Page 22 of I Think He Knows
“I am not having this conversation with you, Min.”
“Yes, you are. You’re as in denial as Liam was when he tried to convince me he actually had a life before Annie came along and married him.”
She’s not wrong—my brother Liamwasa grumpy workaholic before he met his now-wife. But I fold my arms and glare. “Well, if I like Carter so much, why did I ask you to set me up with Billy?”
“You tell me.”
I cannot tell her. Because the exact reason I asked Mindy to set me up with Billy was to stop pining after freaking Carter when I’m freaking eternally stuck in his friendzone. Which is a fact I have never admitted—and will never admit—aloud to another living soul.
Buzz!
As if he can sense that we’re talking about him, Carter’s picture fills my phone screen. It’s a shot I snapped last year when he was briefly in town, fresh from a breakup with an up-and-coming ESPN sports reporter (who had a stunning face and curves for days, of course) and looking to “blow off some steam.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that until we arrived at Six Flags Over Georgia and he revealed his plan to ride the Goliath coaster over and over until we puked our cotton-candy-stuffed guts out. Like I said, men are glorified children. But did I go along with his harebrained plan?
Hell yeah, I did.
The picture that is currently serving as my contact for Carter was taken on our way up the roller coaster for the seventh time. He’s got his arm draped around me casually, facing the camera as he laughs, hair tousled, eyes crinkled… meanwhile, I have my head tilted towards him, looking at him like he’s the sun and I’m suffering from a crippling Vitamin D deficiency.
“Ooh, is that Sexy McSexerson himself on the phone?” Mindy’s beady eyes pivot to my screen and she smiles wickedly.
I grab my phone with lightning speed. “His name is Carter,” I hiss, sliding my thumb across the screen to answer. “And he’snotsexy.”
Mindy makes a “pfffft” sound and waves her hand. “Try telling that to his butt.”
“Who’s not sexy?” Carter’s deep voice asks on the other end of the line, playful and teasing as ever.
“Kermit the frog,” I reply, and I’m rewarded with a throaty laugh.
“I think we very much established that after your weird frog-themed date last week. Plus, Miss Piggy is the only sexy muppet. Fact.”
“I don’t know. Fozzie Bear was kinda hot.”
“You would think that, you adorable little weirdo.” I know he means his comment innocently, just as a joke, but my stomach flips all the same. My body doesn’t seem to understand that it shouldn’t respond to him like this, including over the phone. I blame that damn sexy voice of his.
“Anyhow, what’s up?” My voice, on the other hand, is high and slightly strangled and the polar opposite of sexy. Beside me, Mindy is watching me blush and squirm with ill-concealed delight, like I’m a circus sideshow or something.
“Thought I’d call to see how your date went.”
“Didn’t we already text about that earlier? Serial killer pizza, the desire to be stabbed in your huge implants on-screen, and so forth?”
Another laugh. “Yeah, but none of that actually told me how itwent.”
For a moment, I’m confused. Does he care about me so much (platonically) that he genuinely hopes it was a great date? Because this feels like a strange reason to be calling on a Friday night when we’ve already been texting all evening. Shouldn’t Carter be out wining and dining Freya DiMauritz right now? Despite his insistence that he’s only been meeting her for work reasons, there sure are alotof pictures surfacing of them together online.
And don’t even get me started on the shirtless masterpieces that were his Malibu surfing pictures… I didn’t even know that Carter likes to surf. Sometimes, his life in LA feels so removed from the Atlanta Carter I know.
“Oh, I guess not.” I’m trying to concentrate on the call, but Mindy is now up on the couch, cradling Harry Styles in her arms as she shakes her booty and gets right up in my face while mouthing the words to “Baby Got Back”. I wave her off, giving her crazyshhhhhheyes as I say, “It went okay.”
“A glowing endorsement.”
I reach for my wine and take a gulp. My heart is pounding harder than it did at last year’s Six Flags Pukegate, when he held down his twenty-five pounds of turkey leg and funnel cake like a champ, while I projectiled into a trashcan after Goliath ride nine.
Because the truth is, it didnotgo okay.
Andrew is a nice man.
A nice man who holds doors for me and asks me questions about myself and actually listens when I answer and says please and thank you to service staff.