Forked (A Lighthearted Utensil Romance, #1)

by Ruth Cardello

“You’re the answer to questions I never thought my heart would ask.”

Gasping for air and waving at him, I say, “If he’s not up to your standards . . . what would you do? Fork him up?” Hugh groans and stands. I inhale sharply. Every inch of him is toned and my body comes alive with anticipation. Still, I can’t stop from poking at him more. “Thankfully, my social life is none of your forking business.” He steps closer. “Done yet?” I choke on a giggle. “Not even forking close.”

“I used to like to dress up. I also used to have friends. I don’t know what happened to me. The world closed down, and I became comfortable with my life being smaller.”

COVID realness

I don’t know why I bought the glow in the dark ones. I stash those in the drawer beside my bed along with the ribbed and flavored ones.

Lmaooo

After I got over the embarrassment of being incredibly out of shape, it’s something I’m beginning to enjoy.

I take a moment to marvel at how one decision can spiderweb change through a person’s life.

He’ll be back, though, because we are meant to be together. That’s why I kept his clothing. I prefer this version over the possibility that I slept in the arms of a mentally unstable man and am lucky he didn’t confuse me with a Nazi and murder me.

I can’t dispute that Dazaray’s philosophies improve my life. She got me out of my apartment, into the world, healthier, and I’m even meeting people.

Dazaray giving me therapist vibes with her all her great advice

I see now they’re unapologetically following their joy. I intend to do the same.

So, what’s more likely the truth? That I found a set of magical silverware full of World War II super soldiers, freed one, fell for him, and that journey empowered me to finally take charge of my life? Or . . . Did I find old silverware? Survive an overnight visit from mentally ill man? And on my own become ready to stop hiding from my life?

“I saw the flowers in the kitchen. Were they from him?” I strain to remember. “Yes.” His hands clench on my sides. “Did you fuck him?” I hold his gaze. “No.” Relief floods his eyes and his hold gentles. “Why not?” I frame his face with my hands. “Because he’s not you.”

Oh, my God, he really is a fork. My fork. I fucked my fork. I was forked.

“You sure you want to be with a fork?” There’s a vulnerability to him that melts my heart. “It’s too late to ask myself that.” I trace the side of his face. “I’m already forked.”

“You need to know that sometimes, when I’m asleep, I change color to match the pattern of my blanket.” “If I have cheese I fart so loud it wakes me up.” He barks out a laugh.

“What are you doing?” “I’m going to fuck you until you stop doubting how I feel about you.”