“Are you horny?”
Yes.
It’s been seven weeks since I’ve had sex—my longest dry spell ever—and the last person I had sex with is now my awkward counterpart.
“I don’t need sex all the time, you realize that?”
He snorts. “Okay.” Then he goes back to typing on my phone.
I pull at his shoulder. “Seriously, what are you saying?”
“Chill, dude. I’m just asking her how she’s feeling.”
I pause. “Oh . . . that’s probably a good idea.”
“You are such a fucking idiot.” He hands me my phone back and then launches himself on his mattress.
I glance down at my phone to read the text he sent.
Eli: Sorry about that last text. I meant to send it to Posey. How are you feeling today?
I glance up at him, and he’s smiling smugly at me. “Simple,” he says, holding his arms out wide. “You’re overthinking it.”
I take a seat on the edge of his bed and then lie back on the mattress as well. “I fucking hate this. I feel like ever since my birthday, things have not felt the same, and it’s freaking me out.”
“What do you mean?”
Closing my eyes, I say, “I can’t stop thinking about her, and now that we’re living together, I can’t seem to screw my head on right.”
Posey props himself up on his arm. “Dude, I think you like her.”
I shake my head. “No, that can’t possibly be the problem.”
**PENNY**
“Blakely,” I whisper as I turn into her office.
She glances up from her computer. “What? Why are we whispering?”
I close her office door behind me. “He wrote back.”
“Is this really what’s going to happen? I have to be present for your text messages? You know, I have a job to do, right? These VIP tickets aren’t going to sell themselves.”
“I know, but I don’t think he wrote this text message.”
Blakely’s eyes grow with interest as she reaches her hand out and twiddles her fingers at me, looking for the phone. “Things just got interesting. Hand it over.”
I give her my phone and then round her desk to look over her shoulder.
She reads the text out loud. “Sorry about that last text. I meant to send it to Posey. How are you feeling today?” She looks up at me and smiles. “Yeah, he didn’t write that. Not after what you’ve told me your conversations have been like.”
“Who do you think wrote it?” I take a seat in one of her chairs and cross one leg over the other.
“My guess would be Posey since he used his name in there. Hornsby is probably freaking out because he looks like an utter fool in these text messages and doesn’t know how to handle you.”
“Handle me? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. Out of everyone on the team, who is the most extroverted?”
“Eli,” I say, not even questioning the answer.
“Exactly. He’s the one who should have no problem striking up a conversation, but for some reason, interacting with you is crippling him into a fumbling mess. It’s kind of funny to observe from the outside. But I think it’s safe to assume that he’s probably freaking out like you are and asked Posey to help him, just like you’re asking me to help you.”
“Okay, so then . . . what do I say?”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m afraid they might fall out of her head. “Tell him how you’re feeling. My God, woman. What is wrong with you?”
“The baby,” I say. “It’s sucking all of the intelligence out of me.”
“I’m not sure that’s how pregnancy works.”
“How would you know? Are you pregnant?” I challenge her with a wave of arrogance.
“No, and I don’t plan on finding out.” She points at my phone. “Now message him back. Tell him how you feel.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
On a deep breath, I text him back. When I’m satisfied with my reply, I press send.
“Done.”
“What did you say?”
I read my text message out loud. “Feeling kind of weird, you know, with everything. So I thought that maybe when you come back from your away trip, you should move out.”
“What?” Blakely’s eyes shoot open. “You sent that?”
Panic ensues. “Wait, what do you mean? You told me to tell him how I felt.”
“Like . . . physically, not mentally. Oh, my God, I can’t believe you told him you want him to move out right before a game.”