Page 57 of Riding the Sugar High

But once again, it appears as if I care about how she feels, so I calmly say, “I don’t think the love of my life is someone who’d give me her number while I’m with another woman.”

“Who, me?”

“You are a woman, aren’t you?”

She waves me off. “Women aren’t usually intimidated by me. And besides, we’re obviously not together.”

I open my mouth, then close it. Why would that be obvious? Should I ask? It’s not like she’s going to offend me either way. I don’t care.

“How is it obvious?” I mumble.

She keeps eating until, probably motivated by my insistent stare, she points the fork at herself. “Guys like you don’t exactly date women like me.”

Guys like me? Women like her?

I have no idea what she means.

My eyes flick to her blond hair, the strands fading into pink. “Women with pink hair?”

“No.”

“With watermelons on their skirts?”

She rolls her eyes.

“What women, Primrose?” I ask in a bored voice as I break off another piece of pie.

She stares into my eyes, then sighs. “I just mean, I don’t think I’m your type.”

One corner of my lips lifts before I can do anything about it. I kissed her five minutes into knowing her. “Really? Was my tongue in your mouth too subtle?”

“You were going through a lot. It doesn’t count.”

Funny that she’d think she has any right to decide that.

“What’s my type then?”

She taps the back of her fork on her lips. “Women with legs as long as highways and strong arms. Who look remarkably beautiful even in the simplest clothes and wear no makeup because they don’t need it. With freckles and flattering smile lines and?—”

What the fuck?“Is this someone you know?”

“Tell me I didn’t just describe your ex,” she deadpans.

When I look down at the blueberry jam on top of my pie, she lets out a smug “Huh,” then adds, “Guess who fits that description?”

“Cassidy?” I ask flatly.

She taps the tip of her nose, and I roll my eyes. What an idiotic thing to believe. Not that I have anything against a tall woman with freckles, but that’s not my type. I don’t have a type. If Ihada type, that wouldn’t be it.

“Trust me, Barbie, your arm strength is at the bottom of the list of reasons why I wouldn’t date you.”

She shrugs, then slurps her pink drink. “Likewise,” she says before she sets the glass down. Letting out a chuckle as if laughing at her own joke, she takes another forkful of cake. “And the top spot? No TV.”

“Is that what you look for in a man? A TV?”

“Yes,” she says with a playfully snarky tone. “How else are we supposed to watch a movie and snuggle?”

“Want to know my number one reason not to date you?” Without waiting for her answer, I say, “You keep using the word ‘snuggle.’”