I can't tell you why it took so long for me to finally read this book. I have loved and obsessed over every one of the Brentwood books. And I grabbed this on KU as soon as it was released and then just didn't read it. I even read the newest one before this one. I just really don't understand me sometimes.
Anyway, obviously I'm not right because I was talking with the beautiful coven babes about how KU works, and they told me to grab the audible of this book. And damn were they right. The story was great, and the narration was perfect. I am so glad I spent the day with these guys. I just can't believe I didn't do it earlier.
Holt and Harmony were such a hot couple together. I thought I was going to have to take a cold shower a few times, but I couldn't bear to put the headphones down. Holt was this alpha, growly, insta love hero and I was so in lust with him. I think I would have given him anything he asked for.
So, I loved Harmony that much more for her strength to stand up to him when he was crossing lines and acting like an arse. She was sweet and as equally besotted as Holt was, but she didn't let him walk all over her. And I loved their relationship.
These Brentwood boys definitely know their way around women, and I love Meghan Quinn's ability to keep giving us unique stories with awesome characters. I can't wait for more.
Release Date: June 10th
Genre: Sports Romance
BLURB
"Kiss me. Just this once . . . please Walker."
Those whispered words were my undoing . . .
As the most hated player in baseball, I had two options: either clean up my image or pack my bags. Being traded wasn't an option which only meant one thing, I had to become compliant.
That's how I found myself sharing a small bistro table with Kate Chapman, the Chicago Bobbies newest PR Manager. Devastatingly beautiful, vastly intelligent, and incredibly cunning, she knows exactly how to handle my grumpy demeanor.
It was supposed to be simple. Book some PR events, show up, smile for the camera, and be done. But one massive mistake on my end sends me into the trenches with Kate, forcing me to open up to her.
Innocent glances turn into cordial encounters.
Secret touches turn into tempting invitations.
And dangerous nights alone turn into consuming desperation.
I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want her. And I know she wants me, but there’s a no fraternizing with the players rule. Neither of us can afford to lose our jobs, but we also can't seem to keep our hands off each other either.
I slip on my clothes, going for a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. I push the sleeves up, still heated from the shower. I leave my hat in my locker, opting for a quick swab of styling pomade through my hair. I couldn’t care less what I look like, but Coach always likes us to be somewhat presentable after a game in case we run into any press.
Hungry and ready for my bed, I head out of the locker room and am making my way toward the players’ exit when a throat clears behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find Kate Chapman standing against the wall, her purse draped over her shoulder and a beautiful smile gracing her delicately freckled face.
She quickly gives me a once-over and says, “It was the socks.”
I can’t help it, I let out a low chuckle while slowly shaking my head and turning toward her. Hands in my pockets, I say, “It wasn’t the socks.”
Her mouth drops open in disbelief as she approaches me. “It was so the socks.” She points her finger at me.
“Don’t even deny it.”
“It was all my practice.”
“Yeah, practice with me. Just admit it, Rockwell, you had fun last night, the socks were a good luck charm, and you played your ass off tonight.”
I don’t believe in superstitions, which is unheard of when it comes to a baseball player, but I’ve never geared my play around being a habitual player, either. Instead, I do what feels right. So, believing in socks having a special power and helping me gather some hits tonight—nah, not real. But I will say this—having my socks up reminded me why I was behind that plate. It reminded me of being small again and taking joy in the little things.
Was it the socks? Maybe.
Was it the thought of the girl standing in front of me?
Maybe a little more.
“It wasn’t the socks.”
Her head falls back as she groans. “You’re so stubborn.” She makes eye contact with me again. “Do you realize that?”
“Yeah.” I rock on my heels, trying not to stare at her too much.
Just picture me pitching to you.
When I said that would be too distracting, I meant it. With her softly curled hair and her gorgeous smile that doesn’t seem to ever falter—unless I’m a total dick and walk out on her—she’s caught my eye.
She’s starting to imprint herself on my brain.
She’s starting to make me feel shit I shouldn’t be feeling.
“Well, I’m—”
“What are you doing right now?” I ask out of the blue, surprising myself, and her.
“Uh, I was going to give you a hard time and then go home?” she says with a hint of question at the end.
I nod at her. “Hungry?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Starving.”
“Want to get some food?”
She chews on her bottom lip, thinking about her answer, and I know it’s not in a joking around way, but more so she’s afraid. Afraid of me, possibly. Afraid for her job, most likely.
So, I add, “You know, to discuss business.”
It’s against team policy to fraternize with the players. I know that, she knows that, but, for the life of me, after seeing that infectious joy on her face, I had to ask her. I had to try to spend more time with her.
“Well, if it’s business . . .” She smiles brightly and then nods behind her. “Follow me.”
I can’t get enough of these books from Meghan Quinn. She writes the best sports romance and this one just had everything I could ask for. Despite the fact it took me forever to read, thanks to all my kids deciding to be mini monsters this week, I was obsessed with Walker. And since I love the way that Meghan writes, I already went into the book knowing I was going to enjoy the hell out of it. What I didn’t know was that I was going to go through all the emotions to get to my happily ever after.
Kate came out of the gate as someone I just loved. She was completely take no prisoners with her approach to the players and their attitudes, while completely quaking in her boots on the inside. She didn’t let them push her around or do anything that was going to mess with her plans and I couldn’t get enough of her. The secondary characters were awesome and their interactions were fun and made me laugh.
But Walker, man I was in deep with him before I even realised it. Between the growling voice and the one word sentences I was in serious lust. Add in the 12 pack abs and the lickable physique I’m pretty sure I would let him get away with murder. But then you throw in his sweet as candy center when it came to Kate and I never wanted this book to end.
I normally might have been annoyed with the push and pull between these two but the chemistry was driving me to squirm every time they were in the same room or screen. And I felt their desire to have everything work out in the best interest of each other. Not once did either of them actually worry about anything other than the fall out on the other and that just made me love them even more.
The ending wasn’t everything I was hoping for but I seriously can’t complain. I just didn’t want to have to put it down yet. Honestly I’m not sure why you aren’t already reading it. Just be sure you have some privacy and a cool drink because Walker should come with a safety warning.
"Kiss me. Just this once . . . please Walker."
THE BRENTWOOD BOYS by Meghan Quinn
Box Set of The Locker Room, The Dugout, and The Lineup
Genre: Contemporary Romance
ON SALE- $4.99- FOR A LIMITED TIME!
The Brentwood Boys have come together in a three book box series. Over 300,000 words of delicious baseball players with a mouth-watering epilogue of where they are now. Marriage? Maybe. Babies? Possibly. Abs? Oh yes, they still have abs.
The Locker Room
Have you heard the rumor around campus about the locker room?
Legend has it if you bring a girl into the sacred after-game domain of the baseball locker room, it will end with a walk down the aisle.
So when the girl I've fallen for brushes me off, I start to question if I need to switch my way of thinking. Maybe it's time I finally hand out a coveted invitation to the locker room.
The only question is, will she accept?
The Dugout
Let me ask you a question:
If someone is vying for your spot on a team and just so happens to injure you during practice, would you believe it was on purpose?
Word around campus is . . . it was no accident.
That injury has cost me everything. Now, I’m a senior fresh off recovery, struggling to find my groove, until the day I run into The Baseball Whisperer, Milly Potter.
Little do we both know, she’s about to become more than just my fairy ballmother.
The Lineup
Want to know a secret?
That boy over there, the one with the spectacular backside, yeah, I first saw him in college, talking to his friends. Tall, broad, sculpted by his many hours in the weight room. His personality was larger than life and I was too shy to approach him.
Now he’s a professional baseball player, I’m a confident CEO, but my crush is still strong. yup, massive crush.
I have a chance at winning a date with him.
Should I enter?
On sale for a LIMITED TIME!
Get your copy now:
Connect with Meghan:
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I really am struggling with how I feel about this book. It had everything I love about college sports romance and a few of the things I hate. And I really hate them so much it's just over shadowed everything I loved.
Indie had so much happening with her family I really liked how she reacted to it all. She didn't hold her punches or act like a victim she just dealt with it her way and it felt very genuine.
Lincoln made the story for me. He was so sweet and caring and his moms were insane. I really loved him. He maybe could have fought harder for what he wanted but I understand that he cared enough for Indie not to push her for more than she was ready to admit to.
And I was loving this book for the first 80% and then life separated them. And for the first part of the separation I thought I was going to be ok with it. I thought it was the mature next step but then they stayed separated and life kept happening. And by the time they finally got back together it was the end of the book.
I seriously hate that as a plot twist. It drives me crazy. So I fixated on that and ruined the story for me. And now I don't know how to rate this book. Because I love Meghan’s writing and I love the Brentwood series and I really wanted to love this.
The Setup by Meghan Quinn
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Releasing: September 10, 2020
An act so vile, so downright dirty, that I’m not sure as a twenty-year-old man I'll ever recover. Brace yourself, because what I’m about to tell you might have you gasping in secondhand horror.
Ready? Here it goes . . .
I’ve recently become the pawn of a meddling mom.
Yes . . . A MEDDLING MOM--who's been trying to set me up all summer.
Now, I understand it’s not a crime for a mother to want her child to fall in love, but when she makes it her relentless MISSION, the heinous act should be classified as a misdemeanor at least.
Of course, my mom, the evil matriarch in the devil’s leggings, made her final stab at finding a girl for me days before I went back to college.
And I hate to admit it, but she saved a doozy for last.
A titan in black skinny jeans.
A boss of nonchalance.
And a girl who would not only turn my life upside down, but do it while juggling a soccer ball, looking effortlessly gorgeous around campus, and is one hundred percent against relationships. Of any sort.
Thanks, Mom.
Preorder your copy: mybook.to/TheSetUp
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.
Okay, that might not be the headlines in the newspaper this morning, but it's the reality of my current situation.
It all started a month ago when I received a call from my best friend, Kinsley. She got a new job in Chicago and needed a place to stay. I've known the girl since I was five, what harm would it be to have her stay at my place for a while?
Ha! Total disaster.
Now instead of going out every night with my teammates, I'm couch surfing and sketching endless photos of my best friend . . . but that's the least of my concerns.
The disaster, you ask? I'm rapidly falling head over cleats in love with my best friend, my roommate, and my number one fan.
And she has no idea . . .
**MADDOX**
Have you ever said something you regret?
Something you haven’t forgotten about an hour later?
Something that sits with you, stews deep in your belly, and then seeps into your bones, burying itself so far into your marrow that all you can think about is the one thing you said . . . and how you wished you could take it back the minute it slipped past your lips?That’s where I am.
Full of regret.
People always say, “Don’t regret anything. It’s what makes you who you are.” That was said in a whiney, nasally voice. Did you hear it?
Well, those people, the ones trying to spew rainbows and sunshine up your ass about blatant mistakes . . . yeah, they’re only saying that because they fuck up on a daily basis.
Think about it, what REAL person is okay with all their regrets? No one. There is always that one thing you did, that one time, that you will always, always, always think . . . “What if I’d done that differently?”
It keeps you up at night.
You wonder, what transformed, what took over my brain, to utter such words. To alter your life completely and send it down an entirely different course.Yeah, my life has been fucking altered all right.
Everything was fine.
I was pitching one hell of a fucking season for the Rebels, my ride or die team. I was getting along with my teammates, even the infamous Cory Potter, who made a splash after last season. I’ll hand it to the man, he really is the boss. I was getting laid whenever I wanted, which is always a plus for a guy who has massive amounts of adrenaline pumping through him daily, especially on a pitching day. And there were no strings attached.
None.
Yeah, I might have a rotation of women I call, but any single player in the major leagues does. You need the outlet. Even the prestigious Cory Potter had some booty call numbers before he found Natalie.
I was living a great life, and then it all changed. And it changed fucking fast.
Before I knew it, I was staring into my fridge at dairy products not made from a cow, but rather from oat. What the fuck is that? Oat milk? Explain to me where an oat has a goddamn nipple.
My toothbrush is made from bamboo, which gives off a very woody, splintery taste, and I’ve been using toothpaste tablets instead of paste from a tube . . . because apparently, tubes suck up life in the landfill.
The eco-friendly toilet paper in my apartment disintegrates in my hand and is worthless, making bathroom breaks a fucking nightmare.
And there’s a goddamn three-legged dog in a suit and tie sitting on my couch that goes by the name Herman, or Hermy for short.
I don’t have any privacy, I don’t even remember what meat tastes like anymore, and “Hermy” has a goddamn staring problem. And the three-legged motherfucker, yeah, he’s stealthy. I find him waiting for me outside the shower . . . staring.
When I wake up . . . staring.
When I’m trying to make a goddamn tempeh sandwich . . . staring.
Every time I tell him to “get a life” or to “fuck off” or for the love of Christ “get a new hobby”, he doesn’t even bat an eyelash.
He just stares!
I can’t fucking take it anymore.
I’m losing my goddamn mind and I don’t know . . . maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in what feels like forever, or because my burgers are now made of imposter “meat”, or maybe because I’m forced to do things I don’t want to do. Either way, something needs to give, because I’m pretty sure from all the vegan shit I’ve been eating, my armpits are just about ready to spring their own mung beans.
Christ.
One phone call.
That’s all it took.
One fucking phone call from a person I cannot say no to, a person who will forever and always be . . . my insanely beautiful and free-spirited best friend.
Damn that was awesome. Since I picked up the first book in this series I have been a huge fan. They just have everything I personally could want in a sports romance. And every single one of them has added to my overall love of the series. Now i know i keep saying series and these are all written as stand alones and aren't linked as a series but they all interconnect. And even with my goldfish memory each one builds a little more on the overall story and adds extra dimensions to each couple and individual.
In regards to this story and this relationship, it was an emotional read for me. Whenever I'm reading a book and everything is perfect and the couples together and I realise we're only 50% into the book, the nerves start. And I could see that train off in the distance, heading our way I just wasn't sure when it was going to connect or how much baggage it was carrying.
Kinsley was an easy character to love. She wore her heart on her sleeve and she was so determined to make the world a better place. Even when I rolled my eyes at her craziness I still giggled and would have gone right along with her. And holy shit 500 years for a toothpaste tube to break down. My whole family is switching toothpaste next time I go shopping.
Maddox was a character whose broken parts I recognize. Which is why I found this story so emotional. But damn did he love Kinsley hard. And once he stopped self sabotaging he gave such a great chase I was immediately back on team Maddox.
The two of them together made the perfect couple. And I really loved that this book was so damn hot. Like seriously read it with a fan on. While also giving me all the feels. I laughed out loud so many times reading this book. The background characters were awesome, I'm madly in love with Lincoln and I'm praying his story is next.
There were a few unresolved issues that I would have loved to see tied off. But they aren't necessary to the story, just my personal nitpicking. And the men needed to apologise and grovel a little but again that's just my opinion. Hopefully Meghan is busy writing madly so I can get more of these great couples because I am really loving this series hard.
The Change Up
by Meghan Quinn
Release Date: June 11th
Blurb
BREAKING NEWS: The Bad Boy of Baseball, Maddox Paige, is totally and utterly whipped.
Okay, that might not be the headlines in the newspaper this morning, but it's the reality of my current situation.
It all started a month ago when I received a call from my best friend, Kinsley. She got a new job in Chicago and needed a place to stay. I've known the girl since I was five, what harm would it be to have her stay at my place for a while?
Ha! Total disaster.
Now instead of going out every night with my teammates, I'm couch surfing and sketching endless photos of my best friend . . . but that's the least of my concerns.
The disaster, you ask? I'm rapidly falling head over cleats in love with my best friend, my roommate, and my number one fan.
And she has no idea . . .
Preorder today
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.
Connect with Meghan
⚾ Facebook ⚾ Goodreads ⚾ Instagram ⚾ Twitter ⚾ Website ⚾ Bookbub⚾ Amazon ⚾
THE TRADE
I can. I got the dreaded phone call, the one every baseball player hopes and prays never comes.
I was traded. Yeah, that phone call.
Traded from my long time team of over ten years. And not just to any team, but my childhood rivals; the Chicago Rebels.
Completely and utterly screwed, right? Wrong. The trade was the least of my concerns.
I met a girl. Natalie. Man, she's perfect.
I swore I would never get involved with anyone during the season. Too complicated. But can you believe I have zero restraint when it comes to this girl? I couldn't get her out of my head and the more I talked to her, the more I realized I needed her in my life.
So what's the problem? Why am I screwed? Because, Natalie, the girl I can't stop crushing on, yeah . . . she's married.
At least, that's what I was told . . .
AVAILABLE NOW!!
I’m sure you hear that all the time, so the term has lost its impact.
I ran out of sugar for my cookie batter . . . I’m fucked.
Forgot my phone in my car . . . I’m fucked.
Saw my neighbor’s old-man balls . . . I’m fucked for life.
I can guarantee you right now, this is nothing compared to old-man balls and cookies.
This is way worse.
This defines the term, I’m fucked.
What is it you ask?
It happened after one of the worst baseball seasons of my life. Traded halfway through the season to the team I’d hated my entire life, I was drowning in the constant media attention, persecuting me for the pass off for my multi-million-dollar contract.
“We want to win,” the Rebels said. “We can do that with Cory Potter wearing black and red.” And just like that, the team I’ve been playing for my entire professional career up and traded me to unload my hefty salary to develop new up-and-comers from the farm system.
The Rebels.
I’m a fucking Chicago Rebel. Words I never thought I’d say, especially growing up as a Chicago Bobcats fan, the rival team to the Rebels. Not just rival, but enemies. The teams themselves don’t get along, the fans hate each other, and Chicago is divided for a good portion of the year when the stadium lights are on.
But here I am, my name attached to the biggest trade in sports history.
A ballsy move.
An upset to Baltimore.
A baseball anomaly: All-American turned Rebel.
I’ve heard it all, I’ve seen it all, and no matter what’s splashed across the headlines, it doesn’t deviate from the fact that my long-time team decided to part ways with me midseason.
Mid-fucking-season.
After fourteen years, I packed up everything and moved back to Chicago.
But even that’s not why I’m fucked; it’s just the start of it.
The beginning of the end.
Dramatic? Maybe.
But if you were in my shoes, you’d be thinking the same thing.
After not even coming close to getting into the playoffs, the season ended, I was booed off the field because that’s how Rebels fans are—you don’t perform, they hate you—and I sequestered myself to my practically empty and cold apartment.
After a week of binge-eating deep-dish pizza and watching every prison documentary on Netflix, my sister finally dragged me out of my apartment, forcing me to attend a Bobbies playoff game with her so we could cheer on my brother-in-law. Her husband.
Seeing a Rebels player cheering on a Bobbies player plastered all over the news went over just as well as a grandma telling her grandson her favorite pastime is cock-tickling.
Not well.
But still . . . not the reason I’m fucked.
This is beyond worse than that.
During that game, I got the talk. Not the birds and bees, but the talk from a concerned sister about my lack of social life.
You really should get out more.
I know some single moms who are really nice.
Maybe a dating app might be fun. Girls would be ecstatic to match with the one and only Cory Potter.
I don’t want you dying alone.
That last one was a real kicker.
Dying alone. I’m fucking thirty-five and she has me with one toe in my grave.
The way I see it is, if you don’t meet your girl in college or high school, you’re sure as shit not going to meet her while playing professional baseball. Not when the schedule is obscenely busy and long, and not when you’re known for one thing in your city: making a shitload of money for playing a sport.
It’s almost impossible to find genuine relationships when you have this level of fame.
So I’ve resolved to waiting until after I retire to fall in love.
That doesn’t mean I’ve been celibate, I’m a man after all—a man with a shitload of adrenaline pumping through him on a daily basis. I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands with women, and a few on a solid repeat with zero expectations. Every woman I’ve bedded I’ve treated with respect, and I’ve been honest with them, because if anything, I’m a genuinely nice guy who doesn’t ever want to make someone feel bad.
Ask anyone who knows me, I’m the nice guy, the dependable guy, the leader with a heart.
I don’t screw women over, ever.
Are you thinking one of those one-night stands turned into an “accident”? Is that the reason I’m fucked? Got a girl I don’t know pregnant?
Nope, not that either.
But the conversation I had with Milly pushed me to a new way of thinking.
I don’t want you dying alone.
She made me fucking paranoid.
Was I really going to die alone?
Were my good years behind me and now I’m old meat on the market?
Should I be trying to find love in the midst of the craziness of my life?
Milly made me think, which then made me open up to the idea of finding someone, of looking at women differently, of allowing the relationship part of my brain to turn on.
So instead of ignoring every woman that has relationship potential I’d possibly look for, I turned off my blinders and started looking for them.
But I didn’t come close to meeting anyone that remotely fit the box of someone I’d consider going out on a date with. That was until I attended a certain charity event.
I saw her from across the room. Her smile was what caught my eye, then it was the way she laughed and held on to her brother’s hand, her brother who had cerebral palsy.
It was the way she’d lean into him, hold him, as if he was the most wonderful human she’d ever met.
The fact that she was absolutely breathtaking with piercing blue eyes had nothing to do with it.
It was her infectious laughter.
Her kind heart.
Her dedication to her family.
In a matter of seconds, I wanted to know her, wanted to find out her name, wanted to be in her orbit. Wanted to be a recipient of her warmth and affection.
I watched her from across the room, how she interacted with every person who came up to her, and when I was finally granted the opportunity to introduce myself, my breath caught in my throat when our hands connected. I felt my heart slam against the cage in my chest. And I knew, in that moment, with our hands mid shake, my life would never be the same.
Her name is Natalie.
Sister to my new teammate Jason Orson and his twin brother Joseph.
Director of Jason’s foundation, The Lineup.
And the reason why I’m utterly fucked.
Because while I started to grow attached to this magnetic and beautiful woman, when I told my sister about her, she informed me there was a ring on Natalie’s finger.
A ring that didn’t belong to me.
Hope plummeted in the matter of seconds as I felt the color from my besotted face drain into a puddle of remorse.
She was married.
She is fucking married.
See? Totally fucked.
I’ve been crushing so hard, because even a month later, I still think about her. I can still hear her laugh, see her smile, feel her hand in mine.
I want her.
Fucking bad.
They say time will heal all wounds, well for me, the more time passes, the more my wound is exposed and tormented.
Cory Potter is crushing on a married woman . . .
That is why I am completely and utterly . . . fucked.
I can. I got the dreaded phone call, the one every baseball player hopes and prays never comes.
I was traded. Yeah, that phone call.
Traded from my long time team of over ten years. And not just to any team, but my childhood rivals; the Chicago Rebels.
Completely and utterly screwed, right? Wrong. The trade was the least of my concerns.
I met a girl. Natalie. Man, she's perfect.
I swore I would never get involved with anyone during the season. Too complicated. But can you believe I have zero restraint when it comes to this girl? I couldn't get her out of my head and the more I talked to her, the more I realized I needed her in my life.
So what's the problem? Why am I screwed? Because, Natalie, the girl I can't stop crushing on, yeah . . . she's married.
At least, that's what I was told . . .
THE LINEUP
It's about that girl over there.
Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . .
Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss. Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me.
I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in common.
Was I oblivious? Probably.
Was I blind to it? Definitely.
But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as hers.
Here's another secret . . . she has no idea I know.
I had it all planned out. The timing was right, the recipes perfected, the table decorated with impeccably folded napkins that impersonated angelic swans, and polished silver that I scrubbed for an hour until I could see my balls in the reflection. Nothing says polished silverware like a spoon that gives you a clear upside-down view of your gonads.
But even with countless hours of preparing this feast, naked as the day I was born with only an apron to cover my man-loins, I still ended up with a scorched ham doused in fire extinguisher agent because somehow, the damn thing caught on fire.
Imagine this, a grown-ass man—no, not just a grown-ass man, but a man at the fresh age of twenty-eight, built like a linebacker with buttocks you can bounce rocks off . . . thanks to squatting for a living—dancing around the kitchen on his twinkle toes, arms flailing with pink and white potholders attached to his hands, screaming like a banshee, as flames light up the Jenn-Air double oven where the brown sugar and pineapple ham resided.
Are you seeing it?
Add the imagery of said man naked, dick and balls harmoniously bouncing in panic while the apron his “girlfriend” got him that says Eat my food, Lick my dick, unravels in the fit to unleash the fire extinguisher.
That was me . . . a minute ago.
Frantic, screaming, and all in all losing any last shred of my man card I had left.
It’s why I’m currently weeping like a nitwit into the flaps of my apron, wondering where I went wrong.
If we’re going to be honest with each other—and I would like to establish honesty with you—I’ll admit, I’ve always leaned toward the sensitive side. You know, the cuddly grizzly bear. Big and intimidating but a fucking gooey butterball heart on the inside.
Tell me a love story. I’ll listen the crap out of it.
The Bachelor? Why yes, that’s one of my favorite shows.
Do I smile when sharing a candlelit dinner with myself, followed by a nice long soak in a bubble bath while Enya—the fucking goddess of all voices—plays in the background? I sure as shit do.
But if some ignorant asswipe gets in my face on the ball field, stirring up trouble, I’m the first to lay a fist across his jaw and the first to be thrown out of a game.
And I’m not even sorry about it.
People are arriving in an hour. I’m vulnerable as fuck with my bare ass resting against the cold white-oak floor of my girl’s apartment, while a lonely tear streams down my freshly shaven cheek. I have no main dish, and the apartment smells like burnt rabbit turd.
Why am I in this hopeless predicament?
Because of one person.
One single person who flipped my life upside down.
A bombshell in a suit, a ravenous sex-fiend in the sheets, a classy and sophisticated tight-ass in the boardroom. She’s a knockout who’s always on my mind. She’s the girl you do things for, that you never thought you’d ever do . . .
Like cook a fancy-as-fuck four-course meal for her and her business associates while practicing interesting conversational starters to ensure the night flows smoothly.
Back in college, I might have been referred to as the mother hen of the boys. I might have cooked at least two meals a week for the guys in the loft, and yeah, I was the ironing wizard, the one everyone turned to, to get out the most stubborn wrinkles. The title has carried on over the years, but my creativity in the kitchen has dwindled with the lack of time, my ironing is now done by my apartment keeper once a week, and the fresh flowers scattered around my place? They’re more dead now than alive.
My point—I’m not the lady of the house I used to be. But I’ve been getting back into the swing of it.
So when my girl asked me to perform the impossible feat of an intimate dinner for four, I should have ordered in, tossed everything in serving dishes, and called it a night.
But nooooooooo, I had to attempt to be a goddamn hero and try to cook everything myself.
And all for what?
For one girl?
No. Not just one girl. The girl who owns my balls, who has a grip so tight on them that if she asked me to bellow out my ABCs in soprano while swirling my finger around my belly button . . . I would.
Who is this girl that has brought me to the brink of boo-boo smush bear insanity and caused me to weep like a schoolgirl in the corner of the apartment?
There’s only one lady with more than enough ovaries to buckle the knees of the mighty Jason Orson.
The one and only Dorothy “Dottie” Domico.
