Chapter 8 Accidentally Hot
Accidentally Hot
Bridget holds up a green top with so many strings, I’m convinced it’s a ball of yarn.
“No way.” I shake my head. “I’ve seen pasties that offer more coverage. I may as well just flash him. Or carry a sign. Hi. Please Notice Me.”
Bridget exhales and tosses it to the floor of my closet, where I sit in a pile of flashy fabrics. “You’re trying to look hot, Ruby, and that shirt is hot.”
“I’m trying to look accidentally hot,” I remind her. “There’s a difference.”
Considering Penn’s preference for “nothing serious,” how little time he has for anything but work, and the many movies in which a kiss is all it takes to spark a little magic, I’m shifting the goalpost from love to lust. Kissing Penn was never going to mean anything to me, obviously, but maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything to him, either.
Maybe he can be the “other half” of a totally casual, unserious kiss. First base only. The stuff MASH games are made of.
Problem is, I have zero experience in casual. Or unserious. So I’ve recruited Bridget’s help, because if my mission is to somehow seduce Penn, then I have my work cut out for me. Yesterday, when I had him pinned to the rink’s floor, he couldn’t roll away fast enough.
Bridget points to the paper calendar tacked to the wall of my closet. “According to your little detective board, there’s no time for ‘accidental’ hotness.”
She’s got a point. Today is Wednesday, my fourth day in MASHland.
I spent all day yesterday analyzing the rink’s finances and vendor contracts, looking into possible renegotiation opportunities.
And while I’m confident I can get the business into a better position, there’s no instant fix.
So, if a quick kiss might be enough to get me back to reality, I’m willing to put more of my eggs into that terrifying basket.
“You’re right,” I say. “There’s no time for ‘accidental.’ But there must be a middle ground between sweatpants and is this a corset, technically?”
“You and your middle grounds,” Bridget mutters, shoving velvet hangers along the rack. “What’s Penn’s type, do you think?”
Unclear. In reality, he’s dated everything from a buttoned-up professor to a nightclub promoter who may as well have been nocturnal. His exes must have something in common, though, so I decide to ask the expert. Ryan.
How would you describe Penn’s type?
Since when are you a matchmaker?
I met someone who might be into him.
And you didn’t tell her to run away?
Please just answer the question.
Easygoing? Fun?
Perfect. I’m 0 for 2.
You know Penn. He just likes to be liked.
Make that 0 for 3.
I read Ryan’s texts aloud, and Bridget says I’ll need to work strategically. That I can’t take the subtle route. “If you want Penn to see you differently, you need to act differently. Add some physicality to the way you two already talk to each other, and it’s flirting.”
I choke. “Excuse me?”
Penn and I cannot possibly be one step away from flirting.
Then again, Bridget knows better. Here, we’re both single and actively mingling, but in reality, she’s the only one who’s been on the apps, or agreed to blind dates with friends of friends. Meanwhile, I’ve never really dated. I’ve never even purposely tried to flirt.
Is that really what Penn and I have been doing?
“Trust me,” Bridget says. “Flirting is just teasing with eye contact.”
I picture his familiar gaze—what’s felt like an anchor back to reality—and gulp.
Bridget tugs the neck of her rose-colored sweater to reveal a little collarbone, then gives me The Eye over her shoulder. “See? It’s not necessarily how you look. It’s how you look at him. How you convey what you’re thinking.”
“What if I’m thinking: Get me the hell out of here?”
“Anger is passion. Close enough.”
“He won’t buy it,” I warn her. “We’re going from zero to sixty. From ‘I can’t stand you, but fine, you can live with me’ to ‘Oh, hey, let’s make out, shall we?’ ”
“Well, you’re no stranger to going from zero to sixty around here.”
I feign offense. “Are you slut-shaming MASH Me?”
Bridget laughs. “No, I’m calling her bold. She goes after what she wants. Aren’t you ever assertive in that other universe of yours?”
She says it with a wry grin, and I wonder whether any part of Bridget buys my world-hopping story. She’s game, like she always is, but she must secretly believe I’ve lost it.
“I’m only assertive when I know I’ll succeed,” I say. “When I’ve laid the foundation.”
“Technically, haven’t you and Penn been laying a foundation for, like, three decades?” I give her a look, so she clarifies, “Not a great foundation. But it exists.”
“Sure. Balancing on rotten beams. Made of sand.” I poke the air. “One little touch, and poof, there it goes.” I’m kidding, but my stomach churns, because that’s how it’s felt.
Poof. There went my life.
Never has so much hinged on choosing the right tank top.
“Now you’re getting it,” Bridget cheers. “One little touch. That’s all you’ve got to do.” Something lavender dangles from her outstretched hand. “Because let’s be real: One touch can change everything.”
—
A zip of adrenaline shivers up my spine when I hear the front door open at seven o’clock.
Penn said he’d be home around dinnertime, so I’ve been sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his Instagram account, for more than an hour.
Deep-diving into the comments and clicking on every profile. For context.
Which is why, when he arrives, there’s zero ease-in before I blurt it out: “Movie night?”
Penn stops a few feet away, craning his neck around. “Where are you?”
He can’t see me from where I’ve sunk into the denim couch, so I peek over the sofa’s tall back. My voice is a high-pitched squeak. “Hi!”
Penn’s wearing his gray Curly’s T-shirt and jeans, and he must’ve just pulled off a hat, his wavy hair sticking out like bedhead. His brow furrows. “Um. Hi?”
Bridget and I rehearsed what should happen next. The Move.
My outfit was chosen with peak Move compatibility in mind: dark purple leggings, a lavender tank top with a strategically tight fit, and a matching sweatshirt that dips past my shoulder. It shows off my tan and “extra neck,” which Bridget insists is the winning ticket.
As practiced, I drag the neckline sideways, just like she showed me.
With one shoulder properly bared, I glance slightly back and up at Penn, keeping my chin dipped.
“You want to be looking at him through your lashes,” Bridget said, which is easier said than done.
“And lower your voice,” she instructed. “Get husky with it.”
But it’s hard to do it all at once, like rubbing your stomach and patting your head. So, I re-dip my chin. Lower, then lower still. Finally, channeling my best strep-throat vocalization, I offer up the suggestive invitation. “Do you…want to watch a movie with me?”
Penn doesn’t move. Or speak. It’s as if I’ve pressed pause.
This, according to Bridget, was the goal: to surprise Penn. Shift the air between us. Overwhelm him with my sudden allure. Men need only one clear signal, she said, and then you’re off to the races.
“Do you…need a cough drop?” Penn asks.
Okay. Not quite racing. More of a hobbling jog.
I assure Penn that I’m fine, but my voice cracks, still half-stuck in the lower register. “I just need some water,” I explain, tapping my throat. “How about I get us drinks and make some popcorn, and then we can pick a movie?”
“I have to shower,” Penn says flatly.
I should be happy it’s not a no, but his lukewarm reaction leaves me jittery. It’s one thing to plan a seduction—another to go through with it.
“Great!” I smile, my cheeks oddly stiff. Do smiles always feel like this?
“Great,” Penn echoes, eyeing me curiously. “But I’ll handle the popcorn. You’d use the microwave bags, and I won’t allow that. I’ll make the good stuff on the stove.”
I will myself not to roll my eyes or remind Penn that the fire extinguisher hangs in the hall closet. He did manage to cook a full dinner without injury, so maybe people really can change over time. Or through time, or whatever.
I stretch my mouth impossibly wider. “Perfect.”
There’s a hint of a smile on Penn’s lips, like he can see the restraint necessary for me to speak so earnestly. He points a thumb toward the basement and says, “Alright. I’ll, uh, meet you downstairs, then.”
“It’s a date!”
His tongue darts to the edge of his mouth, the ghost of a grin still on his face as he nods back at me. “It’s a date.”
—
Wine might be overkill. Beer might be underkill. Spirits are far too aggressive.
While Penn’s busy making snobby popcorn, I hunch in front of the small basement fridge, debating drink options. Overwhelmed, I choose one of everything.
As with the rest of the mansion, the basement is only partially renovated. The back storage room has been transformed into an amateur Laser Tag arena with strategically placed boxes and dividers, and the main space is a movie theater with two sofas arranged stadium-style.
The room is dark, lit only by string lights bordering the ceiling. Romance is built right into the space, reminding me why people like to Netflix and chill. It’s perfect: casual, but intimate. Talking optional, but not required.
This should be a cinch. A shoo-in.
Or, if I’m lucky, a shoo right out of this universe and back into mine.
I arrange some candy and the many beverages on a table along the wall, then sit in the center of the back sofa. Although I’ve never been one to engage in visualization exercises, this feels like the right time to attempt manifestation.
Closing my eyes, I picture it: Penn wanting me.
Right away, my brain jumps to the heat between us when I fell on top of him at the rink, his gaze locked on mine.
I imagine Penn’s hands cradling my face, like he did that first morning after I woke up.
I think about my fingers twisted in his hair, tugging him closer, but as his face inches toward mine, I snap my eyes open.
It’s just a kiss, I remind myself. A simple, calculated, means-nothing, magically transportive kiss.