Chapter 3 #5
I toed off my own shoes and purposely kicked them into a haphazard pile next to his.
“Okay, same. But I’m talking about hooking up.
Having bizarrely high standards when you’re hooking up is like asking the guy at the McDonald’s drive-thru to see their wine list. You’re going for french fries, not French cuisine.
You feel me? Both are tasty as fuck, but only one can be served up piping hot and sliding down your throat in ten minutes or less.
” I opened my Grindr app and shook my phone at him in demonstration.
Knox shuddered at the visual. “Thank you, Professor Horndog. I have so much to learn from you about how to have casual sex.” He rolled his eyes and flopped onto one end of the little red sofa in the center of the living area.
He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt before he began rolling up the cuffs to expose his forearms.
Merciful fuck. I blinked, then blinked again, imagining those hands on me and those arms wrapped around my…
“Actually… Actually, maybe I could teach you a thing or two,” I offered.
He snorted… and then he sobered instantly and shot me a panicked look. “Oh, wait. Goodman… no. I mean, you’re good-looking and all, but—”
Ouch. I’d thought I’d reconciled myself to it, but that little comment reached out and pinched my heart.
“But I’m not your French cuisine? Good thing I wasn’t offering, dumbass,” I scoffed like I wouldn’t have climbed on top of him right that minute and damned the consequences.
“I was offering to help you overcome your debilitating insistence on only fucking guys who pass your twenty-point compatibility assessment. I could tutor you in…” I paused dramatically.
“The Art of the Modern Hookup.” I slid onto the arm of the sofa facing him and pulled my feet up onto the cushion. “What do you say?”
“I say fuck off because I’ve been hooking up since before you were toilet trained. Literally.”
“Yes, but humans have evolved in the current millennia,” I told him pityingly. “How many hookups have you had in the last year?”
He hesitated. “I’ve had some health issues—”
“Okay, then, the last three years. How many partners?”
“I don’t know. Three?”
“Oh, dear God.” I ran a hand over my face. “This is more serious than I thought.”
A pillow whacked me on the forehead. “Shut up. I told you I prefer—”
“Guys who know the score, yeah. But you lived in Boston, man,” I wailed. “There have to be a bajillion delectable gay men there who legit don’t even wanna know your name ’cause they’ll be calling you Daddy when you make them come, and you were all, ‘But mah high standards!’”
Knox buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook with laughter.
“I’m serious! This is a tragedy. It’s like you were living dead center of an all-you-can-eat buffet and spent three years saying, ‘No, I’m perfectly fine with this small fruit cup and this sprig of parsley.
’ Nobody is handing out bonus points for how little enjoyment you derive from life, Knox.
You do know that, right? But fine. Fine!
We begin from where we are.” I waved a hand like I could magic away his short-sightedness and moved on with what I felt was considerable maturity.
“Now, get out your phone, and let’s do this thing. Time for lesson one.”
He shook his head. “Not only no, but hell no. I’m not interested. Besides, why in the world would you want to help me with this? Forgive me if I don’t trust your sudden generosity.”
“For the good of humanity? Because I’m just that kind?
No?” I sighed. “Okay, fine, it’s because I’ve been lazy about seeing what the dating scene around here is like, myself, and I’m going to regret it nearly as much as you will,” I told him honestly.
“I deserve to have fun while I’m here. Also?
Not to dredge up our painful history since you apologized so nicely and all, but you’ve been a bear to deal with the last two weeks, and frankly, things are only gonna get worse now that Stella got stompy and Sunday Orchard has to adjust their OSHA sign for ‘days since your last incidence of cow-related violence in the workplace’ back down to zero.
Think of my helping you get a stress-relieving fuck as a form of self-preservation. ”
More laughter—that easygoing, happy laughter—bubbled out of him, seeming to startle him as much as it did me. “Goodman, you are…” He broke off and shook his head.
“A fool?” I said darkly. “Yes, so you keep saying.”
And he wasn’t wrong.
I had it bad for this man, I could admit that to myself, and that was beyond foolish because Knox was the literal definition of Never Gonna Happen.
But at least now I knew there was no point in walking around the barn-apartment wearing my fuck-me jeans, which, in retrospect, were not very comfortable. And I definitely didn’t need to stop annoying him constantly, which was handy since I’d kinda gotten into it.
I just needed to approach this ceasefire with Knox the same way I’d gone into Game of Thrones when I’d started watching it last year, approximately a billion years after the rest of the world had seen it and spoiled it all over the internet.
When you knew there wouldn’t be a happily ever after, you knew not to let yourself get too invested.
“I swear to God, I’m gonna make sure you get laid one of these days. And when you’re stress-free and smiley, I’m going to be smug as fuck.” I threatened Knox sunnily. “Watch. It. Happen.”