Free Full Package by Lauren Blakely Page B

less Neanderthalic.
    I shake my head. “Allow me to the do the honors.” I swipe him closed for her. “What else have we got?”
    She peers at the screen, pointing to a message from FireTrev. “How about Trevor? He’s a firefighter.”
    I read the tagline on his profile. “Baby, can I light your fire?” I arch a brow. “Swiped.”
    She grabs my arm. “Is that any worse than you saying, ‘the doctor is in’?”
    â€œOne, I’m not on an online dating site, so I wouldn’t be saying that. And two, no. Which is why if I ever said that on an online dating site, you should throat-punch me.”
    Her lips twitch mischievously. “With a crème brûlée torch?”
    â€œConsider it your throat-punching device of torture when I exceed the maximum acceptable level of douchery.”
    â€œThere are actually acceptable levels?”
    I shrug. “Look, you can’t expunge douchiness completely. It’s like a cockroach. It’ll survive a nuclear explosion. It’s a very tenacious quality in a man. I find it best to accept that there are levels of douchiness one can live with, usually manifesting as cockiness, confidence, or bravado.” I narrow my eyes. “You gonna be okay with that harsh reality?”
    She nods, intense as a soldier. “Those seem an allowable standard.”
    I tip my chin to the screen and inch closer to her. “What else have we got?”
    Grabbing a cranberry red pillow between us, she tosses it on the back of the couch. Interesting. She’s made more room. She pats the vacated spot, so I move closer as she clicks on a new message. The profile pic is a too-suave image of a dark-haired man in a sharp suit. “That screams I-got-my-profile-pic-from-a-stock-photo-site.”
    â€œProbably. Let’s see what he says.”
    The message fills the screen as she reads, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Here’s the first. Would you ever date a guy who likes to wear your panties?”
    I snap my gaze to her. “Is this shit for real?”
    She laughs. “Yes. Sadly, it is.”
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” I sneer. I’m this close to swiping when an evil idea lands in my brain. “Can I reply?”
    â€œWhat are you going to say?”
    â€œDo you trust me?”
    The look in her eyes says duh . “Yes. But . . .”
    I crack my knuckles. “Allow me to take the wheel.”
    She grabs my arm. “You’re not going to write anything crazy, are you?”
    â€œNothing that won’t amuse you.” I hover my fingers above the keys then type, speaking the words out loud: “Sure, but only if he wears my panties on his head. To work.”
    She clasps her hand over her mouth, laughing. I take that as a sign to keep this shit up.
    The next question from Captain Suave is: “What is the most exciting type of intimate video for you to watch?”
    Hell if I’m not eager to know what gets her off, but that’s not the point. I write back to the suit dude: “The kind your mother stars in.”
    Josie laughs loudly, then I read his next question. “How often do you come every week?”
    I turn to her, and even though I’m dying for her weekly orgasm count more than Suave in a Suit can know, now isn’t the time. I reply with, “Great question. I’d love to answer it, but maybe we could start the interview with some simpler questions. The last book you read, what kind of cereal you like, do you wear socks?”
    The guy must have just come online and seen her newest message first, because his reply to that one is swift.
    â€œ Catcher in the Rye . I don’t like cereal. Tube socks.”
    I slam the machine closed and give her a pointed look. “ Catcher in the Rye is high school required reading, and if that’s the last book he read, God help us. Plus, tube socks are a deal breaker. And you