Page 5 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

Meanwhile, Gabe was laughing his ass off at his dumbness. The architect walked off, calling out, “See you later, Geek,” at the same time he gave a good luck sign over his shoulder.

“Why did he call you Geek?”

“It’s my nickname.” When she frowned with confusion—and, by the way, even her frowns are sexy—he explained, “Because I’m really smart.”

Could I say anything less smart? he asked himself, mentally bitch slapping his woozy head.

She arched her brows. “How smart is it that halfway through the reception you’re drunk off your ass . . . I mean inebriated. Forgive my language. Can’t hold your liquor, huh?”

“I hold my liquor just fine, thank you very much,” he said, then spoiled the effect by belching. “’Scuse me.”

She rolled her eyes. Then she suggested, “Let’s sit down?”

We better, or I might fall down and topple you to the floor with me. Flatten you into a pancake, an anatomically correct pancake with breasts and a vee-mound and knobby, lickable knees and everything. But, no, we would fit together perfectly. Like a tongue and groove. Tongue again! Oh, crap! Please, God, don’t let me have said that out loud. I didn’t? Hallelujah! But, man, I am so skunked.

Unaware of his mental breakdown, she sank into a chair at an empty table and set down her stemmed glass in which a lemon slice floated on top of a murky liquid. A lemonade margarita, he guessed. Ah, that accounted for the lemon scent, but how about the sex scent?

Aaarrgh!

What is it about this woman that makes me into a bumbling sex addict, or rather, sex idiot? She could say algebra, and I would think sex. She could be wearing a tent, and I would think sex. She could be shoveling shit, and I would think sex. No, no, no! That last was crude. What the hell is wrong with me? I can be as smooth as the next guy. Where is my smooth now?

Merrill eased himself into the chair next to her, carefully.

She was running a fingertip around the rim of her glass, over and over.

Even in his fuzzy condition, he recognized the nervous gesture. Why is she nervous? Around me? “What exactly did you need to talk to me about?” he asked. “Especially since you’ve made it more than clear you want nothing to do with me.”

“Money,” she said bluntly. “I need money. Ten thousand fucking . . . I mean, flipping dollars. At least. Hopefully.”

Merrill blinked. Not the answer he’d been expecting. Not at all.

Sex for money? Is that what she’s saying?

And whoa . . . ten thousand George Washingtons! That must be some sex!

But I’ve never paid for sex in my entire life.

Would I now?

In a hot damn, Crimson Slut minute.

“Um . . .” His tongue hard-on got harder, just picturing what those Crimson Slut lips could do, which prevented him from speaking for a moment. Good thing because Delilah had more to say, which didn’t quite fit in with his Crimson Slut scenario.

“I’ve heard that you’re hiring people for a shipwreck salvaging operation, and I need a job, like right away.”

Oh! That’s what she means. Damn! That’s better, of course. But, damn! He tried his best to hide his disappointment.

To no avail.

“Did you think . . . oh, Lord, you did!” She started to stand, a flush rising in her cheeks.

He reached out and pressed a hand on her forearm as the fog in his head began to slowly dissipate. “No. Don’t go. I didn’t mean to offend you. My only excuse is I’m a little bit snockered. Okay, ‘drunk off my ass.’” He tried to smile but was pretty sure that only one side of his mouth turned up. He probably looked like an idiot.

She studied him for a moment before sinking back down. Taking a long swig from her glass, she waited for him to speak.

“Are you a diver?” he asked.

She shook her head.