chapter eighteen
“I’ve never truly been dumped, but the one close call happened when I told a girl that I wasn’t sure I was feeling it — or her. She tried to beat me to the breakup, but I put on the charm and we stayed together one more day before I told her it was a test-run to see if we should keep going. I’ve never been slapped so hard in my entire life, but I learned a lesson that day. When it’s time to go — you let it go. Closure is necessary in every aspect of your life, and if you don’t get it, eventually you’re going to get slapped, whether it be from the universe, or the other party.”
~From Max Emory’s Guide to Dating and Other Important Life Lessons
Colt
“Stop taking up all the room!” I elbowed Max hard in the ribs and watched in fascination as Jason held out his hand. “Take it! Take the hand. It’s just a hand, nothing intimidating about a hand, don’t just drop it after you touch it.” Why the hell was I nervous? Like it was me? Maybe because I’d watched my best friend get his heart completely throttled by the one who got away. Or maybe because I wanted him to find his forever like I had. Ugh. I’d been watching way too much Bachelor with my wife, that was for damn sure.
Max snorted. “Speak for yourself. Mine are massive, poked myself, and others, in the eye several times. Not to mention, hands are a direct measurement of penis size. All you have to do is make a fist.”
I dropped the binoculars and glanced over at both Reid and Max. Reid was busy shaking his head in dismay as Max made a legit fist and then frowned. “Wait, that’s not right. It seems… oddly shaped.”
“Your heart,” I said through clenched teeth. “Your fist is the size of your heart.”
Max placed his fist against his chest and shook his head. “Yeah, I disagree.”
“Why, God? Why?” Reid muttered. “Max, you mean the thumb to the pinky finger. That’s the size of a limp dick.”
Max had to measure, again.
I missed my wife.
Home-cooked meals.
Damn spa weekend.
Damn Max.
She was relaxing, and I was on a stakeout with a guy who thought his penis was shaped like a fist!
In reality, I knew Max was a certifiable genius, but sometimes… I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands and make the world a better place. Hell, they’d probably throw a parade.
“Figured it out,” he finally announced after much measuring, which had traumatized not only me, but the poor squirrels trying to eat close by. “’Tis your wrist to your elbow, fully erect. That’s it.” He nodded triumphantly and then winked.
“Never—” I rasped, “—and I do mean NEVER — wink at me again, especially after announcing how big your erection is.”
“Jealous?”
“Got the girl, and you had to go on a TV show to find yours so… no, nope, not really.”
“Bastard,” he grumbled. “And I had twenty-five of those crazies after me. Plus, I got a goat out of the deal. Not too shabby.”
“And a wife,” I reminded him.
“Oh right, Becca.” He grinned. And then laughed. “I’m kidding. Trust me, I know what I got in her…” his face fell. “Being alone sucks balls.”
“Imagine being stuck with a psychopath,” I offered.
He scowled. “Reid’s different, but he’s not a psycho.”
“Thanks, man.” Reid sighed and took a sip of coffee. “So, why are we sitting here watching them shoot each other screw-me looks while they contemplate holding hands in the parking lot?”
“Today was first-kiss day,” I announced. “They hid back at the school under the bleachers, he made his move, she kissed him back, and so dear friends, their friendship went from playful to—”
“Sexual,” Max interrupted thoughtfully, his fingers tapping against his chin as if he were thinking.
God save us from Max Emory thinking.