Page 14 of Plays Well With Others

I speak into the phone again, asking where the nearest men’s shop is when my attention snags on a thrift store at the end of the block. Daisy’s Duds. “Oh, I know that place. There’s another one in Haight-Ashbury. My yoga teacher Katie went to it one night and told us about it. They have a lot of costumes but clothes too.”

“We’re going to be late though,” he says, chagrined. “I’m late for too many things in life.”

I smile sympathetically. “You’ve got that under control, though, with all your alarms. You were bang on time yesterday at my house, after all.”

See? I can make light of the boob flashing. We have so returned to the normal zone, no problem.

His brown eyes darken, then he jerks his gaze away from me for a second. “True. I was.”

“And besides, this tardiness is on me. Okay?”

After a beat, he acquiesces. “Let’s do it,” he says.

“Yay!” I text my sister that I’m running a few minutes late, then we fly inside the shop teeming on one side with sequined dresses and feather boas alongside cop, doctor, and fireman uniforms. The other side of the shop is stuffed with everyday clothes, including rack after rack of short-sleeve button-down shirts. “Look! It’s like the holy grail of thrifting. Utility worker shirts,” I say, grabbing his arm and tugging him to the X marks the spot, where most of the shirts were clearly donated from men who work in blue-collar jobs—their names are sewn into patches on chest pockets.

Carter gawks at the selection of shirts. “I don’t know how to choose between Jim the Plumber and Chet the Electrician.”

From the counter, a voice calls out: “Let me know if I can help you, darlings. I’m Angel.”

I turn to a muscular man with stunning emerald eyeshadow and a fabulous feather boa. “I’m good for now,” I chirp as I flick through the racks quickly, hunting for just the right shirt. “The Texaco one is cute, but it’s a medium, so that won’t fit.”

“How do you know what size I wear?” Carter asks.

I toss him awhat do you take meforlook. “You play football for a living. You’re a brick wall. You’re not just a large. You’re an extra large,” I say, quickly surveying the strapping guy in front of me. “How tall are you? Are you six-six?”

“Only where it counts,” he says with a wink.

And I’m a little flustered. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

Of course he is, you dingus. He’s a man.

Show me a man who doesn’t crow about the size of his dong and I’ll show you a leprechaun.

I snap my gaze back to the racks, hunting feverishly for an extra-large dick—I mean, an extra-large shirt.

I need a shirt. That is all.

Ah! Bingo. I spot a gray auto-repair shop shirt with a patch that readsMagnus. “Well, Mister Six Six, this one seems perfect for you,” I say, then thrust it at him.

“I’m actually six three,” he says, lifting his hand to the top of his head to indicate his real height, then he peers at the name on the shirt. “The name does fit.”

Does Carter moonlight as a dildo model?

Stop, you dirty perv.

“It’s only a large though,” I say, trying to stick to the task at hand. Sizes of shirts, not rods. I call out to Angel, “Any chance Magnus left a shirt in a large and an extra large?”

He chuckles, a big, booming, baritone laugh. “Magnus is one of a kind, but I might have something else for you. Be right back, darlings.”

“Try this on anyway,” I say to Carter, staying in full bossy shopping mode. “Let’s hope it fits like an extra large.”

Carter smirks at me, then takes his time before he says, “That’s what she said.”

Am I sweating now? I hope not. Boob sweat is not a good look in a body-con dress. “Go, go, go,” I say, searching for a dressing room. Shoving him into one and out of sight might similarly hide his naughty comments from my suddenly filthy mind.

I spot a booth a few feet away and push him toward it. “Try it on now.”

Carter ducks in and starts unbuttoning his blue shirt. I know this because…that curtain barely covers the stall. It may be the smallest curtain ever. It doesn’t hide anything.

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