When Luke commits, little lady, he commits forever. Now, get in my bed, spread your legs and prepare to take my load.
I bite my bottom lip, blinking at the screen.
That escalated fast.
But heck, it’s been months since I’ve been laid, and I guess I’m feeling a little, well, deprived. Nope. “Deprived” is too elegant a word for what I’m feeling. I’m feeling…horny. Yep. Horny, I think, shifting slightly in my seat as my eyes continue their laser-lock on Luke’s ad.
Hey! Wait a minute. They never print names. I frown at the screen, scrolling up the page to check the other ads. Looks like a typo. None of the other ads include a name. Just Luke.
Sigh. Luke.
I slide back up to the ad, half-wishing there was a picture, but half-glad I can let my mind run wild instead, imagining hot, sexy, burgeoning-with-fertile-seed Luke, undressing at the foot of our four-poster bed covered with the skins of bears he’s bested with his bare hands, his muscles rippling as he reaches for my foot and drags my naked body down to—
“Amanda?” Two hands clap just in front of my nose. “Earth to Amanda McKendrick!”
I snap my neck up and find my column writing partner, Leigh Stanton, leaning over my cube wall.
“Huh? What?”
Leigh raises an eyebrow. “Who’s Luke?”
“Huh?”
“You literally just sighed the name “Luuuuuke,” like you were having a mental orgasm.” She tilts her head to get a peek at my screen. “Hey…what’s Single in—”
“Nothing!” My fingers are still clutching the mouse and with one click the screen disappears.
She gives me a look before glancing back at the now-blank screen. “Nothing, huh? Sorta seemed like a big bowl of something.”
“Nope. Nothing. Just…research.”
“Research! Great,” says Leigh. “I hope it’s research for this morning’s pitch.” She pauses, scanning my face. “You do have the pitch ready? The June pitch which you promised to come up with while I’m growing a human being inside my body?”
The pitch.
Shit, fuck and every other dirty word my mother ever forbade me to say.
I forgot about today’s pitch.
My shoulders slump and I shake my head.
Since my boyfriend of five years, Bryce, walked out of my apartment two months ago, leaving behind a stack of bills and note saying, “I’m just not into us anymore. Super sorry.” my creative juices just haven’t been flowing. I’ve been spending more time reading personal ads and fantasizing about hot Alaskan men than doing any actual work.
“Manda…you promised.”
Leigh plucks a red M&M from my dish of leftover Memorial Day candy, then walks around the four-foot wall into my cube, her massive stomach preceding the rest of her body by a few seconds.
I groan softly. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—”
“My maternity leave starts tomorrow,” she reminds me, chewing on the sweet treat. “You’re supposed to have our June idea outlined and ready to go. Today. This morning.” She glances at her watch. “Now, Manda. It’s go-time.”
Leigh’s husband is the Seahawks kicker, Jude Stanton, and she’s really into sports jargon.
“I’ll come up with something on the fly,” I say, standing up from my desk. I glance at her stomach, ignoring the knot of longing in my heart. “Lots of kicking today?”
“Girl? I’m barely holding on,” she answers, her voice weary as she looks down and rubs her belly. “No doubt about this one’s daddy.”
“Was there ever?” I joke.