Page 41 of Playing His Game
Picks gurgled, laughing like a preteen, and Smitty jostled in to leer over his shoulder and hummed. “Who are you trying to impress with that: the beau or the bestie?”
“It’s not like I could go with him,” Adam grumbled. “We had a game.”
“Oh right, because you definitely couldn’t have just sent a message,” Smitty said.
Picks nodded. “He’s not a Chad.”
“Course not. Everyone knows that after two months, besties rate flowers when you can’t go see them.”
“They’re performing Shakespeare. In London. England. At theGlobe,” Adam protested. It wasn’t like a missed dinner. If they’d actually been dating and Adam had the free time, he wouldn’t have thought twice about hopping on the plane with Mo. He hadn’t even questioned the impulse to open up his web browser and search for the best local flower shop that would deliver.
“Is this what he’s like when twitterpated?” Smitty scrutinized Adam with narrowed eyes, head cocked.
Jorts shrugged. “How should I know? You ever seen him twitterpated before?”
“I’m not—” Adam tried.
They ignored him in favor of this new double act.
“Good point.”
“This is definitely different.” Jorts nodded. “Not his usual MO.”
“Wait… like what?” Picks asked.
“Extra stuffed-up and stiff,” Smitty said with a nod and pull from his beer bottle.
“As if you know anything about my partners being stuffed-up or stiff,” Adam grumbled.
Picks’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. Jorts cackled.
“No, but seriously, Picksy, it’s like he’s worrying about checking everything off the perfect-boyfriend list.” Jorts gasped. “Murphs, Murphs, do you have a checklist? Can I see it?”
Adam spluttered and wondered what he’d done to deserve these drunken idiots. “I do not have a checklist. Also, I’m texting Mads and telling her you’re pissed.”
“She won’t care.”
Adam lifted an eyebrow and Jorts smirked. “Besides, she wants me here to find out the hot goss. Mo’s her new bestie.”
Adam snorted. “Now I know you’re sauced. Time for you to go home, old man.”
An hour later, Adam flopped into bed and flicked his phone on to stare blearily at his screen. After loading others into cars, getting home himself, and then downing half a liter of water, he was more awake now than he had been when he left the bar.
He unlocked his phone and found a new text from Mo:
Sage loved the flowers. Says you’re already their fave of all my “squeezes”.
Adam snorted.
Well they’re definitely my favorite fake friend-in-law of all my fake boyfriends.
He passed out before Mo’s reply came in, his eyelids shifting from flung open to fully shuttered without him registering the encroaching drowsiness.
He woke the following morning to his off-day alarm. After hydrating and stretching, Adam hit the treadmill.
He was halfway through his five-mile run when someone leaned against his doorbell.
“Jeezus,” he grumbled as he stomped toward his foyer. The mystery visitor was now ringing the bell in an erratic pattern as if tapping out the rhythm of a song.
