Operation Meet Cute by K.M. Neuhold
Chapter 6
HARLOW
I blow on my hot tea, taking care not to spill it as I plop my cute butt down into my chair and hurry to answer the video call lighting up my computer screen.
Within seconds, Marnie’s face fills my screen. We have a pact to never beautify before our Sunday morning coffee/tea chat dates, but damn is it hard to uphold my end of the bargain when the bitch looks so damn pretty even with her hair pulled into a messy bun, no makeup, wearing her man’s baggy T-shirt.
“How do you always look like that?” I complain, reaching up and flicking a limp strand of my own hair.
“Oh please, buy a mirror, you skank,” she fires back, her words contrasted by her signature sweet smile.
“Is that any way to talk to your man of honor?” I give her my best bitchy look, and she laughs.
“Speaking of which, I need you to fly out here next month and look at venues and dresses with me.”
“I should be able to swing that. Let me look at the filming schedule for next month to see which days I can get away.”
“Has the director said anything about your script yet?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.
“No, but it’s only been three days, so I’m trying not to read too much into it.” The mention of my script has memories of the other night with Teddy rushing right back to the forefront of my mind.
“Okay, spill,” Marnieimmediately demands.
“What?” I fake innocence, stirring my tea and taking a sip.
“That was your I got laid smirk. Tell Mama Marnie all about it.” She leans forward, putting her chin on her hand and grinning at me through the screen.
I chuckle, my stomach doing this weird little flutter thing. I hope the milk I added to my tea hasn’t gone bad.
“It was nothing really, just a little fun, blowing off some steam.” I shrug.
“Oh yeah? Where’d you meet him? Was he cute? Details please.” She may sound pushy, but there have been several occasions when I’ve told her I didn’t want to talk about a particular hookup, and she always backs off right away. She’s just enthusiastic, one of the many things I love about her.
“I’ll tell you, but you’re not allowed to be all judgy.” I point a stern finger at her.
“When am I ever judgy?”
I arch an eyebrow, and she cackles because she fucking knows. “Anyway…” I give her one more pointed look before dropping the bomb. “It was Teddy.”
“Hold the motherfucking phone.” She slams her coffee cup down on her desk so hard that I see coffee slosh up over the sides, which she ignores because she’s too busy looking like she wants to reach through the computer and shake me. “When? How did that even happen? What does this mean? Was it amazing? How’s his butt? Because he looks like a man who would have a mighty fine ass. Tell me everything, and then tell me why the hell you did not lead with this earth-shattering information. You and Teddy!”
I fight back a laugh, surprised the woman doesn’t have smoke billowing out of her ears right now.
“Breaths, honey. Deep breaths.”
“There will be time for breathing after you tell me every-damn-thing.”
“I told you, it wasn’t a big deal.” I shrug, reaching over and absently fingering the folded poem sitting on my desk. I found it in the back pocket of my jeans the next morning and almost went upstairs to accuse him of witchcraft because those jeans were sparkling clean, straight from the dryer to my body without any time for him to sneak in here and hide a note in them.
“You had sex with your best friend and that’s somehow no big deal?” Her eyebrows go so high it’s almost comical.
“Last week the subject of friends with bennies came up, and then the other night I was really nervous about my script, and I asked him to distract me.”
“So that’s it?” she huffs. “You fooled around once, and there’s nothing more to it?”
“Basically. It’ll probably happen again because it was fucking fire.”
Marnie frowns at me, which is pretty damn serious considering her number-one fear is frown lines.
“Sweetie, sugar, honey bunches.” She gives me that sugary smile again, and I brace for whatever she’s about to say next because it’s guaranteed to be vicious. “Kindly pull your head out of your adorable ass.”
“My head is on my shoulders where it belongs.”
She rolls her eyes. “Debatable.” Sitting forward, she steeples her fingers and looks at me over them. “You’ve spent the last decade of your life fixated on the idea of finding your leading man, and somehow you don’t recognize him when he whips his dick out for you? How is that possible, darling?”
I scoff, that strange squirmy feeling taking over my stomach again. “Teddy isn’t my leading man.”
“Why not?” She leans back and crosses her arms while I drag my finger in random circles on the surface of my desk. “I figured gorgeous, thoughtful, funny, and sweet would be attributes that made your list.”
“You’ve never even met him,” I point out.
“Those are all words you’ve used to describe him.” She picks up her coffee, the mug no doubt sticky from the spill, and takes another drink. “Tell me why he’s not the one.”
A small amount of panic tightens around my chest. My finger twitches to close out of the chat immediately. I can pretend that my internet went down and avoid this topic of conversation. If I’d known she would take it here, I wouldn’t have told her about Teddy at all. Unfortunately, I don’t think avoidance is going to work this time.
“He doesn’t even have a leading man’s first name.” I give her the first excuse that comes to mind.
If looks could kill, I’d be filleted alive right now.
“What exactly is a leading man’s first name?”
“You know, like Denver or Apollo or Maverick.”
“Uh-huh.” She’s clearly not buying this.
“He is sweet though,” I sigh. “And that body…” I swoon a little just remembering those skillful hands of his all over me.
“Harlow,” she says my name gently, and I bristle.
“Have you picked a color scheme or a theme for your wedding?” I change the subject and shoot my best friend a pleading look to accept it.
I can tell she struggles for a second, but then moves on and starts to tell me about the options she’s narrowed it down to, and the tight, nervous feeling inside me loosens.
We talk for another hour, steering clear of the topic of Teddy and my love life. When we hang up, I’m hit with the urge to make another attempt at cooking, so I spend another hour looking up recipes on Pinterest before walking down the street to the corner store and buying what I need to make fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
I don’t bother knocking when I reach Teddy’s apartment. This time he doesn’t have his hand in his pants. Shame.
He eyes the grocery bags in my hands with concern.
“What’s up?” Teddy asks suspiciously.
“I thought I’d cook us dinner.”
The man doesn’t even try to hide his grimace. Rude.
“What exactly are you planning to cook?” His eyes dart to the fire extinguisher he has hanging on the wall just outside the kitchen. This is why I’m a bad cook, my self-esteem has been wounded by his judgment.
“Fried chicken.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“What? Why not?” I stick my lip out in a bit of a pout. Like a really adult, manly kind of pout.
“Have you ever cooked fried chicken?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, sure he’s making a winning point. Psh, I’ll show him.
“Honey, I’m southern, frying food is in my genes. I couldn’t mess it up if I tried.”
“I really and truly doubt that.” He stands up from the couch, and I let my eyes roam over him for just a second. It’s impossible to forget that I’ve seen what’s under those clothes, and it was even better than I always imagined. “What are the odds of talking you out of this?”
“Less than zero.”
He grumbles something in that deep, growl of his. “Fine, but I’m going to help.”
“Deal.”
TEDDY
“What are you doing?” Harlow asks, pausing in the middle of unpacking his grocery bags to squint at the aluminum foil I’m lining the counter and cabinet over the stove with.
“Grease splatter proofing,” I explain.
“Oh. Do you always have to do that when you fry things? I don’t remember my mama ever doing it like that.”
“No,” I answer flatly, shooting him a look that lets him know this is special just for him. He scowls, and I do my best not to laugh.
“You’re so mean to me,” he complains with a sigh.
“My first loyalty is to my security deposit,” I tell him with a smirk.
“We already agreed that you can never move.”
“True. But just in case.” I grab my largest pan out of the cupboard and put it on the nearest burner while Harlow lines the counter with canola oil, a box of batter mix, and a package of raw chicken legs. I track his movements shamelessly, my body heating without my permission at the memory of his mouth on mine and the sounds he made when I took him apart.
I groan inwardly. As if I wasn’t popping enough wood around him before. I subtly reach down to adjust my growing situation and then grab the cookware and utensils we’ll need for this project.
“Okay, what now?” he asks, looking at the array of items on the counter like he’s half expecting they’ll start to assemble themselves.
“You’re the chef. I’m just here to make sure my kitchen doesn’t burn down.” On that note, I take a few steps away, grab the fire extinguisher, and return to my spot near the stove with it in hand.
“Mean,” he mutters again while I grin at him. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to find whatever recipe must’ve put this idea into his head to begin with. I lean against the counter and watch quietly as he scrunches his eyebrows together and frowns in concentration, measuring out the batter mix into a bowl I set out and then adding water to it.
I’m literally aching to reach out and touch him. Pathetic. I clench my hands into fists and shove them into my pockets to physically prevent myself from acting on the impulse.
It’s possible that Ezra was a little bit right and that knowing what Harlow tastes like is going to be its own new form of torture.
He stirs the batter, looking between the bowl and the instructions on his phone, and then a smile lights up his face. “It looks like the picture.”
I peek into the bowl and nod. “So far, so good.”
“I’m a master chef. I’m the next Alton Brown. Gordon Ramsay has nothing on me,” he crows, stirring happily.
“Um, Gordon, you might want to start heating up the oil. It takes about five minutes to get to the right temperature for frying,” I point out.
“Oh, duh.” He stops stirring and carefully measures out the oil to add to the pan, cranking the burner up to high.
“Nope,” I say quickly, yanking my hands out of my pockets and reaching past him to lower the flame to the medium setting. My traitorous hand finds its way onto Harlow’s lower back as I lean past him. “Set the timer for five minutes so you can remember to check if the oil is ready.”
“Timers and measurements,” he mutters. “The way I normally cook is a lot more fun.”
“Yes, dancing around the kitchen is a lovely pastime, but it does tend to leave us hungry and my apartment smoky.”
“True,” he agrees, subtly leaning into my touch. Was it on purpose or out of habit? He’s always been a touchy, cuddly guy, but now that we’ve fooled around, it’s hard to know if it means something or if it’s just Harlow being Harlow. I catch myself leaning in a little closer to catch a hint of his sweet scent that always lingers all over my couch and clothes whenever he leaves. “Teddy Bear?”
“Hmm?”
“I asked if I should batter the chicken now or wait until the oil is hot.”
“Oh, sorry, I was spacing out.” I pull my hand back and clear my throat. “You can batter it now. Put it on this plate as you go.” I point to the plate I set out and move back to my spot next to the counter to watch him work.
He chatters away while he prepares the chicken, battering them a bit unevenly, but nothing that should cause too much of a problem. He tells me about Marnie’s plans for the wedding so far and a failed meet-cute at the grocery store. “I reached for the same package of chicken he was reaching for, and did this cute little oops, sorry thing, and it got me absolutely nowhere. I might as well have not been wearing my expensive designer jeans at all.”
“The man clearly has no taste.”
“True story,” he agrees.
The oil starts to sizzle a little, and the timer beeps. “Wait,” I say, holding out a hand to stop him from just tossing all the chicken into the pan. “Test it with a pinch of batter.”
He does as I say, and when it doesn’t immediately burn, I gesture for him to go ahead with the chicken.
“Huh, this isn’t so hard.” He lays out each leg and then picks up the tongs to wait for the right time to flip them.
“You might manage to cook an edible meal yet,” I tease, and he snaps the tongs at me.
Eileen must smell the frying chicken because she wakes up from her nap and prances into the kitchen meowing.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” Harlow coos, picking her up and holding her like a baby. I’ve tried to hold her like that, and she nearly clawed my eyes out. Clearly, she has a favorite, and it’s not the guy who feeds her and scoops the shit out of her litter box.
“You might want to flip that,” I say, keeping an eye on the time and the state of the chicken.
“Oh, right.” He sets the cat down and uses the tongs to grab the first piece of chicken. He rotates it to its other side, the oil popping and hissing now that it’s good and hot. When he sets the chicken back into the pan, the oil splashes a little, and he jumps back with a grimace. “That’s violent. Is it supposed to do that?”
I fight a smile. “Yes, that’s what frying is.”
“But…” He goes for another piece, startling back at another pop of the oil. “It’s going to fry my skin right off. Why would anyone do this?”
“It’s not going to burn your skin off,” I assure him.
“Oh my god,” he yelps when the oil splashes up again.
“This is painful to watch, Low.” I shake my head. Looping an arm around his waist, I move him out of the way and snatch the tongs out of his hand. He watches, making noises of distress as I flip the last few pieces of chicken quickly, valiantly ignoring all of the extremely threatening popping and sizzling.
“My hero,” he says with a grin when I offer him the tongs back.
“I slay dragons too, but for a fee.”
“Good to know.” His gaze lingers on mine for a few seconds, the sweet curve of his lips tempting the hell out of me. Would he mind if I leaned in and stole a quick kiss? Probably. It wouldn’t exactly be in the appropriate parameters of friends with benefits.
We manage to get the chicken finished without any more drama and with minimal burning.
“Oh my god, this is actually good.” Harlow takes a big bite and does a little dance while holding the drumstick.
“It’s not bad,” I agree. The mashed potatoes turned out a bit lumpy, but the chicken is entirely edible.
“Not bad?” he scoffs. “Please, I’m going to ditch this directing thing and become a chef.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’ll have to quit your job too so you can flip any frying stuff for me. But this could work.”
“Sure, I’ll put in my two-week notice tomorrow.”
When we finish eating, Harlow puts on his Cleaning Montage playlist and dances around the kitchen while I wash the dishes. Is it normal for a person’s heart to feel so heavy and so light at the same time? Or is that just how it feels when you’re in love with someone who’s completely oblivious to it?
“Let’s watch a movie,” he says, grabbing my hand when I’m finished and dragging me to the living room where he promptly cuddles up next to me on the couch and picks something to watch. For the life of me, I don’t have the first clue what he puts on. I’m too focused on the weight of his head on my shoulder and his hand resting casually on my thigh only a few inches from my hard cock like sweet, beautiful torture.
