Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Thirty-Seven × Ad on Craigslist

You know in books, where the male lead says something incredibly romantic and the girl responds in some equally romantic response. Like, these two somehow perfectly primmed and proper individuals have somehow come together to create the most seamless, non-problematic, dialogue ever.

And aside from the somewhat click-batey tagline which makes you think they might go into detail when it comes down to sexy time, you can't help but awe in how magnificent these two are. Yeah. Well, that's like the opposite of my entire existence. I mean, if someone even tried to write me into a movie or screenplay - for what reason they ever would, I'm not sure - unless it was a horror movie or a thousand ways to die: the remake.

Anyway, even if I was written into a movie, they would need to recast me as someone else. Like some random fill-in actor that had responded to a weird (semi-sketchy) ad on Craigslist, would have to play me.

You might be wondering, Rosie, why are you talking to yourself? Why are you not swapping saliva with the incredibly bodacious hunk in front of you, that just so happens to be your boyfriend? Well, internal Zoey Deschanel from New Girl: Episode 1, telling a story, that's a good question.

It's because I'm laughing - and contemplating coffin options for when I die from embarrassment.

"Is that a line?" I ask Erik, in my usual fashion, ruining any moment that is even a smidge hardening or romantic. I'm honestly surprised he hasn't walked out the door yet, throwing his hands in the air, like, I can't work with this bitch. I would.

Instead, he continues staring at me - now with a smile, like I'm some version of Frankenstein that he's managed to bring to life. Maybe he's more of a Halloween guy than Christmas, and is practicing for when he'll be portraying a mad scientist, next year. If so, I really have to applaud his dedication.

Like an old dude sitting in one of those high balconies of some Broadway theater, I must say, good show.

"So fucking cute." He murmurs, positioning his hand underneath my face like he's some fashion expert checking if I have the right height of cheek bones. Except, instead of making me feel seriously creeped out and staring at me while he dreams of Ryan Gosling, he leans in and kisses me.

The thing about Erik King, is that he kisses like a wet dog. And I do mean that in a good way, not a bad one. Maybe it's bad that I keep comparing him to a dog, but I like dogs - some would even say, love them. If I didn't have a fragile stuffed animal that lives in my bed and a cat that I've practically had to rehome due to Kayden's allergies, I would definitely own one.

See, unlike people, dogs are always wearing their emotions on their face. They're never worried about how uncool they might look, or how someone else might think they're weird for pissing on that fire hydrant; they do whatever the fuck they want to do, and still look cute as fuck doing it. And that's pretty much how I would sum up my boyfriend in a sentence: cute, perfect, and all of the above.

"See, that's the nice thing about wearing my t-shirts to bed." He grumbles a few minutes later, when he's trying to figure out how to sexily pull my sweatshirt over my head. Spoiler alert: there is no way to. My hair ends up getting all over my face and I look like someone that was just vacuumed out of a turtle neck. "Way easier for me to take off." He says - again, talking to himself; maybe he's starting to lose his marbles in his old age. At least that would make two of us that are batshit crazy; or maybe that would make us prohibited from intermingling with each other, because the state would be too worried about what shenanigans we could get up to.

"Is that the only reason?" I half-joke, partially wondering if that's the sole reason he has me wearing them. I suppose it's also a way for him to mark his territory; and get easier access to my, erhm..., nether regions.

As if he's thinking the exact same thing, he bites back a laugh. "Well, not the only one." He answers, tossing my sweatshirt from middle school onto the nearby laundry pile. I would scoff at him and demand he picks it up and folds it properly, but then he stares at my chest and I feel my stomach do an Olympic summersault.

If only my actual self was as talented as my interior organs, maybe I'd actually be going somewhere in life - you know, besides behind a desk for an NHL team. And I do mean working in the office, not participating in some stereotypical male fantasy of bending their girlfriend over a desk, counter, some sort of surface.

I hope Erik doesn't think that's what going to be happening in this bathroom, because if so, he's going to be disappointed - I do not bend.

"Jesus." He groans, making me wonder if he's having a stroke - or remembering that he left something in the oven. Instead, his eyes are on my bedonka-donks; practically popping out of his head like that GIF of the Wile E. Coyote when he's thinking about dinner. I do suppose they resemble a little chicken cutlet fantasy; a very flat one, but still flat dinner quality.

I roll my eyes at him, still feeling a little self-conscious whenever he sees me without my shirt on and the lights are on. Usually, when we're bonking our noses together, it's in the comfort of dim lighting and underneath bedroom covers. And here, in the overly florescent lighting of his parent's guest bathroom, I feel more on-display than a slab of meat at the deli.

"Don't do that." He tells me, apparently being my now-separated conjoint twin and having access to my brain - or perhaps just noticing the way I cross my arms over my chest. "You're fucking beautiful, Rosie." He says; and he has it with such confidence, such sureness, that I almost believe him.

I mean, it's not that I'm someone with perpetually low self-esteem - though, who knows. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't know that the majority of the male population would prefer bigger chests over smaller ones, if given the option. Sure, Erik may love my small saucers because they're attached to me - but if they weren't, would he feel differently?

I don't want to be someone's consolation prize; I want every part of me to be everything they want. And yes, that does mean that I need the occasional reassurance that a professional athlete appreciates my ever-so-not athletic body. I used to ride my stationary bike but haven't done so in months; also on account of the fact that I had to sell it on Kijiji - so, now it's being ridden by some grandma with 2 cats and a hip injury she's recovering from.

So basically, me in twenty years.

"So fucking beautiful." He murmurs, running his hands over my body and grasping at my boobs like he just can't get enough - even though someone working in the produce department with a scale, or even someone with half-decent eye sight would tell you, he most-definitely can.

But I can't help feeling a slight boost of confidence from the way he looks at me; like someone's just given him an eye exam. "Are you gonna take off the rest of your clothes, or not?" I ask him, meaning for it to come out like playful banter, but feeling like it makes me just sound like an annoyed bitch.

He just laughs, apparently having become accustom to the way I mean for words to come out and the way they do, having difficulty with congruency. "You want me to take off my clothes?" He asks, making it sound like something he would be surprised by; almost shock. Of course he's just fucking with me - before he fucks me, mind you.

I glance briefly at his athletic shorts, which are sporting a very serious case of wood. There's some hardcore mahogany in there and I'm about to give it a full-on inspection to make sure it applies to code. Abides by code? Whatever. You get the point.

He's looking at me for an answer and when I don't give him one, he laughs again. That's the thing I like most about Erik, he's always laughing; never taking anything too seriously. Unlike I, who's about as intense as someone that drinks black coffee for breakfast, he's relaxed, jovial, easy-going.

If we were on my favorite destined for death reality tv-show, Married at First Sight, I would say we're a good match. The kind of match that has sex on the first night and seems like they're going to stay together forever; but quickly burns and breaks when he realizes how uptight and neurotic she is.