“What if this is the moment I’ve feared all along? They might be taking my mojo away!”
“You don’t know that,” Lynsey defends. Clearly, we both process feelings differently because now we’ve done a one-eighty, and she’s coming up with excuses while I’m circling the drain of despair.
“They would have no other reason to send me a letter!” I shriek and inhale a shaky breath. “Damnit,” I growl and tear into the envelope to make my death swift.
I unfold the letter that’s printed on the Tire Depot letterhead and read aloud. “Dear Ms. Smith, We’ve taken notice of your enjoyment of our customer waiting area. We are very glad that you enjoy spending your days with us. You have, however, exceeded the limit for complimentary refreshments. Per company policy, enclosed you will find an invoice for the refreshments you’ve consumed in excess of the limit.”
“What?” Lynsey screeches. Jesus Christ, we’re both a fucking mess.
“It’s gotta be a prank,” I force out a fake laugh and look at the second page that lists the itemized products that I’ve consumed. Like a shot, I stand, the mail on my lap falling to the floor. “Holy shit! How did they know?”
“Know what?”
“I mean…this invoice has to be bullshit, but this itemized list is scarily accurate.”
“What do you mean?”
I thrust the paper at her and point to each line item. “I probably have drunk fifteen long espressos and thirty caramel almond lattes. That’s like…exactly my jam. I start my days off with a long espresso and then do two lattes in the afternoon.”
“Oh, Kate!” Lynsey gasps. “The calories.”
“But I don’t eat lunch!” I argue.
She nods, seemingly appeased by that reply. “So this is legit?”
“It can’t be,” I argue, but the growing pit in my stomach indicates I’m not fully convinced.
Here’s the thing. I’m not mad at the one hundred and eighty dollar invoice. Charging four dollars for a beverage is cheaper than Starbucks. But I’m livid over the nerve of Tire Depot! What kind of respectable business would charge a person excess consumption of complimentary coffee?
“This seriously can’t be real.”
“Oh, Kate! You missed a page.” Lysney says, scooping a sheet up off the floor. “It’s for the cookies. Honestly, you’re kind of disgusting. I don’t know how you’re not two hundred pounds by now.”
“Shut up!” I snatch the sheet out of her hands and am mortified at the list. Jesus, I do look like a pig when you list it all out like that. “Wait a damn minute…this says danishes on there. I’ve never had a danish there in my life! I’m being punked!”
I swerve accusing eyes to Lynsey, but she looks way too caught up in this scene to be the culprit. I rack my brain for who else would possibly send me a fake invoice. It could be any number of the people I begged to let me take their cars in…which was an embarrassing number. Or it could be my brothers, but honestly, the logo on the letterhead is way too perfect for it to be any ole friend or family.
My blue eyes meet Lynsey’s brown, and in unison, we both say, “Dean.”
Minutes later, Lysney and I are in my car to head toward our friend Dean’s house about a mile up the road. This little complex of townhouses is a bit of a hidden gem situated on the edge of Boulder. Full of twenty and thirty-somethings with disposable income but no longer riveted by the nightlife of Boulder and needing to be living amongst it. And since the property is expensive everywhere in this area, this spot seems a bit more worth the cost. Out here, you get more space, the wilderness, the views, and still a nice sense of community.
After college, I lived downtown, but as I grew older and began writing full time, living there felt too crowded. I hated how I was constantly swerving around hundreds of joggers when I went for a bike ride on the trails. Jesus, there are a shit-ton of runners in Boulder.
But the idea of moving back to Longmont in the same neighborhood as my parents, two brothers, and their growing families was such a depressing thought. I could see all too perfectly my parents inviting me over on Friday nights while they were babysitting and feeding me hot dogs with mac ’n’ cheese alongside my nieces and nephews. Don’t get me wrong, I love those little rugrats, but it’s really annoying being the oldest sister yet seen as the baby of the family just because I have a job that lets me wear sweatpants every day.
Not to mention, no family wants a smut writer to become their neighbor. What kind of kinky mail deliveries will be dropped at her doorstep?
Lynsey had moved out here about three years ago, and I followed with Dryston a year later. When we settled in, the words flowed like manna from heaven. The quiet roads were blissful, and the views were feeding my soul as well as my little fingers. I had my best friend right next door, and the words were plentiful.
Then, the breakup happened, and my creativity dried up like the homemade granola our complex manager gives us every year for Christmas.
Since really only one other douchebag on the planet knows of my struggles with words and my recently found solution to that problem, that means he’s getting junk punched this fine Friday evening.
“Okay,” I whisper to Lynsey as we stand in front of Dean’s front door. His windows are pouring light down on us as the sun sets behind the hills. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to kneel here…you knock on the door, and when he opens it, his eyes will land on you, and I’ll give him a right hook to the ball sack.”
“Kate!” Lynsey chastises, her thick brows furrowing together. “That’s so extreme. What if he didn’t do it?”
“Surely, he has a junk punch coming for something. He’s a mountain manwhore. They always have it coming.”
I stare back at my friend, and she looks so young with those big, brown, innocent eyes. It’s no wonder Dean was drawn to her when they first met.
Shortly after I had moved here, Lynsey and I came across Dean during his daily run while we were out for a walk. I could tell instantly that there was a spark between them. They went on a couple of dates but ultimately decided just to stay friends. However, I think Lynsey still has a soft spot for the little prick.
Rolling my eyes, I concede to her wishes and stand to knock on the door. “Why are you so mature?”
A minute later, Dean whips his door open and props his arm on the frame in that impressive, masculine way he has about him. Dean is the picture image of a Boulder businessman—tall, dark, handsome, and bearded. Plus, he wears these dark-rimmed glasses that make him look really fucking smart, which he is.
But as a whole, he’s part nerd, part mountain man, and part hipster rich guy. He wears these plaid slacks and slim button-downs with peach colored jackets and manages to look masculine and stylish while doing it. He’s the only guy I know that could pull off a look like that and not have other people convinced he bats for the other team. Sometimes he wears no socks with his loafers, and I don’t know why it looks good, but it does. Dryston tried to mimic the style, but it was awful. Super trying too hard.
But Dean, he’s just got that undeniable swagger.
He’s also got the coolest backstory. Dean inherited a boatload of money from his grandparents when he was eighteen. Instead of going to college and getting a high-priced education like his parents begged him to do, he decided to educate himself on the stock market.
Apparently, he had the Midas touch. Lynsey told me he doubled his inheritance in the first year. Now he’s some kind of stockbroker during the day. I don’t know much about what he does, but he has an office downtown that he goes to every day in his fancy, hipster suits.
Without warning, I thrust my fist into his meaty stomach. Okay, hard, chiseled stomach, but whatever. I don’t think of Dean that way. All the air expels from his mouth as he hunches over, clutching his stomach.
“You’re a dick, and I know that fake invoice was from you.”
He growls in pain, but I know he’s just being dramatic so I won’t wallop him again. “Nice to see you too, Kate,” he croaks.
“Just be grateful she didn’t junk punch you,” Lynsey chirps from behind me. “I saved you from that.”