Those Three Little Words (The Vancouver Agitators, #2)

by Meghan Quinn

“Just looking for some company. Are you really going to make me spend my birthday alone?” Well, isn’t that just a kick to my flimsy escape plan?

“True, but I’m choosing you now. Are you really going to turn me down?” Uhhh . . . I’m trying to, but failing magnificently. I’d like to state it’s not my fault. Just look at him. I’d love to see any one of you say no to him. Go ahead, give it a shot. Yeah . . . that’s what I thought. Impossible. Goodbye girls’ night. I had plans, you know, of talking to Blakely about my latest waxing experience—which was a nightmare—and asking her what she thinks of that period underwear you see advertised all over the place. Oh . . . and how I spent two hours the other night watching this beautiful Turkish baker plow her fist into proofed bread dough over and over again. That is not the kind of conversation that should be had in front of a man like Eli. Nor should he obtain humiliating information like that about me. Also, I’m not sure he would have a valuable opinion on period underwear.

“It is my birthday.” He sets his drink on the small, circular table. “Well, Happy Birthday,” she says. “And I hate to do this because celebrating your birthday seems like a lot of fun . . .” Uhh, hate to do what? Why is she standing from her chair? Why isn’t she lifting her drink to take a sip? Why the hell is she putting her purse strap over her shoulder? “But Perry called, and he came home early to surprise me. I’d love to see where this night takes us, but my Valentine is requesting my presence.” She pouts her lip, but it falls flat on me. I don’t believe her.

“You’re just going to leave?” I ask her, panic laced in my voice. I give her a look, the best friend look that says, “Please, Jesus, don’t leave me alone with him,” but because she’s the evil wench that she is, she deliberately doesn’t translate my plea. “Yes, but you have Hornsby here to keep you company and possibly be your wingman.” “Wingman?” Hornsby says. “Are you looking to hook up with someone, Penny?” “What? No!” My cheeks flame with embarrassment. “No, I didn’t even want to come out tonight, but Blakely convinced me. I was fine with just hanging out at my place and eating a gallon of ice cream . . . errrr, I mean pint, a pint of ice cream.” *Whispers* I actually meant what I said. A gallon. A full-on gallon of creamy, delicious milkiness. Possibly even with some sprinkles or chocolate fudge. Definitely cherries. But of course I’m not going to admit that in front of Mr. Rock-Hard Body.

“Take a seat, stay a while,” he says, pushing out a stool for me with his wing-tipped covered foot. Wow, just wow. I can’t believe Blakely did that. And to my demise, there’s not much I can do. I’m not strong enough to set my drink down and walk away without a word. I have to see the man at work, for goodness’ sake. My only out was Blakely, and my ex-best friend just left me. I have no choice. Succumbing to the trickery, I take a seat and then bring my drink to my lips. Blakely is going to get an earful from me tomorrow. Best friend card positively revoked. She will need to earn that back with lots of presents. Pretty, glittery presents . . . and cash. Yes, I will require cold-hard cash from her to even get back in my good graces. She will need to fan the cash in my face while telling me why I am all sorts of accomplished in button sewing. The price you pay for leaving me. At least fifty dollars . . . in ones, just to make it annoying. Maybe ten dollars in quarters. Five dollars in nickels. All placed in a jar that is labeled “I’m sorry” with a heart on it. Said jar should be presented to me while she hands me my favorite coffee drink—skinny vanilla latte—a new glittery notebook, and a matching pen. Yup, that will be her penance. Even with that, she’ll still be on probation. I’ll just consider letting her talk to me.

“Hey, are you okay? Are you really that angry?” Eli asks, pulling me from my thoughts of murderous ways to get Blakely back. “Because you seem like you’re ready to fist-punch that drink across the room.” I stare at Blakely’s drink, considering doing exactly that. A swift punch of it across the room feels satisfactory.

“Fine and all?” Eli says, looking insulted. “Just fine? You know a lot of people would feel excited to share a drink with me.” “Yes, of course. All of the people. Including me,” I say, backtracking. “Very excited.” I tap my drink to his. “Cheers to being excited about spending the night together.” I take a sip as a smile passes over his lips. “Wait, I didn’t mean spending the night together like that, you know, like the way you like to spend the night with women . . . naked. I just meant mutually together in a nonsexual way. Strictly platonic. We don’t have sex. That’s not something we do. We barely talk, so sex is definitely not something we do.” Jesus, Penny, stop talking. I take a large gulp of my drink. But then . . . I keep going. “Not that it would be bad sex,” I continue for God knows what reason. The nerves, and that three-piece suit—and the no socks, his ankles seem so dreamy—the combination is shaking me to my very core.

Never hurts a man’s ego to hear the woman he’s been lusting after for two years thinks he’s attractive. Nope, I’m going to keep that little nugget of info very close to my dick.

“I’m tucking that snippet of knowledge away forever.” She sighs heavily. “Why do you have to rub it in like that? Clearly, it’s embarrassing for me to talk about⁠—” “Rub it in? I’m not rubbing it in. I’m basking in the glory of Penny Lawes thinking I’m attractive.” “Why on earth would you do that?” she asks with a pinch of her brow. “Uhh . . . because you’re a fucking goddess and being recognized by you feels really fucking amazing,” I say before I can stop myself.

Finally, she quietly leans in and whispers, “Is this some sort of prank show that I’m on, and I don’t know about it?” “What?” I ask, confused. She motions between us. “This . . . this can’t possibly be a real thing, so do you have me on a prank show? Oh God, is this for the team? Are there cameras?” She looks around again, lifting out of her chair to get a better look. I settle my hand on her shoulder and push her back on her seat. Looking her in the eyes, I say, “There is no prank show, Penny. I wouldn’t do that to you.” She studies me again, her expression a mixture of humor and confusion. I’m not quite sure if she’s about to lay down an onslaught of questions or burst out in laughter. She chooses the latter. It starts slow. A chuckle. A small ha . . . until it turns into a full-on guffaw followed by a litany of outlandish laughter so obnoxiously loud that people around us start to glance our way. The laughter takes over every last inch of her body, shaking her from head to toe to the point of actual tears. Freaking tears. With a napkin, she blots at her eyes, pauses . . . glances at me, and starts laughing all over again.

I don’t think earlobes are the least bit sexy. They’re dangling skin bits attached to your head. It’s a good thing someone thought to pierce them because they need a little something to make them not so freaky. But yes, here I am, panting and sweating like a freaking hockey player after three periods on the ice from one little nip. A brief nibble. It’s not like he stuck his tongue in my ear—which by the way, yuck—nor did he suck on my ear or make out with it. His teeth made a brief pass, and before I could register what was happening, he was back in place, sipping his beer. Yet it was life-altering.

He wants to see my boobs bounce in his face? What on earth? My . . . *gulp* pussy pulse against his length. I never in my life have heard such a sinister sentence. That’s why I need the booze. Because I’m a bundle of nerves about to either curl into a ball of anxiety or legit pull my boob from my dress and lay it on the table as an appetizer for the voraciously hungry man sitting next to me. Boob for the taking. Preferably to be used as a sucking device. DO YOU SEE WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT? I’ve completely lost it.

“You know I was about to say that’s hard to believe, but just by the way you dress, I’d guess you’re a waxer. Do you wax your chest?” He nods. “Yeah. Chest, balls, and ass.” Well, isn’t that . . . information. “I see.” I clear my throat. “You, uh, you still do that?” He nods again. “Yes, I think it makes me skate faster. I got Taters to go with me once. He shrieked like a feral cat in heat and walked around after like someone stuck a hot iron on his nads, but he got used to it and now goes regularly.”

Blakely looks confused as ever. “Then, uh, how do you expect Pacey not to find out?” “I thought about that while you were driving over here. And the only thing I could come up with is that I start eating a lot around him. So much food that he possibly grows concerned. Whenever he’s around, there’s a burger in my mouth or ice cream, even an entire pizza. So when I start gaining weight, he’ll just think it’s because of this new eating habit I have.” Blakely taps her chin and nods. “Novel idea, absolutely brilliant.” She holds her finger up. “One problem, though. After nine months of eating yourself into oblivion, you’re going to have a baby. Dare I ask how you plan on explaining that?” “Uh . . . random stranger dropped the baby off at my apartment door because she thought the flower wreath I hang year round is inviting, so they thought I’d do a good job raising a baby?”

“This is a package deal. What I go through, you go through. You accepted those terms when you decided to be my best friend.” “I don’t remember signing any contract.” I prop my hands on my hips in irritation. “It’s a silent contract. Best friends are BOGOs. Buy one, get one. That’s us. So my pregnancy is your pregnancy.” “Yeah, you keep saying that, and every time, it makes me want to take a step farther and farther away from you.” She pushes her hair behind her ear. “I’m too young to be thinking about babies and all of that. Perry and I are still just having fun.” “Oh, my God, and you think I wanted this?” She shrugs. “I guess . . . you play, you pay.”

I hit send and hope that the guys don’t hate on me. Holmes: Yeah, that’s awkward. Taters: Peggy Leggy? What the fuck is that? Posey: You know . . . Peggy Leggy could go either way. Charming or terrifying. Taters: Nothing is charming about Peggy Leggy. She is the deranged doll in your grandma’s attic that was never loved but somehow lost an arm anyway. Holmes: Can’t jump on board with Peggy Leggy. Sorry. Posey: I don’t think we’re being fair about Peggy Leggy. Hornsby: ENOUGH WITH PEGGY LEGGY! Taters: Dude, you can’t throw down a name like that without telling us you vetoed it. Can you imagine Peggy Leggy Hornsby? Woof. Posey: Hey, don’t you dare woof at Peggy Leggy. She might be a tattered shell of a baby, but she’s still Hornsby’s lineage. Holmes: Did you veto the name? Hornsby: Jesus Christ, of course I did. Peggy Leggy Hornsby is not happening. Taters: At least he didn’t lose his common sense, boys.

Hornsby: So the problem is me? Taters: Yep, dipshit. But if you’re still lost, it’s called Google. Stock up on questions and ask some. And when she talks, actually listen rather than thinking where you can stick your dick in her. Holmes: She really is sweet, and listening is key. Posey: And the not sticking your dick in her is second to the listening.

Where has all the charm from the bar and his apartment gone, Blakely? We got on so well, laughed, had sex, and now we have no clue how to be around each other? I mean, I shrieked the other night when I saw him with his shirt undone.” I lean in and whisper, “I licked his nipples, Blakely, and now I’m clutching my pearls over seeing a little man-cleave? What is wrong with me?”

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles while throwing his blankets off and walking over to me. “Hand me your phone.” “Why? What are you going to say? Don’t say anything stupid.” “Any more stupid than I ate an apple?” He quirks one brow at me. “You know what I mean.” He shakes his head in annoyance and then starts typing away on my phone. I try to look over his shoulder, but he turns away from me, blocking me from seeing the screen. “What are you writing? Hey, I can’t see. Did you send it? Don’t send it without my approval, and don’t say anything inappropriate like ‘I like your ass.’” He glances over his shoulder. “Do you like her ass?” “Of course, it’s hard not to like everything about her body.” Another raise of an eyebrow, and this time, he fully turns toward me. “Eli Watkins Hornsby⁠—” “That’s not my middle name.”

“Okay, so then . . . what do I say?” She rolls her eyes so hard I’m afraid they might fall out of her head. “Tell him how you’re feeling. My God, woman. What is wrong with you?” “The baby,” I say. “It’s sucking all of the intelligence out of me.” “I’m not sure that’s how pregnancy works.”

“I want to be there,” Eli says, but it’s still Posey I’m technically talking to. “But you’re weird.” “I’m weird?” I ask. “You’re the one telling me the only part of a horse you like is its mane.” Posey turns away and asks, “You said that to her?” “It was a weak moment for me. I didn’t know what else to say.”

Posey claps me on the shoulder, and we both take a seat at our lockers. He whispers, “He’ll come around. On the other hand, I’ll tell you right now, if you ever fuck up my nap again, I’ll murder you myself.” “Noted.”

“I’m not being weird.” He turns to face me. “You’re acting like you’re hiding something.” And then as if the answer crosses his mind, his eyes go wide, and he says, “Oh shit, do you . . . do you uh, have someone here?” He can’t possibly be serious. What would I even do with a man right now? Introduce him to my witch zit? Tell him I’ve never in my life had an actual third eye on my face before. Ask him to braid my cheek hair? Or would I show him how bloated my stomach is, give him a little shimmy of my protruding stomach from what I can only assume is gas, since it’s too early to be showing baby just yet. Maybe introduce him to the farts. Or better yet, give him a detailed tour of exactly where I threw up this morning and maybe a reenactment.

And before I can grasp his arm and hold him back, he moves past me and straight into the bathroom. The word “nooooooooooooo” is on the tip of my tongue as I watch him pause at the sink. He looks back at me and then points at his shoe. “Why is my shoe in the sink?” For the love of God, why? Why are you doing this to me? Especially on a day like today when I look like Shrek’s ugly friend Elmira with the third eye. WHY? I’ll tell you freaking why because my luck, when it comes to dignity during this season of my life, has absolutely run out. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had any dignity since Eli fertilized me. Nope, it was stripped away from me. Apparently, it is not only my responsibility to carry this child but to suffer wild embarrassment the entire time as well. Fine. I accept it.

I’m blasted right back to the present when I hear, “Fuck, what’s that smell?” My vomit. That is my wet vomit you’re smelling, you beautiful nimrod! “What smell?” I ask, playing nonchalant. Be cool, Penny, be cool. This is your moment to shine. Story time. *Mentally rubs hands together* We are taking back our dignity! “If you’re smelling anything, then you’re probably smelling the beginning of athlete’s foot. You don’t wear socks with loafers, so mold and creep are bound to accrue. Maybe consider a different shoe, something less showy and instead, more practical.” Oooo, good one! Not only did you deter, but you insulted the ridiculously gorgeous grossed-out man in front of you. I move away from the bathroom, happy with my response and hoping he follows, but when he doesn’t, I know there’s a slight possibility that my story is not settling well in his head. “That is not athlete’s foot.” I glance over my shoulder just in time for him to look closer. His eyes shoot to mine, and he asks, “Is that vomit in my shoe?” What is he, Inspector Gadget? Jesus.

“Penny . . . did you throw up in my shoe this morning, then hide my shoes so I wouldn’t notice?” “Ha.” I guffaw so loudly, I startle the both of us. “What a far-fetched, entirely factitious thought.”

“Those aren’t the shoes you wear when we play the Freeze,” Taters says while we both head to the locker room in preparation for game time. “I’m well aware.” “Are you trying to jeopardize our chances tonight?” “My shoes were incapacitated for tonight.” “What the hell does that mean?”

“Just ready for the game,” I say, gripping my stick tightly. “Okay, because it doesn’t quite look like you’re ready for the game. It looks like you’re ready to murder.” Yeah, that too.

“Right, right. Okay, proceed.” “So we’re looking for a pregnancy journal for me, and somehow, we got on the topic about where we conceived the baby. And then, it hit me, this wave of heat followed by vivid, and I mean . . . vivid images of that night. And just like that, I became all panting and needy and . . . horny. It was so bad. Then he leaned down to be eye level with an extremely concerned look on his face. It was mortifying.” “Oh my God, you told him you were fantasizing right there, in front of the how to birth a melon books?” “Good God, no! Are you insane? I told him I had to pee and fled.” “Smart move.”

“Did your sister ever experience something like this? For weeks, I’ve been so disgusted by the mere thought of a penis or any sort of affection that I feel absolutely out of sorts right now that a penis doesn’t seem so repulsive anymore.” “Are you saying penises offer affection? Because it’s more like a pounding—depending on who you’re with, but affection? The penis doesn’t have that kind of bone in its sheath of skin.” I’m silent for a second and then say, “I honestly hate you right now.” “I’m just spitting out facts.”

He adjusts his cuffs and then holds his arms out. “How do I look?” Really. Fucking. Good. Lickable. Suckable. Fuckable. I plaster on a smile and offer him a thumbs up. “Matching.” “Matching?” He raises a brow at me. “That’s all you have to say? I’m matching?” “Takes a noble man to be able to mix textures like you.” I offer him a golf clap. “Well done, dear sir.”

“Why would they think you sent yourself flowers?” “Because that’s what I told them when they asked who they were from. I am panicking. Can you hear that I’m panicking? Because I am. I haven’t told them about the baby yet and then all of a sudden, while I’m trying to enjoy freaking Ben and Jerry’s and watch a movie to get my mind off the fact that I miss your company, my parents come barging in with your flowers. Eli, this is not good. They’re going to be able to smell it.” “Smell what?” “My pregnancy,” I hiss again. “Keep up.”

She chuckles and takes my hand. “So you’re telling me those second trimester hormones haven’t kicked in?” I gulp. “I, uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She just smiles. “Okay, honey.”

Okay . . . well, slap me in the ass because I believe heart eyes are beaming out of me, right in front of my parents, over a plate of lasagna.

“Great. So, do you want to watch some Ozark?” She walks over to the couch, reaches for the remote, and turns on the TV as she takes a seat and curls her legs under her. I stand there, awkwardly, still very much confused. And slightly frightened. Is something going to happen to me if I take a seat next to her? Did she not just go in the kitchen for water? Did she slip a knife under her shirt, and I didn’t see it? What happens if I don’t take a seat? Will she lash out? Start crying? Act normal?

“Why are you being weird? Sit down.” She pats the couch. I’m being weird? Me? Uh, last I knew, she was crying and upset, and now, she’s acting as if nothing had happened. Where did she even go? A place that erases memory? Is Men in Black real?

Does she know I fucking live for the smell of that lotion? That I so look forward to the smell of it at night that I actually bought myself a travel-size bottle. And I’m so pathetic that I rub it on my hands at night before I go to bed when I’m away. I hope to fuck she doesn’t know that. “I think I need to go buy new bras tomorrow.” Gulp.

“Bigger boobs and increased libido, that’s what it says in the books. I was telling Blakely the other day, that I’m wearing out my vibrator with the number of times I use it.” Ummm . . . what? *Blinks* *Blinks again* She’s, uh . . . *clears throat* she’s wearing out her vibrator?

She chuckles, and the sound hits me right in the goddamn dick. “Don’t worry, I just figured lying on the bed would be more comfortable. That way, you can straddle me and have better access.” Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Remember when I said I was stupid? I meant it. “You can use my lotion that’s on the nightstand,” she says. Oh great, the lotion that makes me horny just from the smell of it. Awesome. Thumbs up.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to keep a handle on things. Think of gross things, things that won’t make your dick hard like . . . Posey eating a bologna sandwich. And . . . Taters showing me that hairball from the locker room showers the other day. And . . . the gash in Pacey’s knee that one time we played hockey on his hometown lake. Blood. There was so much blood. Lots and lots of blood. “Yes,” she whispers. “Right there. Ohhh, Eli. I owe you so much after this.” BLOOD! He needed six stitches. They did it without Novocain. “You’re giving me chills.” Her butt lifts up against my cock. TOENAILS. He didn’t cut his toenails. I remember telling him he should have cut them in case of something like going to the hospital for stitches ever happened. Because blood . . . all of the blood.

“He’s not breaking,” I say as I take a seat at the bistro table Blakely and Winnie are sitting at. “Who’s not breaking? What are we talking about?” Winnie asks, looking between us. Blakely and I exchange glances, and I give her a curt nod. “Winnie,” Blakely says. “We love you, and we want you to be in this circle of trust, but there’s a slight conflict of interest. You’re dating Penny’s brother, and what we’re about to discuss can’t get back to Pacey. So, we know this is asking a lot from you. Do you think you can keep this information in this circle, right here?” Blakely motions between all of us. “Are you asking . . .” She pauses and glances over her shoulder and then whispers, “To form an alliance?” I slowly nod my head. “A bosom buddy alliance.” I point at our chests. “We all have boobs. This is information only for those who have boobs.” Winnie rubs her hands together. “I’ve always wanted to form an alliance. This feels right. Should we touch nipples to seal the deal?” “Or we can shake on it,” Blakely says. “I mean sure, not as fun, but sure.”

“Exactly.” Blakely slaps the table. “Oh, this is good. That will make him crack, especially if you say something like you’re going out with the girls.” “And then we do go out,” Winnie adds. “And we dance, and he sees you dancing, and he won’t want anyone else dancing with you, so he’ll swoop in. And that’s when you rub your ass all over his crotch. He’ll take you to the bathroom, and that’s where you stick your hand in his pants and feel how hard he is. He says something like ‘you’ve been a naughty girl’, and you say ‘well, spank me then’, and you bend over, and he whacks you on the ass, once . . . twice. Three times! You moan, and then he moves you against the stall of the bathroom and lifts your skirt⁠—” “Umm, Winnie?” I say. She blinks a few times and looks up at our staring faces. “Did I go too far?” “Just a bit,” I say.

“Wow, this bosom buddy alliance really works fast. We have flirting in front of him, new nighttime wear, and then of course, a last-resort, birthday mishap. I must say, ladies, we might be able to run the country with the kind of work we do.” Blakely holds up her water. “Agreed. We know how to get work done. I’m proud of us. Now, we just need our friend Penny to execute agreed plans.” They both eye me, and I set my shoulders back, puffing my chest. “I shall do my best in getting this man to stick his penis inside me.” “That’s all we can ask for.” Blakely smiles. “And then you have to tell us about it.”

I move past him and his blazing eyes, fill up a glass with water, and walk back to the bedroom, where I grab my phone and text the bosom buddy alliance while I brush my teeth. Penny: I think we might be at a breaking point. There’s some serious anger brewing in that man. Blakely: Really? Wasn’t happy about you “going out”? Penny: Didn’t seem like it. He texted me several times, and now, he looks absolutely distraught. I kind of feel bad. Winnie: Don’t! He’s being ridiculous. He’s trying to uphold some stupid promise to Pacey, which Pacey has no right making in the first place. Break him, Penny. BREAK HIM! Blakely: Agreed. He clearly likes you. You’re just pushing him into the light. Penny: Okay. P.S. this nightgown is fire, ladies. Oh my God, I’ve never felt sexier. I’m not wearing underwear. Blakely: *WHIPS BRA OVER HEAD* Yeahhhhhh, girl, get some!

Hear that, motherfucker . . . my girl is satisfied, so go take your goddamn side-eye somewhere else. Honestly, what is this guy’s problem? Because I couldn’t come to some appointments, he’s going to be a dick? How unprofessional. Someone is going to get a riveting Google AND Yelp review after this. Big Pecs is incredibly intrusive, obsessed with holding pregnant bellies, and has a poppyseed tooth. Bedside manner is lacking, shirts far too small for his monster truck chest, and shows blatant hate toward hockey, which is a sin in Vancouver. One out of ten: would not recommend him. We spend the next few minutes talking about other pregnancy things while I watch his hand move over her belly, smoothing, gliding . . . stroking. The back of my teeth grinds down out of pure, jealous rage. Call me crazy, but I think Big Pecs has it out for me.

“You’re going to get me presents?” I ask with a raise of my brow. “We’re not assholes,” Taters says. “Of course we’re going to get you stuff. Blakely invited us to the baby shower, so we’re not going to show up empty-handed. And it would be helpful if we had some direction.” I chuckle. “I can’t imagine you three walking around a baby store, picking stuff out.” “Why the hell not?” Posey asks, offended. “We know things about babies.” “Oh yeah? What do you know?” “Uh . . . that they shit,” Taters says. “They take naps,” Holmes offers. “They suck on boobs,” Posey adds. “Basically, they’re mini versions of us.” “Well put.” Taters gives him a nod. “That’s awkwardly accurate,” Holmes says. “Oh, yeah?” I say. “When was the last time you’ve sucked on a boob?” Holmes shifts in his seat. “Doesn’t matter.” Posey thumbs toward Holmes. “Talk about blue balls. I walked in on this guy taking a shower during the season, and his balls were like two mini Violet Beauregardes hanging from his junk. The hue of his balls was frightening.” “Shut the fuck up,” Holmes says, kicking at Posey, who’s laughing now.

“Well, we have one clue,” Taters says. “She’s attached. Who do we know that has a boyfriend?” “It has to be in our circle,” I say. “Because Holmes never goes out.” “Could be someone in his building, though, like a neighbor.” “True.” I nod. “Has he worked with anyone recently that could have caused him to form a crush?” “Can we stop talking about this?” Holmes asks. “Uh, not that I recall,” Taters says, ignoring Holmes completely. “He’s only been working with Penny . . .” He trails off, and Holmes quickly holds up his hands. “It’s not Penny, I swear. Posey, back me up.” “I thought you were going to murder me?” “Tell them it’s not Penny.” Posey deeply sighs. “It’s not Penny . . .” “Why did he trail off like that?” Taters asks, pointing at Posey. “There was a trail,” I add. “He’s alluding to something. But what?” I wrack my brain as Holmes shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Where are you now?” “In the closet in our bedroom, wishing I could be washed away with the laundry.”

“No, no, it won’t. But thanks for the idea. I’ll keep you abreast.” “Please don’t say abreast.” “Talk to you later, bye!”

Blakely: Ummm, don’t hate me “Dragon Breath,” but it seems as though he’s actually doing all of the right things. Penny: EXACTLY. He is. Blakely: Okay, so, once again, “Mistress of the Dark,” don’t slaughter me, but I fail to realize how there is a problem. Penny: Uh, isn’t it obvious? Blakely: No. No, it’s not. Penny: He’s being too perfect! Blakely: Ah yes, what an absolute fucker. How could he *possibly* be so awful to you? Damn him all to hell.