Jesus H. Christ, did I really just say that? I put my head down on my desk and groan out loud.
Me: Please forget I just said that.
Miranda: TOO LATE. LOL OMG—you’re so much funnier in text than you are in person!
At this rate, it’s beginning to feel suspiciously like flirting and it’s beginning to feel like no degree of negotiation on pricing is going to take place. I need those cards and I have to know what she wants for them—if only I could get her to say they’re mine.
Miranda: You don’t joke around much, do you? You seem like the serious sort.
Me: What makes you say that?
Miranda: I don’t know. You really didn’t smile at all today. It was more of a…leer? LOL. Forgive me for saying so, but what the hell dude! You are too much.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I hesitate, pausing before typing my reply and hitting send.
Me: You make it sound like a bad thing. Don’t you think I’m sexy?!
I hold my breath as those three little dots appear as she types. Then…disappear.
Reappear a few seconds later, and I hold my breath again—unable to believe I actually fucking asked her if she found Wallace sexy. Sexy? Jesus, I never say that word, let alone use it in a private message.
Miranda: No offense—I’m sure you’re a great guy? You’re just not my type.
The bubbles appear again.
Miranda: Like—at. All.
Miranda: Not that I don’t appreciate you hitting on me today. I mean that is what you were doing right? Asking me if I wanted to snack on you?
Wait. What?
WHAT?
Did she say hitting on me?
I fucking burn holes into that sentence, slack-jawed. Wallace HIT ON HER? And didn’t say anything? That prick! I sit there, stunned, staring at the incoming messages, blushing like a fucking idiot, embarrassed all over again.
Miranda: Since we’re back on the subject, I should probably tell you that after our meeting today, I’m not quite sure I want to sell you the entire collection.
My mind is reeling and not about the baseball cards.
What the hell did Buzz do during that exchange? WHAT THE FUCK DID HE DO?
The curiosity is going to kill me if I don’t find out the details; he’s clearly a lying asshole considering all he told me was she had a bad attitude.
Well no fucking wonder—he thought her attitude sucked because she rejected him.
What a dick.
I need to talk to her, hear her voice and…apologize. Grovel, even, for the sins of my friend. Get back in her good graces, so she’ll reconsider selling me those cards.
Way to fuck this up, Noah. If you’d gone to get the card yourself, this never would have happened.
Me: I don’t know what to say about today except I wasn’t myself. Please don’t not sell me those cards because of my bad behavior.
Miranda: That’s all fine and good for you to say after the fact, but you put me in an awkward situation today. What made you think I would be okay with you talking to me like that?
God. I’m going to kill Wallace.
Wring his fucking neck with my bare hands.
Me: Do you mind if we talk over the phone? I think it would be easier.
More personal = easier to grovel, although she may be able to detect my voice isn’t the same at Buzz’s. Would that give me away? Would she even notice?
Miranda: What are you going to do? Try to change my mind?
Me: Are you going to at least let me try?
Miranda: You really are a piece of work. (LOUD SIGH) Fine. You can call me, but you have to promise me no flirting or funny business—deal?
Yeah, yeah, I got it. Whatever fun I was having with her died with the words You’re just not my type. Also that part about me hitting on her, but mostly I’m distracted by the fact that Buzz killed this deal and I have to salvage it.
Me, the worst man for the job since I have no fucking clue how to speak to women.
Confusion muddles my brain and I mull all the facts over. Buzz Wallace, international playboy, isn’t her type. If tall, dark, handsome, and rich isn’t what she’s looking for then—what is? It’s hardly appropriate to ask; she’s a complete stranger. We’re conducting a business transaction, not matching on a dating app, for fuck’s sake. Still, I want to know what kind of girl isn’t attracted to a guy like Buzz Wallace. A guy who, in my mind, has everything.
I am not jealous of Buzz Wallace. She did not want him, not even for one night.
I would be jealous, though, if she were gushing all over him. Or if, God forbid, she’d taken him up on his offer to go out—or, in this case, to go down on him. Fucking Buzz. Where the hell was he raised? In a barn? Didn’t his mother teach him any manners?
Wallace is exactly the kind of dude who gives student athletes a bad name. Spoiled. Good-looking. Cocky. We didn’t go to the same college—he went to Florida State and I was on the East Coast—but we’d play a few games against each other each year, both entered the draft at the same time, both signed similar contracts.
My contract earns me more than his—10 million bucks more, to be exact—and I smirk, spine a bit straighter.
The weird thing is, Wallace isn’t competitive when it comes to his friends. Shocking, I know, but he isn’t bothered by the fact that his agent didn’t get him more money. Isn’t bothered by the fact that I have a bigger house. Doesn’t hassle me about my truck.
He just wants to hang out.
It’s fucking strange, a guy with his ego not trying to one-up everyone.
One bonus point for him.
My phone pings while I stand here overthinking things.
Miranda: Hey, you still there? Are you calling or no? It’s cool if you can’t—I have work stuff to go do.
My palms are sweaty and I wipe them off, almost nervously. Swipe a hand
