Read Online Project Produce by Kari Lee Harmon - Free Book Online
Authors: Kari Lee Harmon
Ads: Link
underwear the one and only time you decide to wear a thong kind of embarrassing, to period leaking mortification. And yes, I’m speaking from experience. The wonderful experience of disaster dating . Needless to say, I hadn’t received a second invitation for a date from those men.
In fact, they left town soon after, leaving me with no one but the geriatrics to choose from. Even I wasn’t that desperate. Though maybe I should have been, then I wouldn’t have fallen for Bob when he’d rolled into town and swept me off my feet. My biggest disaster to date. Although, this date with Hot Britches wasn’t looking too good.
I took a deep breath, deciding if I were going to face my fears and succeed at this project, I’d have to learn to have these conversations with anyone, including men like Dylan. “Um, standing at attention, it’s a pickle,” I blurted.
“Okay, so I guess if I had a pickle, I’d probably have some serious issues.”
“How so?” I folded my napkin in my lap, wishing I could whip out my notebook and start writing without looking strange. Who was I kidding, this entire conversation went beyond strange.
“Put it this way, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get naked,” he answered.
I snorted. “That didn’t seem to bother Flasher Freak.”
“Yeah, well, Flasher Freak’s a freak. And his pickle could be what made him that way.” Dylan disappeared again, this time returning with a large bowl of cooked pasta, and the scents of garlic, basil, and oregano filled the room. “Besides, he could be suffering from Short Man Syndrome.”
“What’s that?” I plopped my elbows on the table. This night had potential after all. I tried not to frown. My idea of an evening with a hot guy having potential consisted of talking about his winkie, instead of using it. I sighed. In a word--pathetic.
“Some people say that a short man is so cocky because his Mr. Winkie is... well, let’s put it this way. I have a buddy who’s--God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this--who’s a pickle, and he’s so damned cocky you’d swear he was packin’ a... a...”
“A zucchini?” I supplied.
“Exactly.” Dylan paused, then arched a brow at me.
“I have a fondness for produce. Too many years of working in the produce department of my parents’ store, I guess. And it doesn’t help that they never used the anatomically correct names for private parts. Gotta love that Irish Catholic upbringing.”
His brow arched higher, but the corner of his lips hitched up a notch. “Well, that explains a lot.”
I glanced away. “Can I help with anything?”
He chuckled. “Nope, just sit tight. I’ve got it covered.” He wandered back into the kitchen, giving me a great view of his buns. His perfect buns. No insecurity there , I’ll bet. I took a gulp of wine this time.
Note to self: Produce conversations get easier with alcohol .
“Speaking of zucchinis, I’ve kind of noticed you’re rather, um, tall,” I called out from the dining room. “Does that mean you have Tall Man Syndrome?” Lord, he must think I’m a freaking nympho .
He returned with a loaf of steaming Italian bread and a devil of a grin. “Well, I am tall. Have big hands, too, but I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.” That darn crooked grin spread even wider across his face, melting me like the hot butter spread across the massive loaf.
“Hmmm, I don’t know. You seem rather cocky to me, chief. And according to you, cocky equals small. Maybe you’re hiding a pickle, and that’s just a sock.” My gaze dipped between his legs, giving me the sudden urge to fall off the face of the earth. This had just gotten really weird, even for me.
He grinned. “My pants aren’t that tight, and the only socks I have on me are the ones on my feet. The word you’re looking for is ‘confident’. There’s a difference.” He set the huge loaf right in front of me. “Big difference. And I thought it was Dukeypoo?”
I glanced at the loaf.
In fact, they left town soon after, leaving me with no one but the geriatrics to choose from. Even I wasn’t that desperate. Though maybe I should have been, then I wouldn’t have fallen for Bob when he’d rolled into town and swept me off my feet. My biggest disaster to date. Although, this date with Hot Britches wasn’t looking too good.
I took a deep breath, deciding if I were going to face my fears and succeed at this project, I’d have to learn to have these conversations with anyone, including men like Dylan. “Um, standing at attention, it’s a pickle,” I blurted.
“Okay, so I guess if I had a pickle, I’d probably have some serious issues.”
“How so?” I folded my napkin in my lap, wishing I could whip out my notebook and start writing without looking strange. Who was I kidding, this entire conversation went beyond strange.
“Put it this way, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get naked,” he answered.
I snorted. “That didn’t seem to bother Flasher Freak.”
“Yeah, well, Flasher Freak’s a freak. And his pickle could be what made him that way.” Dylan disappeared again, this time returning with a large bowl of cooked pasta, and the scents of garlic, basil, and oregano filled the room. “Besides, he could be suffering from Short Man Syndrome.”
“What’s that?” I plopped my elbows on the table. This night had potential after all. I tried not to frown. My idea of an evening with a hot guy having potential consisted of talking about his winkie, instead of using it. I sighed. In a word--pathetic.
“Some people say that a short man is so cocky because his Mr. Winkie is... well, let’s put it this way. I have a buddy who’s--God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this--who’s a pickle, and he’s so damned cocky you’d swear he was packin’ a... a...”
“A zucchini?” I supplied.
“Exactly.” Dylan paused, then arched a brow at me.
“I have a fondness for produce. Too many years of working in the produce department of my parents’ store, I guess. And it doesn’t help that they never used the anatomically correct names for private parts. Gotta love that Irish Catholic upbringing.”
His brow arched higher, but the corner of his lips hitched up a notch. “Well, that explains a lot.”
I glanced away. “Can I help with anything?”
He chuckled. “Nope, just sit tight. I’ve got it covered.” He wandered back into the kitchen, giving me a great view of his buns. His perfect buns. No insecurity there , I’ll bet. I took a gulp of wine this time.
Note to self: Produce conversations get easier with alcohol .
“Speaking of zucchinis, I’ve kind of noticed you’re rather, um, tall,” I called out from the dining room. “Does that mean you have Tall Man Syndrome?” Lord, he must think I’m a freaking nympho .
He returned with a loaf of steaming Italian bread and a devil of a grin. “Well, I am tall. Have big hands, too, but I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.” That darn crooked grin spread even wider across his face, melting me like the hot butter spread across the massive loaf.
“Hmmm, I don’t know. You seem rather cocky to me, chief. And according to you, cocky equals small. Maybe you’re hiding a pickle, and that’s just a sock.” My gaze dipped between his legs, giving me the sudden urge to fall off the face of the earth. This had just gotten really weird, even for me.
He grinned. “My pants aren’t that tight, and the only socks I have on me are the ones on my feet. The word you’re looking for is ‘confident’. There’s a difference.” He set the huge loaf right in front of me. “Big difference. And I thought it was Dukeypoo?”
I glanced at the loaf.
Similar Books
