using the pole to straighten a T-shirt that had twisted on the hanger. Earn It was scripted on the front.
Mac’s laugh was immediate and inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it. “You made him work for sex.”
She climbed down. “Stan thought so.”
“No man likes to jump through hoops for nookie.”
She turned on him. “I’m not easy.”
He never thought she was.
“I made him wait.”
For nearly three months from the sound of their breakup. “Your dude suffered blue balls, uncomfortable but curable,” he said.
He hadn’t been in Barefoot William long enough to turn blue. He’d hook up on Tide One On . He had his eye on the tall brunette from Crabby Abby’s. Her white crocheted string bikini was so small she spilled from the top. He figured she was bare shaven. He thought about buying her a Friction Club T-shirt. He needed a good body rubbing.
“Did you care for the guy?” he asked Jenna. In his mind, knowing someone for three months was lust, not love.
“I thought we had more in common than we actually did.”
“Deceiving bastard.”
She tried not to smile, but he saw the slight curve of her lips. She showed him a T-shirt with the slogan I Used to Have a Handle on Life, but It Broke. She was ornery and standoffish, but still feeling vulnerable.
She went on to count a row of men’s cargo shorts, jotted down the number, then hesitantly asked him, “How long do you stay in a relationship after you realize it’s over?”
“A minute, maybe two.” He’d broken a few hearts. Several of his lovers had begged him to stay. But if he wasn’t feeling it, he was gone. He wasn’t being mean, merely honest. “Leading a woman on is far worse than letting her go to find the right man.”
“You’re the wrong man in so many ways.” She pointed to a shirt pinned to the wall. Your Sole Purpose in Life is to Serve as a Warning to Others.
“Do you always let your T-shirts speak for you?”
“The slogans say it all.”
He wandered over to the men’s shirt rack, sizes medium and large. He looked through the larges. He liked the slogan Got Sex? He would fit right in on the booze cruise.
His shorts were dark brown, but he couldn’t distinguish the background color of the T-shirt. He raised both shorts and shirt and called to Jen. “How’s this?”
She scrunched her nose. “Orange isn’t your color.”
He put back the shirt, tried again. This time he chose what appeared to be a tie-dye with Try Me, You’ll Like Me. “Jen, does this work?” he asked.
She glanced over. “Only if you’re a firecracker. Red-gold is too bright. More women than men buy tie-dyes.”
Crap. He’d yet to nail the shirt. He hated to draw her into his decision, but he didn’t have all afternoon to fool with the color. There was a beach babe on the party yacht with his name on her. “Pick one out for me?” he requested.
“Do I look like your mother?”
“A little bit around the eyes.”
“I’m busy,” she stated. “The inventory won’t take itself.”
Contrary woman. “Help me with my shirt and—” His heart skipped a beat. “I’ll take you to the Sneaker Ball,” he said in frustration.
She did the unexpected and laughed in his face. “Not a sincere invitation,” she said. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”
“I’m a volleyball god.”
“Believe what you will.”
“Guess you’d rather go alone.”
“Guess you’re right.”
What was her problem? Mac wondered. Women stood in line to date him, yet Jen hung back, reluctant and indecisive. She looked a little nauseous.
Several minutes passed before she set down her notepad and found him a shirt in a light color. Beige or white, he guessed. He smiled over the slogan: You Say Psycho Like It’s a Bad Thing.
She handed it to him. “Tan goes well with your brown shorts.”
He felt a mild sense of relief.
“Need help with a towel?” she asked next.
“I can manage.” He headed toward the shelves of towels near the front of
Mac’s laugh was immediate and inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it. “You made him work for sex.”
She climbed down. “Stan thought so.”
“No man likes to jump through hoops for nookie.”
She turned on him. “I’m not easy.”
He never thought she was.
“I made him wait.”
For nearly three months from the sound of their breakup. “Your dude suffered blue balls, uncomfortable but curable,” he said.
He hadn’t been in Barefoot William long enough to turn blue. He’d hook up on Tide One On . He had his eye on the tall brunette from Crabby Abby’s. Her white crocheted string bikini was so small she spilled from the top. He figured she was bare shaven. He thought about buying her a Friction Club T-shirt. He needed a good body rubbing.
“Did you care for the guy?” he asked Jenna. In his mind, knowing someone for three months was lust, not love.
“I thought we had more in common than we actually did.”
“Deceiving bastard.”
She tried not to smile, but he saw the slight curve of her lips. She showed him a T-shirt with the slogan I Used to Have a Handle on Life, but It Broke. She was ornery and standoffish, but still feeling vulnerable.
She went on to count a row of men’s cargo shorts, jotted down the number, then hesitantly asked him, “How long do you stay in a relationship after you realize it’s over?”
“A minute, maybe two.” He’d broken a few hearts. Several of his lovers had begged him to stay. But if he wasn’t feeling it, he was gone. He wasn’t being mean, merely honest. “Leading a woman on is far worse than letting her go to find the right man.”
“You’re the wrong man in so many ways.” She pointed to a shirt pinned to the wall. Your Sole Purpose in Life is to Serve as a Warning to Others.
“Do you always let your T-shirts speak for you?”
“The slogans say it all.”
He wandered over to the men’s shirt rack, sizes medium and large. He looked through the larges. He liked the slogan Got Sex? He would fit right in on the booze cruise.
His shorts were dark brown, but he couldn’t distinguish the background color of the T-shirt. He raised both shorts and shirt and called to Jen. “How’s this?”
She scrunched her nose. “Orange isn’t your color.”
He put back the shirt, tried again. This time he chose what appeared to be a tie-dye with Try Me, You’ll Like Me. “Jen, does this work?” he asked.
She glanced over. “Only if you’re a firecracker. Red-gold is too bright. More women than men buy tie-dyes.”
Crap. He’d yet to nail the shirt. He hated to draw her into his decision, but he didn’t have all afternoon to fool with the color. There was a beach babe on the party yacht with his name on her. “Pick one out for me?” he requested.
“Do I look like your mother?”
“A little bit around the eyes.”
“I’m busy,” she stated. “The inventory won’t take itself.”
Contrary woman. “Help me with my shirt and—” His heart skipped a beat. “I’ll take you to the Sneaker Ball,” he said in frustration.
She did the unexpected and laughed in his face. “Not a sincere invitation,” she said. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”
“I’m a volleyball god.”
“Believe what you will.”
“Guess you’d rather go alone.”
“Guess you’re right.”
What was her problem? Mac wondered. Women stood in line to date him, yet Jen hung back, reluctant and indecisive. She looked a little nauseous.
Several minutes passed before she set down her notepad and found him a shirt in a light color. Beige or white, he guessed. He smiled over the slogan: You Say Psycho Like It’s a Bad Thing.
She handed it to him. “Tan goes well with your brown shorts.”
He felt a mild sense of relief.
“Need help with a towel?” she asked next.
“I can manage.” He headed toward the shelves of towels near the front of
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