“
My phone dings. Probably my mother, who has mom-radar and always knows when I’m up to no good. Undoubtedly asking how many Hail Marys she needs to say for me today. I grab my phone just to make sure it’s not a somebody died text, and almost fall off my stool.
Tarzan here. Looking for Ms. P. This her?
I close my eyes, blow out a slow breath.
One, if he’s texting me, his date with Lila Valentine probably didn’t produce a second, which makes me happier than I have any right to be.
Two, I’m not asking the guy to marry me. I’m asking him to be a hot piece of ass to make me look good.
And three, I’m suddenly worried that my bad taste in men is making an unfortunate appearance again. What man in his right mind would text back a woman who made that proposition last weekend? Am I wrong about his date with the auction winner? Did I leave something behind at the hotel, and he’s just returning it? Or does he actually have some secret fetish that’ll play out wrong in the middle of my class reunion?
"Who’s that?" Sia demands.
"Tele-texter," I lie.
I ignore the glares from my friends and type a quick reply. Yes, this is Parker.
Except my phone hates me, and it autocorrects to Trying. This is Parking.
Thanks, phone.
Y E S, I type. Damn autocorrect.
I hit send, and "Ohmygod."
"What? What?" My friends all peer around me, and I jump off my stool to keep them from seeing my screen.
Autocorrect just autocorrected to autocunnilingus.
I just told Tarzan I’m eating myself. What have I done? Does that count as sexting? I don’t know.
This is why I can’t have nice things.
”
”