“But, I’m curious enough to go along with this stupid plan of yours.” I mean, who could say no to that furry face? He looks like a dog. Or a shaggy lion. Kind of scary, but adorable.

“First rule: we are a team, Teddy, and there is no I in team. Write that down.” He looks at me expectantly, but I don’t have a pen. “Got a sheet of paper?”

I quirk my head to the side—I don’t have that either. “Uh, no.”

“Napkin it is then.” Kip’s brawny arm reaches across the table, fingers plucking a couple napkins from the shiny, silver dispenser. He whips a pen out of his man bun, and why he even has one in there is beyond me.

I waste no time. “Rule number two: the five-foot rule.”

His pen hovers. “Five-foot wh…what is this nonsense?”

“I don’t need you breathing down my neck. Five feet is close enough for you to stand while we’re in public.”

“How can I instruct you from that far away? It’ll look strange with me stage-whispering from five feet away.”

Oh brother. “I’m sure you’ll get your point across in other ways.”

“How will you hear me giving you directions?” The level to which he is apparently affronted knows no bounds.

“Well, good point: I don’t want you stage-whispering at me, let alone giving me directions.”

“Then what is the point?” He taps on the table. “Two feet.”

Oh, little guy wants to negotiate? Fine by me. “Four.”

“Three.”

God this is exhausting.

I nod, accepting three feet. “Next rule.”

“Rule number three: you can’t go home with anyone.”

That makes me laugh. “That won’t be a problem.”

“It sure could be—guys will screw anything with a pulse. Someone will want to take you home if you’re going to quit playing barmaid.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Kip shrugs, clicking his pen. “Rule number four: wardrobe.”

He’s going to nitpick my clothes? No. “You’re not telling me what to wear. Look at you!”

His brown eyes roll. “This isn’t about me. You’re the one who needs help.”

“Jerk! I do not! My clothes are fine—I didn’t sign up for a makeover. God you’re an asshole.”

“Fine isn’t going to have anyone hitting on you.”

“You literally just said guys will screw anything with a pulse.”

“That’s true, I did say that, but we’re looking for quality, not quantity.”

He. Is. Infuriating. “Besides, I don’t want those guys anyway.”

“Good, because they won’t be interested if that’s the shit you’re going to wear out.” He smiles, laughing into his cup of coffee, barely concealing his idiotic smirk.

“Dickhead, this isn’t about my clothes.”

“It kind of is, just a lil’ bit.” He holds up two fingers close together. “We’ll see. I’ll put a TBD next to rule number four.”

“Or don’t, because we’re done talking about it.” Which leads me to, “Rule five: I get to veto any of your rules at any time.”

“Same.”

My eyes narrow. “If we’re both able to veto rules then what’s the point of having rules?”

“If you’re the only one who can veto rules, what’s the point of me helping you? You’re not the freaking president.”

“Oh my god.”

He ignores me and drones on. “So, rule number six—I’m thinking can be something about you having to trust me, because I’m a guy, and I know what I’m talking about because I know what guys are thinking since I am one.”

Wow.

Kips mouth opens again, but I interrupt what he’s about to say next. “When it comes to guys, sure, but not when it comes to girls. You’re about as subtle as a steamroller through a china shop.”

“If we’re being honest here, it’s true that my size does me no favors.”

“Aww, you poor, poor thing.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Teddy Johnson.” Kip narrows his eyes and stabs his pen in my direction. “Rule number seven,” he rolls on. “PDA.”

Oh lord. And when the hell did he find out my last name? Was he searching for me on social media?

I roll the thought of Kip Carmichael creeping on me and secretly smile, the idea warming my insides.

“What about it?”

“Guys love competition. If someone thinks I’m interested in you, they are more likely to be interested in you.”

That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “That’s stupid.”

“But also: true.”

“So what’s your point?” I shovel cold eggs into my mouth, chewing as he explains.

“If I have to put my arm around you, you can’t punch me in the gut. You have to let it dangle there.”

This raises a brow. “This dangling arm of yours—where is the hand at the end of it going?”

He pauses to stare at me. “Not on your boob. Chill out.”

“Sorry, but the way you said it was creepy. Dangling arm over my shoulder? Gross.”

“So?” He’s impatient to write this one down. “Rule seven, you good with it? No punching me in the gut?”

“I’m so short, it’s not your gut I’d be worried about if I were you.” Then I tack a “ha ha” onto the end of the sentence for good measure.

“Teddy, be serious.”

“Am I good with PDA from you? Suuure, why the hell not?” I mean, how often is he actually going to touch me? Probably never. Still, my eyes stray to his hands, his big man paws. They’re large, a dusting of light hair on his knuckles, callused fingers gripping a blue pen, scribbling words across the napkin.

“Great.” When he writes PDA acceptable, no touching her tits, I bite my tongue.

“No kissing,” I add.

“Kissing?” Kip’s head shoots up, and he sounds positively horrified. “Why would I kiss you?”

He sounds so horrified, in fact, that I start stumbling over my words. “I-I only said that because k-kissing is PDA. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh.”

The silence that follows is painful. Clanging pots and pans from the diner’s kitchen, the waitress taking orders, and talking patrons are the only sounds that meet my ears.

“I don’t want you kissing me, Kip, jeez!” My eyes go to his hairy upper lip.

Ugh, as if.

His lips part. “Trust me, Teddy, kissing you isn’t part of the equation here. My mouth won’t be going anywhere near your face, so you can calm down.”

I have no idea if that was an insult or not.

“I get that you’re not interested, but you don’t have to say it like that.” My faces flushes as this conversation goes from bad to worse. “Forget I said anything.”

Kip grunts, nodding. “Rule eight.”

“You want to keep going?” Really? Because I no longer have any wind in my sails.

“Yeah, let’s get these knocked out so we don’t have to worry about it before next weekend.”

FOURTH FRIDAY

“The night we learn Sasquatch has no patience for morons. Which is everyone.”

Kip

“That guy is going to be your boyfriend—just follow my rules.”

“Which rules? The rules we made up to keep you in line or the ones you’re about to pull out of your ass?”

She has no faith in me, none whatsoever. “The ones I’m about to pull out of my ass.”

Teddy crosses her arms over a perfect set of tits, and they push up into the low neckline of her black, off-the-shoulder top. It’s tight, tucked into a pair of jeans, a simple pair of black boots skimming her kneecaps.

Understated and sexy, not that anyone here will notice.

Don’t get me wrong, she looks pretty tonight, but she’s still a tad too unassuming, with that I require dinner, a drink, and long-term commitment before I’ll let you fuck me vibe, despite her efforts to the contrary—despite her obvious attempt to look sexy.