“You mean on the desk. Please tell me you mean on the desk.”
He rolled his eyes. “Duh, I mean the other way around would be . . . well, there has to be a word for that. Sex with inanimate objects? Probably lands you in the cray-cray bin, am I right?”
“Go to work, Max.”
He saluted me and started walking off, then turned. “Hey, Reid?”
“Hmm?”
“You do realize that this won’t end well.”
“What won’t?”
“You and Jezebel.”
“Jordan?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Stay out of it, Max . . .”
He held up his hands. “Just don’t get too attached. She isn’t the type to stay around. She scares easy. Trust me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Just trust.” He pounded his chest and walked off.
I checked my phone. In less than two hours I had to meet with Jordan and give her my relationship advice.
And all I had to go on was “Call my mom.”
I was screwed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JORDAN
He was late.
I promised Ren that we’d have the video up by six that night, and still no Reid. I tapped my phone, willing it to notify me with a text, a call—anything! It was nearing five thirty and I knew it would take a miracle to get everything done in under half an hour.
Finally, the door to the apartment burst open and a very crazed-looking Reid made his way over the threshold.
At least five books were stacked in his hands and his normally bright blue eyes looked tired.
“Study date go late?” I asked sweetly.
“Bite me. I was at the library.”
I blinked in confusion.
“Where there are books,” he said slowly.
“Right, but why were you there?”
He shoved the books onto the counter. One fell to the ground. I tilted my head to read the upside-down title—Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.
“Shh!” Reid launched himself across the living room and covered my mouth with his hand. “He’ll hear you!”
“God?” I spoke against his fingers.
“Max,” he hissed. “The last thing he needs to know is that I went to the library and borrowed books, books on dating, books on dating advice, books that are supposed to help me get smarter.”
“Word of advice.” I pushed his hand away from my face. “You gotta open them and read.”
“Oh, really?” Reid’s expression was one of complete dumbfounded awe. “Open book, then read book? Man don’t know how to do such things.” He pounded his chest and then winked one of his flashy eyes at me. Down, girl. Down. “You know, this is all your fault.”
“You keep saying that, but I’m not the one with Max as a brother.”
“Like I can control those things!”
I shrugged and opened my laptop. “Okay, let’s get down to business. We’ll record for around ten minutes. I’ll give three dating and relationship tips, you give three. We’ll discuss them as we go, and yeah, should be a piece of cake!”
“Great!” Reid jumped onto the couch and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, and by the way, I got all my dating advice from Max and library books, so . . .”
“So it should be good.” I patted his hand. “Great. Ready?”
“No.” Reid jogged over to the freezer, pulled out a bottle of vodka, grabbed two shot glasses, then returned, setting them on the table. “First we take a good luck shot.”
“Why?” I eyed the shots warily. Mixing alcohol and a video for the masses wasn’t smart—at all.
He didn’t answer, just filled both shot glasses to the rim and handed me one. “Don’t be a shrew, Sebastian, drink up!”
“Call me Sebastian one more time . . .”
“Someone’s a crab.”
“Ooh, funny.” I narrowed my eyes and took the shot. It went down hot. You know that feeling where the alcohol burns an actual hole through your esophagus because the last thing you ate just so happened to be a spicy taco at noon? Yeah, it felt like that.
Reid poured two more shots.
“What are you doing? We’re supposed to be working.”
“And you”—he handed me the shot—“are supposed to be letting me tame you. Let me do my job.”
“I’m not a job.”
“So drink.”
“Fine.” I threw it back, my tongue going completely numb, and then slammed the shot glass onto the table. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were nervous about this whole thing.”
“Me?” Reid snorted. “I don’t get nervous. Ever.” He licked his lips and poured another shot. “For luck,” he said, then tossed it back. Three shots? Maybe we should have done a list of don’ts for our video, starting with: don’t take three shots before your first date—chances are you’ll puke down her dress before you actually make it to the bar.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Yup.” Reid tilted his head, then licked his palm and patted the top of my hair. I let out a little growl.
“What? I’m trying to tame it, and we both know that the best kind of discipline is habitual. If I continually tell your hair to calm down, eventually it will.”
“Or it could just reject said discipline and take over the world.”