I match his wide smile. “It certainly looks like it.” My heart leaps. I’m the reason Cody found his dream career?
Cody refocuses on Mel. “You said you’re looking for a property to flip? You’re in the right place. This property is really special. So much history. The original owner was actually the granddaughter of one of the first Puritans who founded the city.”
Mel pretends to rub her chin pensively, studying the ornate wrought iron light fixture hanging over the stairs. “I’m not sure this is the right one. I don’t love history, and it’s a little grand for what I need. I think my pet gerbils would get lost.” She has taken this role-playing a little too seriously.
Cody isn’t sure what to say to that. But lucky for him, an elderly gentleman and a woman who looks to be in her thirties in head-to-toe Chanel enter the foyer below. They’re already examining the original crown molding, and they haven’t even removed their shoes. I assume they’re father and daughter, until the man gives her a playful smack on the ass. Cody glances down at them briefly with knowing recognition. “Oh, those are agency clients. I’m scheduled to give them a tour right now, but let’s catch up, Tara,” he suggests.
“I’d love that. Are you free this week?” I blurt, unable to keep my cool.
He tilts his head hesitantly. “It’s a busy week for me, but give me your number and we can figure out a time to grab a drink.”
“Great,” I chirp, barely able to stop myself from jumping up and down like a fool. My insides explode with multicolor confetti.
He hands me his phone and flashes a charming smile at Mel. “If you change your mind about the house, give me a call.” He smoothly slips her his card in between two extended fingers.
I’m still holding Cody’s phone, blanking on my own number. When he anxiously peeks downstairs, I panic, typing it at warp speed, adding a little pink heart next to my name. The moment I type the heart, I regret it and go to delete it. But before I can, Cody snaps his phone back and shoves it into the depths of his pocket, clearly itching to get to his clients. “Looking forward to catching up, Tara.”
? chapter seventeen
THE THING ABOUT being an avid romance reader is everyone assumes you’re either a recluse with eleven cats, trying to escape your lonely, pathetic life, or a sex-crazed fiend. No in between.
After four days of texting back and forth with Cody Venner, he’s assumed I’m the latter. Case in point:
CODY: What are you wearing right now?
TARA: My hospital scrubs! Just got off work.
CODY: I can work with that. Easy to take off.
CODY: I’m just about to hop in the shower. Wish you were here.
I’m not entirely sure how we segued from a G-rated conversation about our old teachers to NSFW sexting. This is uncharted territory. Sweet teenage Cody certainly never sent texts of this nature in high school. This is the guy who timidly apologized over and over like a broken record during our first time. As a self-declared born-again virgin, I can say that sexting with Cody (however horribly) is the most action I’ve had in over a year.
Without notice, Trevor appears over my shoulder.
I gasp, red-faced, fumbling to lock my phone screen.
“You all right?” Trevor eyes me cautiously, peeking into my basket. He’s joined me for a thrift shop visit to search for a rainbow leopard-print unitard I spotted here the other day. Its tackiness had made such an impact on me, I’d described it to Trevor in great detail and he concluded it was perfect for Scott’s bachelor party in two weekends.
While Crystal has a tranquil spa day, Trevor and a few buddies plan to sneak into their apartment at the ass crack of dawn to pretend-kidnap Scott (with blindfold and rope). They’re going to toss him in the trunk of Trevor’s car and treat him to an artery-clogging breakfast, followed by an afternoon at the Ninja Warrior gym. I have no idea where the unitard fits into the equation, and it doesn’t matter, because an employee sadly informed us that someone had the gumption to purchase it.
In order to shake off his disappointment, I challenged him to a friendly competition of Find the weirdest shit and he’s accepted the task. So far, I’ve collected a hand-painted bust of E.T. (yes, the alien from the film), as well as a mint-condition ceramic piggy bank of two rabbits going at it with all they’ve got (because it reminds me of Trevor).
When I spin around, he turns away, shielding the discolored, half-disintegrated box under his arm.
“Show me,” I say, popping onto my tiptoes.
“Your items aren’t even close to beating this find,” he goads, lowering the box. It looks like a box of Christmas ornaments, only instead of beautiful glass bulbs, petrifying decapitated doll heads sit snug in the holes. I envision them side by side, arranged in various straight lines, forming a pentagram as part of an elaborate satanic ritual.
I yelp and look away. “Those demented little faces are gonna haunt my dreams tonight.”
He dangles a particularly distressed head by its patchy troll hair. “This one bears a striking resemblance to you, don’t you think? Maybe I can haggle a good deal for you.”
I whack him in the chest. “You are so mean to me. When I die, you’ll regret it.”
He shoves the box of doll heads onto a sparse shelf next to the nonfiction books. “Why? Will you come back and haunt me?”
“Yup. My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend face will be the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning.” I bless him with a short-lived preview of my wide-eyed Joker smile.
The light from the window casts an orange glow off his amused face. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”
It wouldn’t? He lets that statement linger for a fraction too long before my mind short-circuits and I’m compelled to fill the silence. “I’d also turn your pillows tags up, rearrange your spice rack, put the toilet paper roll upside down, and move your keys around. Maybe I’d even play Shania on the radio whenever you’re in the car.”
“I’m flattered you’d spend your afterlife taunting me.”
Would I really waste my ghostly powers on Trevor? Come to think of it, the ability to peep on him while he’s in the shower wouldn’t be too shabby— Oh dear. I’m officially a humungo perv.
I banish the sexual shower thoughts away, mentally securing them with a couple layers of duct tape, just to be safe.
My phone vibrates with a new text from Cody.
CODY: You should send me a photo.
“What are you and Cody texting about?” Trevor asks, pulling a random book on cupcake decorating off the shelf. He flips through with pretend interest.
“Well . . .” I turn my screen, revealing his texts.
His eyes flare as he reads. “Wow. He’s really going for it, huh? I mean, I guess he’s already seen”—he waves a lazy hand downward, toward my lower half—“it all before? Right?”
“He has. But he was never blatantly sexual like this. I don’t know what to say back. I don’t do nudes.”
Trevor continues down the aisle in front of me, scrutinizing their book-filing system. The lack of alphabetical order in this thrift shop is troubling him. “Sorry, Chen. I got nothing.”
“Really? I’m shocked you don’t have a stockpile of nudes.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve never asked a woman for a nude in my life. And dirty texts aren’t my style.” He turns to face me again, his eyes smoldering.
“Hm. I thought you’d be the type who’s into sexting and dirty talk and all that.” My neck erupts with prickles at the memory of my illicit car dream.
He averts his stare entirely, deflecting. Yup. He’s totally a dirty talker. “You’re the one who reads hundreds of sex books a year. Why don’t you pull a line from one of those?” He gestures to the two worn bodice rippers in my basket.
“Dirty talk in romance novels doesn’t translate to real life. I can’t tell him I want to ride his throbbing member with a straight face,” I point out.
An elderly woman pushing a full cart near us clutches her bosom and speeds off in the opposite direction.
I wait for Trevor to chide me for uttering the term throbbing member in a public place, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a distressed groan, his eyes closed. “That was a mental image I didn’t need. This is so weird.”
Something inside of me dies a little as he charges ahead of me. Splendid. I repulse him.
I spend some time regrouping before I follow him into the mystery/thriller section. “Sorry for disturbing you. But I have one last question. Is it appropriate to suggest an alternative location? I don’t want to have virtual shower sex.”
I nearly smash into his chest when he turns around. “I still don’t understand your grudge against the shower.”