“Not really, I already have it,” I say. “But I don’t like the font they used, so could you please type it up for me?” I hold back the wince because this is easily the douchiest thing I’ve ever said or asked for. I’ve had my douche moments and slip-ups—texting Oye my dick to Ollie, acting as Silas, that was one of them—but this, this tops them all.
“You want me to type up the book in a different font? Like the whole book?”
“Yup,” I say. My leg quivers with instant regret. “Uh, in Arial font please. Something about it is soothing to the eye and easier for me to read.”
“Okay, uh . . . I could get you a Kindle or something. You could change the font that way.”
“Oh, this isn’t on Kindle.”
“It’s not?” she asks. “What book is it?”
Yeah, Posey, what book is it?
If I were Halsey, I’d have a stack of books to choose from. But I’m not the group bookworm. I’m the kinky one—not that any of them know that. The only books I have are stuffed in my nightstand on how to properly tie a woman, and I’m not about to have her type up one of those.
That’s when my eyes land on the coffee table books.
Perfect.
“That one,” I say, pointing at the book on the top that I believe is about Vermont.
She glances at it, then back at me. “Is that a book about Vermont?”
“Yup,” I say. “Very passionate about the state. Did a fourth-grade report about it, and well, I just love me some maple syrup and changing leaves. Would love to know more about that sliver of heaven. So yeah, if you could type that up for me, I’d appreciate it.”
“Uh, sure. Can I give it to you in chapters? Might take me a while.”
“Installments will work,” I say even though I know that’s not what Coach Wood asked for.
“Also, I have this stain,” I say, lifting one of my placemats that I doused in barbecue sauce this morning. To hell if I was about to stain my rug or carpet not knowing her stain defense techniques. A placemat is easy to let go of if she royally fucks it up. And it’s not like Coach Wood will be able to tell the difference from the picture I took of the stain. At least I hope he won’t.
“Oh, that is quite the stain. Looks like you smeared barbecue sauce all over your placemat.” Yup, pretty much.
“I can be a clumsy eater,” I say. “Think you could get this stain out? I have an attachment to this placemat. I eat best when using it.”
Her brows raise in question, and I don’t blame her. That’s something one of my idiot friends would say, not me. I don’t say stupid shit. I correct stupid shit. Except when I’m nervous or I’m put in an uncomfortable position. Like making myself look like an absolute dick.
“Well, have no fear. I’ll take care of the stain, and you can eat your best once again.”
“Thank you,” I say while putting the placemat down. “I also have two other things that are meticulous but necessary. You know, superstitions and all.”
“Oh, I know all about them.” She leans a little forward and whispers, “Did you know that my dad has to do the sign of the cross over his underwear before he puts it on every game day?”
Oh fuck, that’s amazing.
I hold back my snort, but it makes my eyes water. I try to blink away the tears of amusement, but God, that’s great intel.
Coach Wood, blessing his fucking underwear. If hiring Wylie as my assistant means I get special snippets about Coach Wood to make him less . . . scary, then this was one of my best decisions.
Blessing his fucking underwear. *mentally shakes head* That will be shared with the boys.
“Oh yeah, blessing the underwear, I totally get it,” I say even though I don’t. What does blessing your crotch have anything to do with the game? The man must think very highly of his penis—like it has magical powers on how the game plays out. To each their own, I guess.
“So what can I do to help you with your superstitions?” she asks.
I clear my throat and hope she doesn’t judge me for this. “Well, now that school is in session, it reminds me of my elementary days when we would go back-to-school shopping.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. Nothing smells better than a new box of crayons.” She smiles up at me.
“That and number two pencils,” I say, hating myself and Coach Wood. “I like them so much that I like to fill the apartment with them.”
She shifts and stares at me quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I just think they’re nice to have, you know, around the house, on display.”
“Ohh-kay. So do you want me to get you some pencils?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling like an idiot. “Fifty.”
“Fifty?” Her eyes widen.
“Yes, fifty. And I’d like them to be sharpened. But not with a motorized sharpener. I don’t like the burnt smell that it gives off when you sharpen a pencil. I’d like them to be sharpened manually and placed in a vase.”
She slowly nods. “And where do you want this vase placed?”
“Uh, dining room table, like flowers.”
She glances back at the dining room table with nothing on it, the one space I’ve yet to decorate, mainly because it’s a forgotten space. I never use it. The only reason I have the table is for . . . well . . . extracurricular activities, hence the hidden hooks underneath for, well, you know, restraining someone.
“So you want fifty manually sharpened number two pencils placed in a vase on the dining room table?”
“That would be correct.”
She writes it down on her pad as she says, “Feels like You’ve Got Mail.”
“Huh?” I ask.
“You know, when Tom Hanks says he’d send Meg Ryan a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if he knew her name and address since she loves New York in the fall.” I stare at her, and she shakes her head, continuing to write on her notepad. “Never mind. Anything else?”
“Skittles,” I say.
“Skittles,” she says flatly. “Do you want some?”
“Yes—”
“And let me guess, you want them sorted by color with a certain ratio?”
Shocked that she’d guess that, I nod. “Yes. Fifty percent red, the rest I don’t care.”
She winks. “Red is my favorite too.” She writes down a note. “Anything else?”
“Uh, I think that’s it for now. I’ll have Blakely send you my social media clips so you can start working on posts, and I’ll get Penny involved with you on the calendar stuff. I have it so they just input my events on the calendar, but now you can approve them and prepare me for what I have going on every week.”
“Sounds great.” She smiles brightly. “And as for moving in, am I allowed to paint? Hang things?”
“Yeah, whatever you want to make it comfy.”
“Okay, great. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take part of the day to set up my space, so I’m free for you moving forward.”
“Yeah, that works,” I say.
“Great.” She holds out her hand, and weirdly, I take it. She gives it a good shake. “It’s a pleasure to work for you, Mr. Posey.” I lift a brow, which causes her to laugh. “I mean, Levi.” She winks and then heads back through the kitchen toward her hole in the wall.
I lean against the counter and let out a deep breath.
I can do this.
I will probably barely even see her.
And in the meantime—because I cannot ever fuck my hot-as-hell assistant, who I want more than my next Cup win—I have to find someone to fuck. I need to get this raw and exasperating energy out of me.
Levi:I’m unwell.
Eli:Is it the bologna? Dude, we don’t want to hear about it.
Halsey:I told you not to eat that shit.
Pacey:Remember when he got sick in Banff from eating five sandwiches within two hours?
Silas:Remember when I got sick just hearing him say he devoured the whole package of bologna while doing it?
Levi:This has nothing to do with my precious bologna. Stop hating on it, you fucks.
OC:You know, we really shouldn’t be food shaming.
Eli:OC, you have some brown on your nose.
Silas:Yeah, dude. If you’re sucking up because you’re looking for love help, just act like you don’t want it. He’ll insert himself then.
Levi:PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’m unwell because I stepped on a mouse and killed it today. I can still feel the squish.
Pacey:Why the hell did you step on a mouse?
Silas:Ew, were you wearing a shoe?
Eli:I don’t understand why you feel like you need to share this with us.
Halsey:That’s . . . gross.
OC:Guess I’ll be the only one who asks . . . are you okay, Posey?
Levi:No. Mentally distraught. Thank you, OC, for being my only friend. Also, yes, I was wearing shoes, and it was an accident.
Silas:Seriously, OC, chill, man.
Levi:Does anyone care about the mouse? Or me?
Pacey:*deadpans* Yes, we care so much. We hope everything is okay with your life.
Eli:Sending you well wishes and sorrows.
Silas:Prayers for the mouse.
OC:May he rest in peace . . .
Halsey:Moment of silence.
Levi:Thanks, guys, that means a lot. Now that we’ve celebrated a mousy life of living among the dust and baseboards, let’s move on to more important things. Coach blesses his underwear before every game. The sign of the cross right over the crotch. I’ll never be able to look at him the same.
Eli:That’s what you should have started out with. Holy shit.
Silas:Did you hear this from your new assistant?
Levi:Directly from her, without even asking. It was handed to me on a silver platter.
Eli:You know, this new assistant thing might be a great idea. Can you find out if he squeals when he’s excited as well?
Pacey:What kind of question is that? You know he barely smiles.
Eli:But maybe when he’s alone, he squeals.
Halsey:Do you want him to squeal?
Silas:Better question . . . do you want to make him squeal?
Eli:Yes *deadpans* I want to make our coach squeal.
Pacey:As the brother of your future wife, I’m going to say I’m not happy about this.
Silas:You know, I never thought of you as someone who likes to make a man squeal in delight, but now that I think about it . . .
OC:What the hell am I reading?
Levi:Eli wants to bless Coach Wood’s underwear for him.
Eli:Oh fuck off, all of you.
OC:Maybe he wants to eat an apple while he blesses the underwear. (See what I did there?)
Pacey:Bringing it full circle. I approve.
Silas:Clever.
Halsey:I think I need to leave this group chat.
Levi:You’re slowly becoming my favorite with every passing day, OC.
Eli:You must have low standards, then.
OC:Ouch, quite the burn, but it doesn’t quite compare to the burn you feel in your loins over wanting to make Coach Wood squeal.
Silas:Oh shit.
Halsey:Okay, that was good.
Pacey:I snorted on Winnie. She’s not happy.
Levi:Appreciate the use of loins.