Текст книги "Futures and Frosting"
Автор книги: Tara Sivec
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FUTURES AND FROSTING A SUGARCOATED HAPPILY EVER AFTER by TARA SIVEC
Copyright © September 2012 Tara Sivec
ISBN-13: 978-1478314608
ISBN – 10: 1478314605
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notice
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity, explicit sexual situations, alcohol and drug consumption.
For my husband. Thanks for always reading what I write and for not giving me a hard time when I demand that you tell me if it’s shit or not. Thanks for not telling me anything I make you read is shit. Thanks for giving me your honest opinion on yeast infections and not throwing up on me.
For Buffy – my sister from another mister and my honest-to-God soul mate. “Slut – did you mean to say Buffy?” Someday we will live in the same state and the world will explode from awesomeness. Fact
For my family. You are all bat shit crazy but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Thank you for tee time, ceiling fan baseball and “can you smell that?” Without you, my life would be extremely boring.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. Green Jell-O and Snapping Turtles
2. My Dog Has the Hungry
3. He Went to Jared
4. He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
5. Suck for a Buck
6. Back Door Action
7. Whore Dizzle
8. The Incredible Shrinking Penis
9. No Nut Shots Before Lunch
10. Ceiling Fan Baseball
11. Mommy!
12. Stinky Wiener Ticks and Twice Baked Potatoes
13. Tee Time
14. Porn and Snozzberries
15. Just Say No to Necrophilia
16. Son of a Face Turd
17. Midget and Donkey Shows
18. Benjamin’s Balls
19. Oops, I Did it Again!
20. Did Not Finish
21. I Swallowed a Penny!
22. Hump, Hump, Hump
23. Scittly Scat-Scat
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
There are so many amazing people I need to thank that I could probably fill up an entire book with just their names.
First and foremost – my amazing editor Max. You are the wind beneath my skirt and I love you! Thank you for all of your help and support. I will hump your leg for days when we’re in the same room together.
Colleen Hoover. I can never thank you enough for the support you have given me. You never hesitate to answer my gazillion questions and you give me hope that someday I will be as awesome as you! I’m so happy for you and all of your success!
Sarah Hansen – you are the twin I never knew I had. Thank you for always supporting me, making me laugh and putting up with my husband’s Facebook posts. Jason Voorhies is still a pussy.
Mollie Harper – I adore you! And not just for the Floppy Vag song or the amazing “Pay it Forward” movement. Okay, those might be the main reasons, I’m not gonna lie. You are amazing and sweet and you put a smile on my face constantly.
To my Slappers – You were my first supporters and fans in this crazy endeavor and I will be forever grateful that I met all of you. I love you from the bottom of my heart.
To all the hookers at Bookaholics Anonymous and Book Broads – I love you. Each and every one of you. I’m so glad I “met” you. You are amazing and your support is never-ending. Thank you so much for all of the “Pay-it-Forwards”, pimping and just general awesomeness.
To all of the other Indie authors out there – I am proud and humbled to be in the same circle as you. I hope everyone realizes just how hard you work on a daily basis to make your dreams come true.
And last but not least, thank you SO much to the following blogs who reviewed/featured my book(s) on their pages. If I skipped someone, I’m so sorry. It’s all Google’s fault.
Aestas Book Blog, Anna’s Attic, Ashley’s Book Nook, Book Liaison, Book-Snobs, Coffee, Books and Lipgloss, Confessions of Novel Junkies, Cursed Pyramids, Fiction Vixen, Globug & Hootie Need a Book, Hot Coffee Books and Chocobar, Lisa’s Book Review, Lisa’s Reads, Love Affair With An E-Reader, Madison says, Mama Laughlin, Maryse’s Book Blog, Momma’s Books, Natasha is a Book Junkie, Romance Book Reviews Blog, Romantic Book Affairs, Romantic Reading Escapes, Scandalicious Book Reviews, Selena-Lost-in-Thought, She Can’t Shut Up, Sim-Sational-Books, Talk Supe, Tara’s Reads, Teahoney’s Book Café, The Autumn Review, The Book List Reviews, The Indie Bookshelf, The Romance Reviews, Totally Booked, Tough Critic Book Reviews, Under the Covers, Unraveling Aira, Up all Night Reviews, What to Read After Fifty (50) Shades of Grey Facebook page.
Futures and Frosting
Tara Sivec
1. Green Jell-O and Snapping Turtles
I have a dream.
And in this dream I’m under the covers in bed, just a few scant inches away from Carter’s body. I stare at his prone form lying next to me, the greenish-blue glow from the alarm clock on the bedside table providing just enough illumination for me to see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The sheet is draped low over his hips as he sleeps peacefully with one arm flung over his eyes and the other resting on his taut, naked stomach. I slide my body ever so slowly across the bed, careful not to disturb him, until I’m so close I can feel the heat from his skin warming me from head to toe. I pull my arms out from under the sheet and my hands reach out towards him. I connect with his smooth, muscular chest, slide my fingers up his body, and...choke the ever living shit out of him.
Okay, that’s not really a dream. It’s more of a wish if you will, something I fantasize about when business is slow at the shop, when I’m waiting in line at the grocery store, or pretty much every waking moment of every single day when I find myself yawning and cranky from lack of sleep. But it’s not like I would ever follow through with this fantasy. I love Carter. I really do. Sometimes it’s just a toss-up on whether or not I love sleep more.
A few months ago, I hadn't even known Carter existed. Okay, I knew he existed; somewhere out there, over the rainbow, in a land far, far away living his own life. I never believed in a million years that he would ever stop and give me, his one-night-stand from college, a second thought. Turns out I was wrong on both counts. A land far, far away had turned out to be a few miles from where I lived and that second thought I figured he had never given? Well, much to my dismay, and using a Harlequin Romance novel cliché, he had spent years pining for me and searching the world for 'the one that got away'.
That's me by the way, in case you haven’t been paying attention.
Here I am, a twenty-four-year-old single mother to Gavin (the wonderful parting gift I received in appreciation of my mad virginity-giving-up skillz, ‘yo) when suddenly, the guy I spontaneously gave said virginity to after a rousing game of beer pong at a frat party shows up in my home town to whisk me off my feet and claim the son he never knew he had. This doesn’t happen in real life. Something this perfect only happens in books or John Hughes movies.
Alright, so Carter has never stood outside my window holding a radio above his head and he's never run down the street to sweep me up into his arms for a toe-curling kiss and hand me a pair of diamond earrings he gave to some other skank just moments before. Our story isn't necessarily a textbook eighties movie. There have been anxiety attacks, freak-outs, drunken ramblings, inappropriate cursing, misunderstandings, arguments, two-finger eye-threats, and chocolate covered sex in a public place that only by the hair of a gnat’s testicle avoided being publicly televised. Through it all though, Carter and I have managed to work through our problems with the speed an accuracy of a thirty-minute sitcom on prime time television. It’s no “Some Kind of Wonderful,” but it’s damn near close. I’m still waiting for my street kiss and diamond earrings, though.
In the middle of all this chaos, I am also busy following my dream of opening my own candy and cookie shop. I know right? Why not add one more thing to worry about to my growing pile. There’s a reason why I have a magnet on my fridge that says, “You can sleep when you’re dead.”
My best friend Liz and I had always talked of one day owning businesses together. While I was busy with the whole single mom gig and put my aspirations on a back burner, Liz was finishing up college and got a head start on her dream. Little did I know, she had also made plans to assure that my hopes didn’t die along with my ability to sneeze and not piss myself.
I’ve always been a pretty independent person, so having someone hand me my dream in a neat little package with a bow on top took some getting used to. Liz had inherited a good chunk of change from her grandfather when he passed away years earlier and putting that money to good use by purchasing a building where we could have adjoining businesses was the only option for her. It had taken me a few days to get my head out of my ass and realize that she didn’t do it out of pity. She had done it because she loves me and having her dream come true wouldn’t have meant nearly as much to her if mine wasn’t becoming a reality right along with her.
So in summary, I am EXHAUSTED. And I guess that brings us back to my choking fantasy. Living with another human being takes a little getting used to. So far there are only minimal amounts of irritating qualities we find in each other, and we’ve overcome those obstacles and are still growing strong. I love Carter more than I ever thought possible, and he has proven to be the best father a woman could ever want for her son. But I swear to God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Christ’s childhood friend, Biff, that if he doesn’t stop waking me up at four-fifty-eight in the morning, every fucking morning, with his buzz saw snoring, I am going to go David Carradine on his ass.
Oh yes, young grasshopper, you shall choke in your sleep.
Although the more I think about it, David Carradine choked himself in some weird sex thing, didn’t he? I don’t think I can convince Carter to choke himself out no matter how naked I get.
I’ve tried everything to make my nights of sleep less irritating. I've gently pushed his arm so he would roll over because according to Google, a simple change of position will put a halt to the snoring.
False. And shut up, everything on Google is true! How else would I know that the world’s oldest living goldfish is forty-one and his name is Fred? Or that when you type the word “askew” in Google search the page will tilt slightly clockwise? These are facts, people!
My dad had told me to try buying a box of nasal strips for Carter to fasten across the bridge of his nose every night before bed.
Didn’t work. I woke up the next morning with nasal strips stuck in places where nasal strips should never be stuck.
It’s all fun and games until you need to lock yourself in the bathroom with tweezers, a mirror, and a flashlight.
I’ve kicked my feet and smacked my hands against the mattress repeatedly in frustration while whisper-screaming about cock-sucking snorers and their lack of respect for people who sleep quietly, and I’ve jerked the covers off of him, hit him in the face with his own pillow, that I yanked out from under his head, while plugging his nose.
Hey, don’t judge me. I’m losing sleep here.
And I had only plugged his nose long enough for him to start choking on his own spit. As soon as he could speak, he told me all about the dream he was having where he thought he was suffocating and how he realized while he was dream-dying that he forgot to tell me he loved me before he went to sleep. Yes, I felt guilty. Yes, I made it up to him by having sex with him at five in the morning, and no I have never told him that it was me who actually tried to off him in his sleep.
Sometimes couples need a few secrets.
Carter thinks my irritation with his snoring is cute. Of course he does. He's not the one with his ears bleeding in the middle of the night, praying for his bed mate to asphyxiate in his sleep. Oh no, he is off in dreamland, wondering why the soundtrack of his really good sex dream suddenly includes the melody of knives being sharpened.
Last night, one of my well placed kicks to his thigh, er, I mean gentle taps, finally got him to shut up and roll over. It was a thing of beauty. The silent, peaceful tranquility that flowed through the bedroom almost made me weep with joy. Sadly, as soon as I fell asleep and began happily frolicking through my own dreamland, Carter was shaking me awake and asking if I said something. Because according to him, he had been sleeping like a rock but could have sworn he heard me ask him if the green Jell-O should go in the trunk with the snapping turtles.
A public service announcement for men: If you see that your significant other is fast asleep and your initial whispered question doesn't get a response, don't be surprised if we start spewing green vomit out of the mouths of our rapidly spinning heads as you shake us awake to ask your stupid question fifty decibels louder than the first time.
So here I am again, wide awake at five in the morning, giving the love of my life the stink eye in the dark and wondering if I will be able to keep a straight face when looking at him if I go ahead and order that chin strap contraption I saw on the Home Shopping Network the previous week. As I stare at the ceiling and wonder why a snoring prevention mechanism has to look so much like a jock strap for the face, I suddenly remember something else I read on Google not that long ago that I haven’t tried yet (Fred, the forty-one-year-old goldfish – FRED IS REAL, dammit!). The article had stated that a short, loud yell of a random, one-syllable word will break through the snoring person’s conscience just enough to get them to stop snoring without fully waking them up.
I roll my head to the side to stare at Carter’s profile. Watching him sleep soundly while I currently reside in insomnia-land, as a direct result of his deviated septum, makes me feel stabby. Since I can’t take my anger out on his septum without making him bleed, I figure I might as well try one more thing. Especially since buying the chin/jock/anti-snoring strap will require that I address Carter as Dick Face from now on. Something I’m assuming he will frown upon.
I take a deep breath and let out my one-syllable word. "F-U-U-U-U-U-U-C-K!”
In the blink of an eye Carter jolts awake with a scream, flailing his arms and legs and scrambling across the bed until he falls off the side and lands on the floor with a loud thud.
"Son of a bitch! What the hell was that?" he mutters from the floor.
"I think there’s green Jell-O in the trunk with the turtles," I state before rolling over and snuggling under the covers.
2. My Dog Has the Hungry
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea, Claire.”
I roll my eyes at my dad as I shove a tray of fresh Butter Brickle Bars into the display case under the front counter a little harder than necessary. A few of the bars jump out of their spots on the tray due to my irritation, and as I reach in to fix them, I have to force myself not to eat another one. As much as I love making sweets, I normally don’t eat very many. My tastes tend to lean more towards salty snacks. I don’t know what is wrong with me lately though. If I keep sampling the goods like this my ass is going to grow another cheek to make room for all the fat.
“I really don’t think you’ve thought this through,” my dad continues as he leans his hip against the counter and folds his arms across his chest.
I take that back. I know exactly why I’ve been pigging out on chocolate and cookies.
I reached into the glass case and grab the Butter Brickle Bar closest to me and shovel the whole thing in my mouth at once. I take a moment to savor the taste of brown sugar, vanilla, and toffee bits, letting the sugary sweetness do its trick of removing some of my stress. Since I can’t physically chuck the six-foot-two tension problem I currently have out of the store without giving myself a hernia, this will have to do. I swallow the mouthful of cookie bar and try not to think about it forming little legs and sprinting straight to my ass, leaving pats of butter behind on my hips as it goes. I take a deep, fortifying breath so I can deal with my father.
“Dad, Carter and I have been living together for two months. It’s a little late for this speech now don’t you think?”
My dad has never said one word for or against mine and Carter’s living arrangements ever since we first announced it on the day of Seduction and Snacks’ grand opening.
He had grunted, glared at Carter, and then walked away. That was approval as far as I had been concerned.
Now that it’s been two months and I haven’t changed my mind like he probably thought I would, suddenly he has an opinion.
“Everyone says, ‘why buy the bar when you can get the beer for free’.”
I stop with my arm in midair as I reach for a towel to wipe down the counter.
“Dad, no one says that.”
“Everyone says that,” he replies, pushing himself away from the counter and moving his hands to his hips.
I roll my eyes and began wiping crumbs off of the top of the display case.
“Really? Who?” I challenge as the bell above the door chimes and a customer walks in.
“People,” he states firmly.
I sighed and turn away from my dad to smile and greet the woman who is perusing the white chocolate section at the opposite end of the case from where we are standing. After making sure she doesn’t have any questions, I glance back at him.
“Dad, it’s two-thousand-and-twelve, not the nineteen-fifties. People live together all the time before they make any kind of huge commitment. We just need some time to get used to each other and learn to live together as a family without killing each other. It’s not that big of a deal.”
My dad huffs and it is his turn to stare at me in irritation.
“Really, Claire, when have I ever given you any kind of indication that I’m old fashioned? I just don’t want this yahoo to think he can move you and Gavin into his place and then never have to do anything to make it official. At least if he married you, I wouldn’t have to worry about your whiny ass showing up on my doorstep anytime soon wanting your old room back.”
I wonder how many Butter Brickle Bars I can fit in my mouth at one time.
“Did you really just call Carter a yahoo? How about we take a seat on the davenport so we can discuss that little hooligan and how you aren’t old fashioned in the least?” I state sarcastically.
“I should have sold you to that traveling circus when you were four. I could be out on the lake fishing right now instead of having this conversation,” he mutters.
My dad had been married twice before he married my mom, and he had his first wife Linda’s name tattooed on his arm. When I was younger I tried to change Linda to my mom’s name, Rachel, with a sharpie marker when he was sleeping. Unfortunately, he woke up before I could finish. It took him three days to wash Rinda off of his arm. When I told that story to Carter, he started singing like the Chinese men in “A Christmas Story”. Deck da hars with boughs of horry, fa-ra-ra-ra-ra, ra-ra-ra-ra! He tried joking with my dad once about it saying, “You reary roved Rinda.” My dad thought he was impersonating Scooby Doo and didn’t find it funny. Could be why he wasn’t one hundred percent sold on the whole living together situation. And all of it was a prime example of why I wasn’t jumping on board the marriage band wagon just yet. My dad had struck out three times and my mom twice when she had finally decided marriage wasn’t for her when I was twelve and packed up to get a condo in the city.
I don’t really have shining examples of happily ever after in my life.
Anyway, the point is everyone makes their own decisions about life, some good and some bad. They all teach us something about who we are and blah, blah, blah. No matter what my dad’s opinion is, I need to know if Carter’s snoring and his inability to put a new roll of toilet paper back on the holder is going to be a deal breaker before we do something legal that we can’t back out of.
So far, stupid bad habits aside, we are doing quite well cohabiting. Gavin has adjusted nicely, and I haven’t smothered Cater in his sleep. That’s total win right there.
My dad can finally tell by the look on my face that I am closing the conversation for further discussion or arguments, and he has given up on the beer/sex/whatever the fuck analogy. He grabs the newspaper he set down on the counter when he first walked in, tucks it under his arm, and walks over to one of the small tables by the front window to drink his coffee. Regardless of the mood he had put me in, seeing the four black, round tables set up in front of the picture window at the front of the store makes me smile. They had just been delivered the prior week and seeing someone sitting in them, even if it is my father, made me giddy. This is my store and those are my tables and nothing can mar the elated feeling that gave me.
The chime above the door sounds again, and I glanced over to see my friend Jenny storm in with an angry scowl on her face. Never in a million years have I ever picture myself being friends with someone like her. She is runway model beautiful and the things that come out of her mouth rarely make sense, but she’s proven to be a good friend in the few months since I've met her and would help anyone with anything they asked without a second thought. Much to everyone’s surprise, Jenny had managed to grab onto Carter’s best friend, Drew, and wrap him around her little finger. Drew is the biggest man whore you will ever lay eyes on, but for whatever reason, Jenny is able to tame him. Somewhat.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask Jenny as I round the counter to meet her halfway. I glance down at my watch and see it's only eleven in the morning. “Why aren’t you at work?”
Jenny works for the same computer design company she has since her freshman year in college.
She had started off as an intern and quickly made her way up the ranks and was now one of the most talented graphic designers they had on staff. She helped me out in a pinch when I was opening my store and made all of the flyers, brochures, and business cards in her free time and refused to take any payment. It had been one of the main reasons I decided I liked her.
Anyone who doesn’t charge me for services rendered is good people in my book.
Jenny laughs manically at my question about work and crossed her arms in front of her. “That’s a great question, Claire. And the answer would be, I got fired,” she replies before bursting into tears, flinging her arms around me, and burying her face in my shoulder.
Oh Jesus God no.
I awkwardly bend my elbow and pat my hand against her lower back. She still has her arms wrapped around me in a vice grip and that’s as high as I can reach. I shove my other hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my cell phone, sending a quick “please help me, God” text to Liz next door.
Jenny continues to cry, sniffle and every few minutes wail. After subtly spitting out some of her hair from my mouth as she burrows further into my neck and shoulder, I anxiously glance down at my cell phone wondering how much longer I will need to pretend I enjoy soothing people during breakdowns before Liz gets her ass over here and rescues me. It probably won’t be very friend-like of me if I start freaking out that there might now be a pile of someone else’s snot pooling on the shoulder of my tee-shirt. My phone buzzes in my hand and I crane my neck over Jenny’s shoulder to see the message.
I am busy with customers. You are going to have to MAN UP and comfort her yourself. Start acting like you have a vagina for fuck’s sake and hug her.
XOXO – Liz
I grit my teeth at the knowledge I am on my own in the pits of consoling hell.
“There, there,” I say, patting her on the back again. I really think I should have been born a guy. I don’t know many women who get skeeved out by displays of emotion. If I see a woman crying, I usually run in the other direction. I am not one of those people that throws my arms around her and tells her everything will be okay—because it probably won’t. It will most likely suck just as much whether I hug you or not, so it’s probably best for everyone involved if I just stand off to the side and let someone else do the touching. I feel much more comfortable wallowing in anger and stewing about something privately until my head explodes. That's natural. Hugging and crying and snotting all over someone isn’t.
“Didn’t you just get a raise? Why in the hell would they fire you?” I ask as I worm my way out of her arms and try to subtly back away from her.
Don’t look at the snot on your shoulder, don’t look at the snot on your shoulder. I know you can feel it there, but for God’s sakes, DON’T LOOK AT IT!
Jenny finally releases her hold on me and uses the back of her hands to wipe the tear streaks off her face. If only she would have done that with the snot instead of using my shoulder.
“I don’t have any idea why they really fired me. They gave me some song and dinner about positive attitude.” she pouts.
“You mean dance?” I ask in confusion.
“Claire, focus! I got fired! This is no time for talk about dancing,” she yells.
I take a deep, calming breath and put my hands on my hips to keep from strangling her.
“Okay, so they fired you because they didn’t like your attitude?” I reiterate.
Jenny looks at me incredulously. “I know, right? I told them I was the most positive person in that dump.”
“Verbatim?” I ask her.
“I didn’t forbid them anything. What are you talking about? Are you even listening? Have you been drinking?”
The last is stated in a stage whisper as she looks over at the customer who came in earlier. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try not to stomp my foot and throw a temper tantrum like Gavin does when I tell him he is grounded from PlayStation.
“What am I going to do without a job?” she whines as she paces back and forth in front of me. “It’s mine and Drew’s three month anniversary and I was going to buy him something really special and now I’m not going to be able to afford it.”
I grab onto her elbow to stop her pacing and pulled her back behind the counter with me when I saw the customer was finally ready to order.
“I’m sure Drew will understand,” I tell her as I start filling a box with the woman’s request of a pound of white chocolate covered pretzels.
“No he won’t. He’s going to be so upset. I already told him what I was buying, and he was really looking forward to the vagina mold,” she says dejectedly.
I drop the metal candy scoop on the floor and look over at Jenny as she sighs miserably.
As I pick up the scoop and toss it into the sink before grabbing a clean one, all sorts of thoughts swirl through my mind that shouldn’t be when I am waiting on a customer—like who-ha’s covered in green fuzz and moldy cheese vaginas dancing around the Tupperware container in the back of my fridge with two-month old spaghetti in it.
Jenny looks over and sees the horror on my face as I try to block out the mental image of moldy cheese vaginas singing, “Mold, mold, baby,” in the voice of Vanilla Ice in my head.
“Claire, didn’t you see the new product Liz got in last week? It’s a mold you can make of your vagina. So your guy can…you know…”
Jenny uses the age old finger gesture of a penis going into a vagina by making a circle with her index finger and thumb and using the index finger of her other hand to move in and out of it.
“Eeeew, what? That’s disgusting,” I whisper, smacking her hands to get her to stop making that motion with her fingers as I hand the customer her chocolate.
“It’s not disgusting,” Jenny says. “It’s romantic. Drew wants a replica of my…” she glances at the customer and then lowers her voice “…love tunnel so he can be with me whenever we’re apart.”
I step away from her to ring up the customer, trying not to picture Drew holding on to some little floppy, silicone vagina-looking thing, talking to it in a baby voice like it's Jenny. “Oooooh, I wuv my wittle fake Jenny-vagina! Yes I do!”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just get him a blow-up doll and tape your picture over its face?” I ask as I watch the customer leave the store with her purchase and hope she didn’t hear enough of this conversation to prevent her from ever stepping foot in here again.
Jenny shakes her head at me in pity. “You have absolutely no sense of romance, Claire.”
I huff in indignation as I get busy filling a box with chocolate covered strawberries for an order that's being picked up after lunch. I am plenty romantic.
Just this morning while he slept, I had left Carter a box of his favorite candy next to his pillow–Globs: piles of white chocolate covered, crushed potato chips and pretzels drizzled with caramel. I figured it would soften him up to the note I placed next to the box telling him if he left the toilet seat up one more time and my ass got an involuntary bath at six in the morning, I would put super glue on the head of his penis while he slept. I had even signed the note with a couple of Xs and Os.
Who says romance is dead?
I close up the box of strawberries and finish it off with my signature pink bow and a sticker with the name and address of the store. Setting it aside, I turn to face Jenny and find her inhaling an entire pan of white chocolate covered Nutter Butter cookies that I had been experimenting with that morning.
