She picked up her own gigantic salad and followed. She flopped down and propped her foot up on the coffee table. “We’re not having sex because I don’t want to have sex with some possessive, egotistical, alpha hero.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Shut up.”
“Your toe looks slightly less disgusting,” he said, pointing at her foot with the remote.
She glanced down. The bruising had morphed from a dark purple to a nauseating greenish yellow. “Feels mostly better,” she said. She hated to admit it, but taking that one weekend off from physical labor had been…nice. She’d caught up on her budget updates, written two blogs, dug further into her research into Aaron Campbell and his wife, and gotten ahead on her social media scheduling.
And she’d actually dragged a lawn chair out onto the lawn for an hour both days and enjoyed the view…with her phone and laptop, of course.
“She wanted me to know that Silas is a good guy.”
“So you’re thinking he paid her off?” he teased.
She jabbed him playfully with her plastic fork. “No. I’m thinking what kind of guy gets that kind of loyalty from an ex?”
“Uh. Hello?” Dean said, raising his hand.
“We didn’t tell people we had been married,” she reminded him, scooping up zucchini and corn and tomato with her fork. “Not on the channel.”
“True. But you also never complain about your super-gay ex-husband. Because I’m awesome, and you recognize my awesomeness. Maybe ‘These Boots Were Made for Walking’ Michelle just wants to make sure you know how awesome Sly Sy is.”
“That’s the second boot reference in under three minutes. Where are they?”
He perked up. “There’s this disgustingly adorable shoe store at the end of town. Do you think I can pull off cowboy boots?”
She glanced down at his avocado-and-toast socks, pretended to ponder. “I’d need to see them on you,” she decided. “Wanna go Saturday?”
He dropped his fork in his salad and sat up with ramrod posture. “Did you just ask me to take you shopping?”
“What? We shop together all the time.”
“We used to. I’m personally responsible for every cute item in your wardrobe that you left behind in Seattle.”
She wanted to argue, but there wasn’t a point in fighting the truth. “I could use a few basics,” she said. “Plus, I really want to see these cowboy boots.”
“Drinks before or after?” he asked, shifting into planning mode.
“During. You have an easier time talking me into things when I’ve had alcohol.”
“Then we’re definitely hitting up this place I saw yesterday. They make all their drinks with their own rye whiskey. Maybe we can get a pitcher of mint juleps and then go buy hats,” he mused.
Maggie laughed.
“I do think you should sleep with Sy,” he said, picking up his iced tea.
“Why?”
“First of all, it would be a waste not to. He’s great. He’s smart. He works hard. He looks like he stepped off the September page in a calendar of hot guys with rescue dogs. He’s nice to his crew. He’s not intimidated by your success.”
“Maybe that’s because he didn’t know what YouTube was before I asked him if he’d be comfortable being on it.”
Dean sighed in appreciation. “The whole anti–social media thing is kinda hot all by itself. Like he’s too busy whitewater rafting and smelling roses to worry about a bunch of strangers online.”
“A bunch of strangers online are why we’re in business,” she pointed out.
“Then there’s the whole chemistry thing,” he continued, ignoring her. “These smoldering looks of ‘I wanna rip your face off’ that pass between you guys. And the way he watches you when you’re not looking. It’s like you’re a pretty iced cupcake, and he’s a hungry, horny lion ready for his next meal.”
She snorted. “That’s the most disturbing metaphor you’ve ever come up with.”
“Admit it,” he said, poking her with his elbow. “He’s your cupcake, too. Who doesn’t want a guy who’s easygoing and relaxed on the outside and then BAM!”
Maggie jumped when he slammed his hand on the coffee table.
“I’m here to take care of you, woman, whether you want me to or not,” he said in a deep baritone.
“I don’t want to be taken care of! I don’t like how he thinks he can handle me,” she admitted to her salad.