Free Outside the Lines by Amy Hatvany

with each step. She was short but had one of those glorious hourglass shapes and the kind of cascading dark auburn waves that gave men Victoria’s Secret wet dreams. I could have hated her for this, but her energy was great, easygoing and accessible. I liked her immediately.
    Our kitchen manager, Dean, caught our interaction. “That is one hot piece of ass,” he commented to me as he leered at her backside.
    “One hot piece of ass whose daddy is an employment lawyer!” Georgia cheerfully called out over her shoulder before the door swung shut behind her.
    “Uh-oh,” I said. “Can you say ‘sexual harassment’? She has a witness, too.”
    “Whatever,” Dean huffed at me, and then went to hide in his office.
    It was like that for Georgia, I thought as we sat in a booth at the Luna Park Café, breathing in the luscious scent of garlicky home fries and peppery sausage while we waited for our breakfast to be served. Being attracted to her was a side effect of being a male in her presence. Even hungover she looked gorgeous: Her hair was pulled up in a French twist that somehow managed to appear messy but totally put together. Her skin was creamy and her hazel eyes lit up with every smile. Adding in the cleavage and pouty lips, it was no wonder men were constantly hitting on her. What was best, though, was how unimportant all this was to Georgia, how little she let it infect her ego. “Give me a man who notices my soul instead of my cup size,” she liked to say, “and I’ll introduce you to the man of my dreams.”
    “So, tell,” she said, now fortified by the triple Americano I’d brought to her house. “How was the shelter?” I knew better than to talk too much in the car. It was a good idea to wait until the caffeine ran a steady course through her veins.
    I shrugged. “Okay, I guess, except the guy who runs the place was a little rude at first.”
    She cocked her head. “Aren’t those social-worker-type fellas supposed to be all liberal and easygoing?”
    “You’d think so. But he wasn’t okay with putting a picture of my dad anywhere. He was afraid it would freak out his clients. Like he was reporting them to the government or something. He was kind of snippy about it.”
    Georgia poured more cream into the huge mug of coffee in front of her and stirred. “Huh. You’re never snippy with people at your job, right?”
    “Shut up.”
    She grinned. “I guess I get what he was worried about. Don’t you?”
    “Sure, after he explained it. I think it was just the way he said it that rubbed me the wrong way.”
    “Did you want him to rub you the right way?” Georgia wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
    I laughed, almost spitting out the sip of orange juice I’d just taken. “Georgia! No!”
    She sat back and gave me a knowing look. “Ah. So he wasn’t cute?”
    “No,” I said, then reconsidered. “Well, yeah, I guess he was decent. In a short-man, I’m-afraid-he-might-have-a-small-pecker kind of way.”
    “Oh, come on, now,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s a total myth. I’ve disproved it several times myself. Height has no more to do with the size of a man’s equipment than the size of his feet.”
    I laughed. “That’s right. What was his name again, the one with the size-fifteen shoe?”
    Georgia shuddered. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. Tiniest pecker I’ve ever seen.” She held up her pinky finger and waggled it at me. “I gave him a couple merciful faked orgasms and was out the door.”
    “How generous of you.” I took another sip of orange juice before setting down my glass. “Why do you care if the guy at the shelter was cute?”
    She gave me another wicked grin. “Because he’s the first man you’ve mentioned since the last one. That mama’s boy, Ryan.” Georgia was well aware of my most recent boyfriend’s propensity to live off his mother’s income and insisted on celebrating when I finally broke up with him six months ago. She continued. “There had to be