Page 40 of Bridesmaid Undercover
I let out a deep sigh. “You’re right,” I say. “You’re very right. There is a man coming here tonight who will be the perfect distraction. Timothy, right?”
“Tomothy,” Ember corrects.
“Tomothy?” I ask with a grimace. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, his name is Tomothy.”
“Do people call him Tom?” I ask.
“No,” Ember says emphatically. “God, do not call him Tom. He hates that. He goes by Tomothy.”
“Are you sure? Because when you told me his name initially, I thought it was a typo in your text. But it’s really Tomothy?”
“Yes, it’s really Tomothy. I think it’s a fun name.”
“I think it’s an old Victorian name for a kid with the plague,” I whimper, and in my best Dickensian voice, I say, “Oh, little Tomothy, about to shrivel up from the Black Death.”
“Everly,” Ember scolds on a laugh. “It is not. This is a nice name, and he’s a nice man, and you will enjoy his company—just watch. Your thoughts about Hardy will be completely washed away once Tomothy enters the chat. Guaranteed.”
I’m goingto murder my sister.
I hope she enjoys her last meal of chicken parm, breadsticks, and a side salad, because that’s it for her.
She will not be seeing another day.
And do you know why?
One word: Tomothy.
I can’tbelieveshe set me up with this man.
First of all, he is easily seven feet tall. I know what you’re thinking, not a bad thing. Could be worse. But he’s so tall that the first thing I noticed wasn’t his eyes, or his smile, no, it was his nostrils.
His very wide and very prominent nostrils—well-kept nostrils, though, which I have to give him credit for. Sure, this isn’t a great example as to why my sister should be murdered, but there’s something jarring about being greeted by a nostril and not a face.
And not that I have anything against tall men. I like tall men, but this man is so tall, that I would need to stand on a chair to even consider a kiss goodnight. Which would never happen because I have acquired “the ick” where he’s concerned and not because of his height or his nostrils.
I acquired the ick on multiple occasions.
First ick was when he checked his teeth in the reflection of his knife when we first sat down. He made a show of it, examining his pearly whites, moving his head back and forth toget all angles, and then swiping his rather thick tongue across the ivories, before setting his knife back down. Excuse yourself to the bathroom, sir, if you’re that concerned.
Second ick was when he picked up his napkin and made a show of flapping it in the air and then tucking it into the top of his shirt. Could be endearing, some might say, but not when he made it a point to fluff his chest hair crawling out his collar and gently smooth it over the top part of his tucked-in napkin. No one wants chest hair on full display while biting into their breadstick.
Third ick—and this is a doozy—was when he started telling me about his cat, Hoodini, which at first was sort of charming, that was until he went into great detail about how he used to lick Hoodini when he was young. Got even more grossed out when he said he liked gnawing on Hoodini’s paw because it reminded him of corn chips. The only pussy he should be licking is…well…you know—hint, it’s not a feline.
And I completely disassociated from the “date” when he discussed the complexities of the female genitalia and how it wasn’t fair for men to have to learn the ways around their pleasure. How women shouldn’t have such convoluted parts because they’re letting men down. How he thought this was a topic of conversation that would grant him a look at my “parts” I have no idea. If anything, I mentally slipped a chastity belt on and tossed the key into the Pacific Ocean.
And finally, I began contemplating my sister’s murder when he told me that I had the same bone structure as a sickly praying mantis—this coming from the seven-foot-tall, lanky man. Compare me to a bug and we’re done. Thank you, have a not-so-good day.
How on earth did Ember believe this would be the type of man that would take my mind off Hardy Hopper? This only makes me want him even more.
“And this is what my finger looked like right when I broke it,” Tomothy says as he flashes his phone toward me. Yup, we’re onto the many injuries he’s endured throughout his life. We went from a broken nose, to stitches in his chin, to a broken ankle, to a punctured hip, and now to a broken finger.
One glance and I’m gagging.
“Dear God, Tomothy,” I say as I turn away from him. “That is disgusting.”
“I know.” He smiles down at the picture as if he just showed me an image of his most prized possession—which I can only assume would be his cat’s corn chip paws. “It was quite gnarly. I can still hear the snap of my bone?—”
