Andi
Navigating my way to the mansion’s front door feels like I’m stumbling through an African safari. Then again, it might just be me. You see, I’m not exactly the world’s best athlete, but I do have a very good excuse for why that is: my boobs shrink when I exercise.
I have a decent amount of boobage, but not a whole lot extra, and I cry a little bit inside when I think about them shrinking. It’s a gradual thing, sort of how Hawaii is disappearing into the ocean. One day, they’ll be poof, gone.
This is why I feel the best exercise is accomplished in the bedroom—or at the ice cream parlor. I figure raising a spoon to my mouth burns the same number of calories as the elliptical machine in some parallel universe.
Finally, I reach the front door. I raise a hand to knock, but a movement through the window catches my eye, and I hesitate. It’s a good thing I do because not one second later, the words begin—well, not so much words as noises…noises of…pleasure, and…a squeal?
It all becomes clear to me when a female voice yells, “Harder, baby, yes!”
I admit, I’m a little curious to see this couple, the one who couldn’t wait to have sex until after their pizza arrived. It’s not that I’d turn down sex for pizza, but if a pizza was on its way, I could probably hold off for twenty minutes.
Unfortunately, my opinion doesn’t matter here, and I’m put in a strange spot.
Do I knock on the door and interrupt their incredibly loud lovemaking?
Do I set the pizza outside and leave a note with my PayPal information?
Should I just walk right in, set the pizza down, and applaud them on their performance?
So many options, and none of them sound good. Instead of making a decision, I hunker down in some bushes and call Angela; she’ll know what to do. She always has answers, even if they’re the wrong ones.
“Ang, I need help,” I whisper. “I’m standing outside his front door.”
“Okay, so knock.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? That’s your job.” Angela blows a loud, snappy bubble. “That pizza’s gotta be cold by now. Just deliver it and get out of there—I don’t need his number that bad.”
“You don’t understand, I can’t. They’re having sex. In the living room. Which has floor-to-ceiling windows and open shades. It’s loud, and…creative.”
“Well don’t interrupt them, that’s bad for business.”
“I don’t think they’re stopping any time soon.”
“Well, is he hot?”
“I’m not watching.” I pause. “Angela, I am not watching.”
“What sort of sex are they having?”
“What are you talking about? You’re crazy.”
“You know, what’s it like? Dry humping? The real deal? Are they into costumes and kinky shit? I bet you there’s a whip involved.”
“I don’t know, Ang. I’m just trying to deliver a pizza.”
“Well, your dad is yelling at me to get off the phone. If I were you, I’d pound on the door and ask to join.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“No, but I knew it’d make you uncomfortable to picture that. Okay, bye.”
She hangs up. I’m just as confused about what to do with the pizza as I was five minutes ago, so I just wait patiently in the bushes. My knees crack like popcorn, and I’m afraid this active couple is going to find me paralyzed in their front bushes holding a pizza. My fear is so strong that I finally step out of the bushes and march forward to deliver the goods. It is my job, after all.
I luck out—the session has now come to an end, although whether that’s a pun or not, I can’t say. I tried not to listen too closely.
Raising a hand, I knock on the door before the excitable couple begins round two. I’m a little bit angry and extremely frustrated; this delivery is a reminder of all the fun things I’m missing out on with my latest dry spell. At this point, a man could cough in my direction and I’d probably be halfway to an orgasm.
I brush a few stray leaves and branches out of my hair, straighten my clothes, perfect the smiley, and pound on the door. Now that the moans have stopped, this area is actually quite peaceful. I think I hear an owl hooting a few trees over, and I wonder if the birds enjoyed the show too.
I knock again, and before I can draw my hand away, the door whips open and I topple through. This is a problem because I don’t have time to catch myself before stumbling headfirst into a half-naked man. I reach out, my hand clapping against his bare chest.
“I’m really sorry,” I say, pulling back. My face must look horrified. “I just high-fived your nipple, and I apologize.”
This isn’t the worst of it.
As I step back, my cheeks burning like a nightlight, I discover that I know the man standing before me. I don’t know him personally, nor do I know him professionally. However, I do know him intimately because he’s been in a few of the magazines I stash in my nightstand.
His name is Ryan, and he’s not just any old Ryan. He’s the Ryan Pierce, hockey star extraordinaire for the Minnesota Stars. He’s young, attractive, and new to the scene; the hockey universe is predicting big things for him in the upcoming years.
Furthermore, his face messes with my girl regions. He’s not handsome, he’s hot—a shaggy hot mess of dark hair, dark eyes, and a smile that is now quirking up in my direction.
“No need to apologize,” he says carefully. “I didn’t mind, but I’m sorry to have startled you.”
Next, I make the mistake of looking down. Another wave of horror and odd fascination washes over me as I blurt out, “Where are your pants?”
Most of the time I wish I had a filter, and this is one of those times. Sadly, I do not—a trait I inherited from Papa Peretti.
He looks down, his gorgeous torso on display. Around his waist hangs a towel, and I can’t think straight. My mind jumps straight to all the dirty thoughts it can muster. Honestly, he is asking for it.
What man answers the door with a towel around his waist? With his body, it’s a sin for him to do that to my heart. I could die. I mean, it’s not like I’m an exerciser, for reasons I’ve already covered.
“Sorry, I just got out of the shower,” he says. “Is that my pizza?”
“Smiley face, extra cheese,” I say. “Boner is served.” I don’t know why I say this. It makes him smile, but it makes me want to die. “I meant dinner. Goodbye.”
I shove the box into his hands and turn around. For once, I run. I fly down that path like my life depends on it. Only when I reach Papa Peretti’s car do I realize I haven’t been paid.
I sigh, and then I climb into my car. I’m late for my show, I owe my dad money, and I just hid in the bushes for what felt like an hour. The only positive in all of this will be the look on Angela’s face when I tell her the story.
CHAPTER 3
Ryan
Damn. I’m standing here in a towel, holding a stack of bills and watching the most adorable delivery girl run away without her money. I can’t exactly go chasing after her because, well, I’m wearing a towel and nothing else.