I still can’t believe that was the line that had me pulling him into the kitchen and hiding in the walk-in refrigerator before the chef spotted us the night Maren took me to the secret club.
Or that a guy with an actual six-pack took his shirt off for me, showing off his tattoos for me, hoisted me up against a shelf full of boxes of tomatoes, and then popped an actual boner that size for me.
Not that it got better after that—it didn’t, really, and I don’t know why I thought it would—but still.
It was probably my fault it wasn’t great. I didn’t exactly tell him what I liked or didn’t like, or why I didn’t know what I liked or didn’t like, or maybe I couldn’t get out of my own head, or maybe, I don’t know, most guys are overrated?
That’s what they say, right? That women fake it all the time?
It’s not like I’ve never had an orgasm. I do masturbate.
And yes, my mother’s caught me at it before, and no, I don’t want to talk about that.
“Would it turn a guy off if I licked something like this in front of him?” Brianna asks.
She’s still sniffing the fish like it’ll get better with age, or maybe like she needs a private minute with it.
As much as I love fried fish too, I’m honestly a little uncomfortable. And not because I was visiting that memory where Tyler Jaeger was into me while I’m supposed to be concentrating on a client. “If a guy walks away because he can’t handle you enjoying your food, then you deserve better than him.”
She frowns. Her pale skin is dusted with a thick layer of freckles, and her glasses are smudged like she’s gotten up close and personal with the fried batter already. Her hair’s still cut short, and like me, she’s not exactly a waif.
Pretty far from it, actually. She fought to be allowed to wrestle in high school, and she kicked ass.
“I’m not what most guys are into.” Her shoulders are drooping, and I want to hug her.
“Who wants most guys? That’s why you’re here. To find something better than most guys.”
“But can you really do that? How do you find the guys who are better than most other guys?”
With a lot more work than I wish it took.
People like Brianna deserve love as much as people who look like they have it all together, and believe me, I know plenty of people who look like they have it all together, but underneath it all, they’re a mess.
Or they have been.
Even Kami was a disaster for a bit last year, and she’s one of the kindest, smartest, prettiest, most-together people I know.
Also?
She doesn’t think she’s all that pretty or smart. She does know she’s kind though. I love that she owns it.
“Are you willing to give a few guys a chance?” I ask Brianna.
She frowns again, picks up her fish, bites into it, and moans.
And moans.
And moans.
I squirm, because this is starting to feel like being on a porn set, and not gonna lie, I’m getting a little warm in some spots. One of the day shift people drops a bucket or something that clatters loudly, and a customer walking to the counter turns to stare at us, trips, and falls onto another customer at a different table.
It’s When Harry Met Sally, fried fish edition.
Mental note: add she’s a moaner to Brianna’s file.
Other mental note: do real people actually moan like that during sex? Is it ever actually good, or is it a myth that women tell men because a large portion of the female population has a biological need for babies and so they pretend it’s good so that everyone gets what they want? Have we been so trained to coddle men’s egos for so long that no one actually knows if there’s legitimately good sex out there?
Brianna slumps back in her seat with a blissful smile on her face, her shoulders relaxed, one leg cocked out funny from beneath the table. “You’re single too, aren’t you?”
I clear my throat and stifle the urge to wipe my forehead with a napkin.
That question is the worst.
How do you know how to set me up with someone when you can’t even set yourself up?
It’s not what she asked, except it’s usually what people mean.
Time for my standard answer. “You know how you sometimes have that friend who’ll be like, does this rash look weird, and you tell her to go to the doctor, but if you have a rash on your own skin that looks weird, you write it off, because of course it’s fine and it’ll go away on its own in a few days?”
“Fuck, yeah. Actually, I’ve got this skin tag on my toe, and I think it’s growing. Do you think I should see a doctor?”
“Can’t hurt, right?”
She nods and eyes her fish again, and once again, I’m back in that fridge with Tyler squeezing my ass while we played tonsil hockey and yanked off all of our clothes.
He moaned sort of like Brianna when he came too, now that I think about it.
And now I need a shower before my shift, which sucks, because the sex wasn’t all that great, but here I am, getting hot and bothered at the memory.
Maybe if we hadn’t been in a thirty-five-degree fridge?
No, it’s probably more that Tyler’s ego is bigger than his skill. I know that’s a thing.
Brianna points at me with her half-eaten fish stick. “Wait. We were talking about you being single.”
“Right. I’m that friend who’ll tell you to go to the doctor but refuse to do it for myself. It’s easier to have clarity for other people, and I like making other people happy, so I’m okay with being single, and it doesn’t interfere with my ability to help you. If anything, it makes me more objective about the men I screen for you since I have no interest in them myself.”
Which is good, especially considering how I’m meeting men to screen these days.
She’s still frowning while she takes another bite of fish. “Oh my god, this is so good. I would date this fish. I would take this fish to bed. Have you tried this? Here. Have a—no, you know what? I’ll give you ten bucks to get your own.”
“That’s okay.” I wave her off as she reaches for the wallet in her back pocket. “I can afford my own fish, I promise. And I’m going to find you a man who makes you moan as much as that fried cod does.”
Her eyes go round. “Oh, shit. We’re in public, aren’t we?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse here.”
“Muffy! Dude! You’re here early too.” D’Angelo swings through the door and stops at our table, holds out a fist, and we do our usual bump-slap-shake routine, which we both miss at least one step of, and we end up staring at each other for a split second before cracking up.
We are such dorks.
I hope that doesn’t turn Brianna off.
Probably not, considering she’s looking at him like she was looking at her fish a minute ago. A piece of cod dribbles out from between her lips. I make a quick wipe your mouth gesture, and she jerks to grab her napkin, bumps the table wrong, and spills her Coke all over both of us. “Oh, shit.”
“I gotcha.” D’Angelo leaps into action, grabbing a leftover stack of napkins on the next table and helping me attack the mess with the fervor of a guy who doesn’t want to mop the floor twice in one night.
“Sorry,” Brianna stutters. “Sorry. I—you’re gorgeous.”