Page 51 of Plays Well With Others

When I see Carter this evening, I won’t let on about last night. I’ll keep that little nugget to myself for a while longer. But maybe Icantake the temperature of the situation. Feel him out while hedging my bets.

Hmm.

If I wanted to plan anun-date for tonight with an easy escape hatch, what would I do? I stare at the ceiling for a minute, running through options. I’m not a dating expert, but I’ve taken an immersion class these last few days, digesting dating how-to article after dating how-to article. I’ve learned that a gal needs an eject button.

After last night, I need to have my parachute ready to pull.

That means no wine. No dark corners. No low-lit rooms.

I’ve got it, thanks to his last text.

A smile forms, and I feel pretty clever. I will see his brownie offer and raise it.

Rachel: Baking. Cookies. My place. Eight.

There is nothing sexy about milk and chocolate chip cookies. It’s the perfect smoke screen.

* * *

That evening, I tie on my pink apron with black cartoon mustaches on it, courtesy of Juliet. She has a cat named Mustache, who has a mustache.

Now, I will wield this mustache apron like the disguise it is.

In my kitchen, I prep all the cookie ingredients, measuring the flour, white sugar, brown sugar, and baking soda. I set the vanilla on the counter, then two eggs, butter, the mixer, and a bag of chocolate chips. I preheat the oven. I grab my lucky spatula from the utensil drawer and place it next to the mixer.

There.

I’m ready for whatever tonight brings—cookies or cock.

But when Carter arrives ten minutes late, I’m not thinking above-the-waist thoughts.

Because I’m looking at his warm brown eyes and the way they lock on my face. Then his mouth, curving in the slightest smile, like he’s happy to see me.

I’m not thinking about his dick, because all I can think about are his soft, lush lips.

And how desperately I want to kiss him.

18

A DICK REVIEW

Carter

Call me a detective.

Rachel seems off tonight, and I’m adding up the clues.

First, when I came over to plan our dates, she was like a jack-in-the-box.

She swung open the door, then she gave me a kiss on the cheek like she was a cheerleader, all boppy and oh-so-friendly.

Now, as she slides a tray of cookies into the oven then sets the timer, she asks, “Can I get you a drink?” But she sounds like she’s auditioning for the role ofbright and peppy serveron a new sitcom.

“Sure. I’m always up for a beer or a bubbly water.”

She tilts her head. “Or milk? Milk goes well with cookies?”

Not sure I want to down a glass of milk.For fun. “A LaCroix would be great,” I say.

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