Can't Touch This (Can't Touch This #1)

Me: I guess.

Ryder: Ves?

Me: Yes?

Ryder: I’m really, really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’ve missed you.

Me: I swear you say things like that to keep me in a permanent state of puddle-like infatuation.

Ryder: I like you in a puddle. It means I made you wet.

Me: No disputing that.

Ryder: Fuck, is it tomorrow yet?

Me: If you let me go to sleep it will be.

Ryder: Fine, best vet in the world. Go to bed—without me. I’ll make sure you make it up to me when we see each other.

Me: Deal. Goodnight.

Ryder: Sleep tight.

Locking my phone, I caught Polly watching me.

Her lips stretched into a sleepy smile. “That man is seriously addicted to you.”

“Or just having a good time.” For some reason, admitting just how much Ryder meant to me suddenly seemed beyond smug and just cruel.

However, Polly didn’t let me get away with it. “Vesper Carla Fairfax, if you belittle how he feels about you or how you feel about him one more time, I’m going to bop you one.”

“Bop me?”

“Bop you.” She fake punched me in the side of the head. “Bop.”

“Okay, okay, no more trying to protect your feelings, sheesh.” I gave her a grin.

“Good.” She nodded importantly, snuggling back into our nest on the floor. “Because if you don’t start owning just how rare and magical your connection is, then you’re both morons and I don’t do stupid people.”

Rolling over, our backs touched, our feet brushing in goodnight like we did at university after an all-nighter study session.

“Got it, no more stupidness.”

“That’s my girl.” Polly yawned. “Now go to sleep, so we’re not haggard hoe-bags for our double date tomorrow.”

I smiled in the dark. “You do realise the Urban Dictionary elaborates on that word rather well.”

Polly asked sleepily, “It does?”

“Yep. The exact definition is a person—preferably a woman—who is such a hoe that their vagina has been stretched to such an extent that it can be used as a bag to carry things such as mail, yoga balls, iPods, and crayons. Look it up. That stuff is on Google.”

Polly rolled over, her eyes bugging. “Crayons? There are women who put crayons and iPods up their twatwaffles?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, I’ll use another turn of phrase then because I sure as hell don’t want household equipment up there.”

We burst out laughing before falling asleep with images of things going in girly places that should never be used in such ways.