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He says he’s straight, so I’m gonna go ahead and believe him, even if the way he eyes me makes me think there’s at least a little curiosity there. I’m not about playing games with men, so if he wants a piece of all this, he’s going to have to get to that conclusion on his own.
Ford laughs. “I don’t get up at the ass-crack of dawn for just anyone.” “Technically, it’s not dawn yet,” I point out, trying and failing not to like his words too much. “The gooch of day, then.”
“How does he make you feel?” Thinking of Orson, picturing his face and the way my cheeks hurt whenever we’re together, makes my entire body prickle with awareness. “Alive.”
How a man treats cars and kids is all the info I need on him.
My competency kink is in full overdrive that my florist slash stripper can talk cars with Taylor and hold his own.
I flip him off. “Friends can make other friends laugh.” “It’s not your words, my man. It’s your face. You pregnant? Because you’re glowing.”
He turns to face me. “Do people really find you scary?” “Apparently.” “Because of the tattoos?” “And my size.” I clear my throat. “And apparently, I have RCF.” “Which is …” “Resting criminal face.”
“How is it, being all boyfriended up?” “Feels like what I was born to do. But I don’t think it would have felt that way with anyone else.” “Nope.” Barney shifts. “I strongly believe that we don’t have soul mates, specifically, more that there are certain people in this world who we mush with.” “Mush with?” “Yeah. Like you smoosh together. Combine souls or whatever romantic shit people say.” “And you guys are mushed?” He nods. “You too. Like one big, amorphous blob.”
