.
That’s if I decide I want another man at all.
Who knows, at this stage in my life, thisriding-the-line-of-menopausehas me ready to blow some shit up, or at other times, think I’m dying. It all depends on the day. Am I superwoman, with great tits and a high IQ? Or am I a frumpy monster who’s drowning in emotions and sugar that day? I never know.
I hit the check-out line, tapping my Hey Dude clad foot against the concrete floor as I wait. They may not be considered ‘cool’ footwear, but mine have sparkles all over them, so I give zero fucks about anyone’s opinion on them. I think they’re pretty badass.
It’s finally my turn, so I swipe the package of hooks across the self-checkout glass, toss them in a bag, and tap to pay. It used to piss me off when the registers were closed, thinking everyone had gotten so goddamn lazy as to not work anymore, but now I’m grateful for the smaller number of people I have to speak to here.
I give the teeny-bopper with a shit-green dye job and too many piercings on one nostril a nod on my way out. Since she just watched me swipe and pay, not having to move a muscle in the process, she has no quarrels with me today, just offering me a nod in return.
“So, what are you hanging?”
I let out a screech of surprise that sounds like a half-way dead bird, rather than a mature, sophisticated DIY’er lady. I meet the playful gaze of hot pants and bring my hand to my chest. I breathe deeply, trying to find my Zen again and say, “Holy shit,Guy. You gotta’ warn somebody before just popping out of nowhere like that. How did you get over here so fast anyhow? Jesus.”
Rather than accept the scolding like a man my age would, by getting huffy and puffy and saying I’m bitchy, it makes him chuckle instead. A warm smile plays at his lips, and I decide right then men should not have mouths like his. Kissable, delicious-looking lips. I’d like to suck and smooch, and it’s a big ol’ hell-the-fuck-no.
I could be his mom.
Okay, obviously not. But I could definitely be his older sister or his mom’s younger, cooler friend. Either way, he’s being nice, and I need to get my head out of the gutter.
He shrugs, “I’m fast, what can I say?”
Hmm, red flag. Fast is not a flirty compliment like men so obviously think it is. I don’t care how charming and cute one is; I’ve had fast for too long, and I’m not looking for that anymore. If I ever deal with another man again, I wanttrueintimacy. Not that sex equals love type of bullshit most men spew, because we seasoned women know that’s a total load of shit, and real intimacy isn’t found between my thighs.
“Fast, but do you have a big dick? Because that’s really the only thing you have going for you if you think being fast is a bonus.” I comment honestly, tossing my bag in my car. His mouth drops open, cheeks pink, as he wears a stunned expression. At least it shut him up. “See ya,sport.” I offer a wink and slide into my driver’s side seat.
The typical old leather smell of my vehicle hits me and brings me a moment of comfort, even if it is hot as balls in this Texas heat. They should offer covered parking lots; it’d be the real upgrade to any of these stores around here. Heck, I’d pay six bucks for a gallon of milk and not bitch about it if it meant my car was shaded. Maybe I should write HEB.
I get myself situated, shift into reverse, and am about to lift my foot off the brake when the palm of a very large hand lands on my driver’s side window. I scream, again, jumping in my seat. I’m about to pull my coveted Smith and Wesson 380 out and teach this person some manners when I see Mr. McDreamyPants standing there like a big, goofy fuck boy. His large arm extended, palm firmly planted on the glass.
