Hot Stuff

I step toward the Petco bag, pull the knife I always carry from my pocket, and score open the tape that closes the flap on the box of Frank’s tank.

This guy may be a baller, but he’s not going to set this up himself, and there’s only so long he’s going to enjoy living in a plastic bag. It’s barely bigger than the diameter of his body, so it can’t be that comfortable.

Lauren notices what I’m doing and jumps into action of her own, de-tagging all the accessories and rinsing them off in the kitchen sink to get them ready.

“I wonder what temperature I’m supposed to make the water. And how long I’m supposed to let him acclimate in the bag before dumping him in.”

I shrug, pulling the Styrofoam off each side of the glass and smiling. “I don’t know. I’m sure you can find it on the Google, though.”

“The Google,” she repeats in her best Michael Scott impression. I’m not sure why, but anything with The Office makes me laugh.

She dries her hands off on a dish towel and takes her phone out of her pocket to check.

“Okay. It says sixty-eight to seventy-four degrees. And to let him acclimate in his bag floating on the top of the tank water for fifteen to thirty minutes. I wonder if it’s like waiting for paint to dry. I mean, can he move around the tank, or does he just sit there and stare at all his new stuff with longing?”

“He probably sits there and longs,” I tease.

“What? Oh, I don’t like just the idea of that. Even if you’re joking with me.” She walks from the kitchen with everything scooped up in her arms. “I feel like that would be terrible.”

I smile. “We’ll figure out something to occupy ourselves while he’s being tortured so we don’t have to watch.”

“What do you think happens if we skip the acclimation?” she asks.

“Honestly?”

She nods.

“I think it’ll probably kill him.”

“Jesus.” Her eyes go wide. “We’ll definitely have to find something to do, then. Something really distracting. Something…I don’t know. But I don’t want to have to think about Frank suffering at all.”

Truthfully, I’m pretty sure I and everyone else but Lauren knows Fat Frank probably doesn’t give a fuck about much and the only longing he does relates to the occasional meal, but in the name of being the guy who gets to find things to distract this drop-dead gorgeous woman, I keep that information to myself.

I smirk down at the nearly ready tank. Personally, I already have quite a few ideas for what we can do to pass the time, but I don’t necessarily want to scare her off.

And mentioning all the things I’m thinking of doing to her on nearly every surface of her house while we’re on a first date would almost definitely scare her off.

Wouldn’t it?

I look up slowly from my spot crouched in front of the coffee table to find her watching me. Her breathing is labored, and her breasts look fucking heavy with arousal, her peaked nipples showing through the thin material of her dress.

Fuck.

I shake my head to clear it when she licks her bottom lip, and I go back to getting this fucking tank ready.

Fat Frank, the chubby bastard, is watching me with judgy eyes.

Lauren

I pull at the neckline of my dress, a low scoop that in no way should be choking me, in an attempt to get some extra airflow to the surface of my chest. It’s tight and warm, and I’m suddenly considering things I’d never consider on a first date with a guy I hardly know.

But watching Garrett do something unhinged like unbox the tank he bought for Fat Frank is a surprising—and totally weird—aphrodisiac. I’m hot and bothered, and there’s no denying it at this point.

His veins are bulging in his arms as he turns the tank and inspects it to make sure he’s gotten it completely ready.

I take a shaky breath and put a hand to my chest.

His eyes survey me after the rough noise catches his attention. “You okay?”

I nod. I’m…nuts. Officially bonkers as of tonight, but I can’t even help myself. I want to touch him. Kiss him. See what his skin feels like against mine—see what his beard feels like against my skin.

I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I can only imagine it’s been caused by months of fantasy and a weird night spent with his piercing eyes looking at me and his handsome face tossing sexy smiles in my direction.

This man is next level.

He is the hot guy you think is unattainable. The hot guy that should be out shoving his dick into everything that moves because he can.

But he’s not. He’s…nice. Normal. Funny.

It’s the trifecta, and I thought it didn’t exist.

“Where do you want to set this up?” he asks me, thankfully avoiding asking me again about the fact that I’m about to hyperventilate. “We should probably put it where you want and then fill it with the hose. It’s going to be heavy once it’s full and hard to move.”