Page 22 of Two Sticky Nuts

Carter looks hotter than ever—fit to perfection, still very tan, and sparkling vivid-blue eyes. He’s wearing faded jeans, a white shirt unbuttoned past his collarbone, and brown leather flip-flops. Not sure why I’m only noticing now, but his toes are immaculately groomed.He’s had a man-pedi. Perfectly clipped toenails shined to perfection. No unsightly cuticles. No visibly rough skin. He could be a toe model.

Shit. Maybe that’s his other-other side show. Mr. Sticky Toes.I try not to react to my thoughts. I’m here to keep an open mind.

“Wow. What is all this?” I point to his tower of belongings.

“I thought I told you I’m just passing through. Next stop: the Philippines for more location scouting.”

“Um, no. I don’t think you did.”

He suddenly grabs me and pulls me in close, staring deeply into my eyes.

I freeze, captivated by the sensation of my body pressed to his. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

“What I should’ve done in Jamaica.” He lowers his head, pressing his lips to mine.

My stomach flutters, and my body feels tight all of a sudden. As in, I’m not sure I’m enjoying this. I feel like everyone is watching.

Intimacy should be intimate.And this isn’t at all the romantic first kiss I imagined.Fewer car fumes would be great.

Carter pulls away and winks, as if to say,You’re welcome.

“Errr…wow. That was nice?” I don’t know what else to say. I promised to give him a chance and let him push my boundaries, but that’s easier said than done. It’s taken my entire life to become the person I am.

The traffic cop standing on the sidewalk blows her whistle and waves for us to get our butts in gear. The traffic is insane right now.

“We should get your stuff in the car,” I say.

We load up most of Carter’s belongings into the trunk. The rest goes in the backseat. We get in the car, and I nudge my way into the logjam. I’m nervous but don’t want to show it, so I go for casual convo.

“So! Where’re you coming from?” I ask.

“Puerto Rico. The weather wasbeauuutiful.Blue skies. Turquoise waters. Endless sunshine.”

“Sounds incredible. Any new news about financing for your film?”

He shrugs. “I’ll find out after my meeting here in Dallas.”

I give it some thought. Why’s he heading off to the Philippines if he’s not even sure he can secure the funds to complete the film?

I stop myself from asking. It’s not my business. Also, my goal is to get to know him, not to scrutinize his business plans.

“So where do you want to go for drinks?” I ask.

“Oh, uh, I’m really beat. Complete jet lag. Let’s go back to your place. You can show me the competition.”

“Competition?” I ask.

“Your new house with the white picket fence. But don’t worry, I get it. Some women have the domestic calling. Others are all about the adventure. I try not to judge,” he says, like he’s doing exactly that. Judging the hell out of me.

“How’d you know it has a white fence?” I ask.

“Women are people, and people follow predictable patterns.”

Women are people? No shit, guy.As for predictable, I suppose stereotypes exist for a reason. I mean, how else can scientists study an entire group of humans from one generation to the next or one culture versus another? Still, I hate the fact he’s throwing me in the pot with just “women.” It’s a pretty broad category.

“I like to think I’m more than just my gender,” I say, even if I fully embrace womanhood and what ties me to my sisters all around the world.

“But you just admitted that your house has a white fence. See. Patterns.”

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