Page 57 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
Because if I open my mouth right now, I’m not sure what’ll come out. Probably something that makes this conversation even more awkward—or ends with Cash picking grass out of his teeth.
So instead, I throw the tennis ball again.
Nugget bolts like he’s chasing a championship title.
“She’s not uptight,” I finally say, voice low and measured. “She just doesn’t feel like partying with strangers. Imagine that.”
Cash snorts. “Man, I’mhilariouswith a beer in my hand. Total stranger barrier breaker.”
“You’re a walking HR violation.”
“Bro—I am not,” he objects weakly, knowing he’s a fun time but not the most well-behaved guy in the house. He holds up his hands, then squints like he’s trying to do long division. “You gotta admit she’s got a tight little as?—”
“You just fucking proved my point.”
Cash has the decency to look sheepish for all of two seconds—before shrugging it off and doubling down like the idiot he is.
“What?!” He doesn’t have the decency to look chagrined. “She’s got a tight little ass. That’s all I’m saying. From behind?” He whistles low. “Ten outta ten.”
I stare him down.
“And from the front?” I challenge.
He makes a face. “Ehh. Six, maybe? Seven on a good day. Little plain for my taste. Not reallymytype.”
I shouldn’t have asked.
A silence falls between us. Stretches.
My jaw tics once.
Twice.
Then I chuck the tennis ball harder than necessary, launching it halfway across the yard until it bounces off the pool house and nearly goes over the fence.
Nugget goes after it.
“She’s just not, you know…” He waves his hand in the air like he’s swatting a gnat. “Hot-hot. Like, if I passed her at a bar, I wouldn’t want to fuck her.”
I say nothing.
“Not that it matters,” he continues, stretching again and making a show of being tired. Yawns. “She doesn’t seem like the type who eventries.No make-up. Hair in those Swedish braids.”
French braids.
They’re called French braids, you dipshit.
“Like the woman you snowboard with have a full-face of make-up?” I can’t help pointing out.
He ignores me, grinning. “Dude. You’d be shocked what chicks wear to the slopes these days. Full beat. Lashes. Bikini tops. I’m telling you—the good old U S of A is breeding a different kind of athlete.”
“Cool.” I drag a hand down my face, exhausted with this conversation but he barrels ahead.
He shrugs. “I’ll put it to you this way: yeah, personality is cool or whatever. But if I’m going to stare at someone across the breakfast table, I at least want to be inspired.”
Inspired.
Jesus Christ.
