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After one of the nastiest divorces in history, followed by some of the crudest and raunchiest dates,
I’d decided to bat for the other team. …At least I tried.
Find out what happens in Girl Crush!
I raced up the stairs to my room in search of anything I was willing to part with in order to get Collier here. T-shirts were too thick, and there was no logical explanation for how they’d end up in my sink. Same with jeans and shorts. But panties…panties needed to be hand washed, and the sink was the perfect place to do it. Riffling through my underwear drawer, I found several pairs I didn’t mind losing to the cause, and with a smile on my face, I trotted back down to the kitchen.
My fingers clutched the satin and lace while I hovered in front of the sink. I took a deep breath in, and then one by one, I stuffed each of the five pairs deep into the hole. I turned on the water to ensure they wouldn’t just swirl around, and then I flipped the switch. The motor came to life, but instead of the garbage disposal whirring and grinding, it hummed with a high-pitched squeal and stopped.
Pleased with myself, I raised up on my toes and bounced before grabbing my phone off the counter.
Me: My garbage disposal is clogged. Can you come by and look at it?
I hit send and held the phone in my hand, waiting for it to light up with his agreement to save me. Several long minutes had passed before the beep sounded.
Collier: Plumbers typically deal with those types of things.
Me: It’s after hours. That will cost me a fortune.
The waiting was killing me. I wanted to be upset with him. He’d always been very responsive, and it felt like he was intentionally playing games.
Collier: Gibson Plumbing is sending someone out. The guy should be there in the next thirty minutes.
Me: I can’t afford that.
Collier: I gave them my credit card number. It’s taken care of.
So he cared enough to buy my way out of trouble but not come on his own. It hurt, but maybe it was progress.
Me: I’m not comfortable with a strange man in my house at night. It’s not safe.
Collier: Giselle, I don’t have time for this. He’ll be there shortly. Let him in to fix the sink.
Ugh. I hated this side of Sybil. If we ever got back on speaking terms, I had to figure out a way to put that personality to rest—no one needed to experience it, especially not me. The bubbles appeared on the screen and went on forever. I stood there waiting for his next message, but they stopped, and another message never came. It dawned on me, a plumber would be standing in my kitchen in roughly twenty minutes, and I had a garbage disposal bogged down in Victoria’s Secret’s finest thongs. With my luck, the man who showed up to bail me out would either be hot as sin who would imagine me in the shredded garment or some gnarly old man who would keep them to sniff later. Both creeped me out.
I desperately started clawing at the sink, shoving my hand in to try to pull the wet material back out the same way I’d stuffed it in. But by the time the doorbell rang, I had roughly half of one pair of twelve dollar panties in my fist, and the other four and a half pairs were still tightly wound around the blade of the garbage disposal. With one hand still trying to rip at the lace, and the other on the counter for leverage, I finally dropped my head on the counter harder than I intended when the chime came again.
My hands were wet, and the right was covered in some substance I was afraid to try to identify. I needed to disinfect the drain, the brown gunk under my nails was disgusting. My nails. Oh God, my poor nails. Not only had I ruined the polish, but I’d also broken three of them on my right hand and two on my left. They snagged on the kitchen towel I used on my way to let the plumber in.
Mortified. Embarrassed. Flustered. The list of words to describe what I was feeling ran a mile long. There was no way in hell I could explain how five pairs of panties had met their demise. But I swung the door open just the same. There on my porch stood a man who could have doubled for Luke Bryan, right down to the Southern twang.
“Hey, darlin’. I’m Chance. What seems to be the trouble tonight?”
Kill me now.
He bent over to put white booties on over his shoes to protect my floors, and his ass was every bit as delectable as the country star. In any other circumstance, I’d send up a word of thanks to the big man upstairs for this eye candy…but tonight, I just groaned.
Karma hated me.
“Garbage disposal.” I turned, leaving the front door open, and assumed he’d follow me to the kitchen.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had an after-hours call for a garbage disposal.”
I wasn’t interested in idle chitchat. If I could have found a rock, I would have crawled under it.
“Is it clogged or did it just stop working?” he asked as he set his tools down and stepped up to the sink.
“Vegetable peels?” he guessed.
Chance turned to face me. “Egg shells?”
“You just going to let me keep guessin’?” He winked a brown eye in my direction and displayed a grin that I was sure had panties dropping on the regular. But all it did was cause my cheeks to flush with embarrassment, and not from his flirting.
“Fabric.” I acted like I only knew ten words and was afraid to use them all at once. Before long, I’d just resort to grunting instead of forming syllables.
“Fabric…” He drew out those six letters like he hadn’t understood them.
“Like a dishtowel?”
“No. Panties.” I cringed. “I’d prefer not to offer an explanation. Can you just fix it?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
I died a thousand deaths sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him to undo the damage I’d caused.
I was done.
Done with men.
Women say it all the time; they get fed up, throw their hands in the air, and vow a life of celibacy—until the next chiseled chest comes into view and then they’re foaming at the mouth and wiping the drool from their chins. But this was different, I really meant it.
I’d been manhandled by the last pig that would ever bring his sausage near me. After one of the nastiest divorces in history, followed by some of the crudest and raunchiest dates, I’d decided to bat for the other team.
…At least I tried.
But creating the next Brat Pack hadn’t been on the agenda. Neither had Collier West. And I wasn’t prepared for finding true love at the end of my gal-pal tryst.
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