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Beau cuts a curious look at me, then her. “What theory?” he asks.
“Me and my friends at Delta’s,” she answers, “and some of my romance author friends, too, we have a theory: big nose equals big dick.”
I set my sloshing plate down because I gotta laugh my ass off. So does Beau, who howls, “Damn. I guess Tom Cruise is hung like a crooked horse.”
“Exactly!” Blair exclaims. “And Adam Driver must need a crotch wagon for his!”
And I laugh harder. “So what are you saying?” I gotta know. “We have smaller noses and smaller dicks?”
“No!” She’s dead serious. “You got a python, and he has a pile driver. You destroy my theory with your bush beaters.”
I glance at Beau, tipping my neck. “How many words she got for the male organ?”
“She’s a romance author.” He grins. “We’ve won the penile lottery. It’s endless.”
“Just as long as they’re big words.” I can’t help it. I lean down, kissing her cheek. “Got any other theories? Like blonds have more stamina? Or men with beards make better mouth music?”
Blair’s eyes get wide. “Is that true?”
“I haven’t tested the theories,” I answer. “My blondes are usually bottoms, and I skew the stamina sample with my athletic training. And I’ve only had one beard on my dick.” I wink at Beau. “His.”
“And now you got two beards,” she jokes about herself and Beau…
And I’m going to like this.
I’m going to love us.
Yeah, we’ll be taking a big fucking risk, the three of us living together. But if we’re smart, if we’re careful, we can sell it.
Later after showers, Blair makes it official when we’re cuddled together, watching Pulp Fiction. I’m falling in love with her, too, because it’s her flick pick, and she can mimic Samuel Jackson to a dick-stiffening degree.
“Say what again.” She’s entertaining, impressive until I hear a phone chiming in the distance.
“Whose is that?” Beau glances toward our bedrooms where we’ve left them for days.
“It sounds like mine.” I jump up to check it.
When I do, I’m blind-sided. Though…
I should’ve seen it coming.
“Uh, Houston,” I announce, returning to the living room with my phone. “We have a pissed-off ex-girlfriend problem.”
“What?” Blair chuckles. “Is Amber’s lipstick bleeding?”
“No.” I hate doing this, but I show her the screen. “She’s bleeding bullshit about you all over her socials.”
Amber has no shame. She’s hash-tagged me, Beau, Blair, and Blair’s books. She’s making fun of them, saying romance books are dumb, that they’re not real fiction, and that Blair’s paranormal fantasies are obviously inspired by her weird alien fetish for Beau Bronson.
Then Amber included the viral shot of Beau reading Blair’s book and some posts from Blair’s Instagram, where Blair posted pictures of her writing it.
The cruelest part?
In the comments, Amber’s encouraging her followers to leave one-star reviews of Blair’s books.
Blair swipes through my phone, taking it all in, and the hurt look that breaks across her face breaks my heart.
And the rage that twists Beau’s? It scares me.
