heading to the kitchen and returning with the whole bottle of wine, bless the man. “My sister gave it to me.”
“Why would she do that?” It seemed like an odd gift from a sister.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He winked.
This guy was way too cute for his own good. I cleared my throat and tried to stay focused. This could be one way to find out how his Mr. Winkie affected his personality. “Obvious how?”
“Supposedly, I’m the perfect male specimen. Vain, and in love with my own body.” He shook his head. “And I just can’t help it if women throw themselves at me, so my sister says.”
“Your sister sounds interesting.”
“She’s something, all right. That statue doesn’t look anything like me.” He poured us both a glass of merlot.
I took a sip. “Really?” Glancing in the other room, I studied the statue. He couldn’t have handed me a more perfect introduction into my paper if he tried. My heart started beating furiously as I plunged in, head first. “So, you’re saying you’re not lacking in certain areas?”
His eyes followed mine. “I haven’t been castrated, if that’s what you mean.”
Good God! I fell into a coughing fit. When he looked back at me with an arched brow, I croaked, “I’m fine. Continue.”
“I was just saying poor guy. I hope you didn’t enjoy that. Imagine what that would do to his ego if he were real.”
I snapped my fingers, trying to keep the ball rolling. “Now, there’s a thought. Let’s do that.”
Dylan blinked at me. “Do what?”
Watch me stumble my way through this insane conversation . I took a sip of my wine for courage and said, “Let’s pretend you’re him before his little accident. What exactly would it do to your ego if you... oh, I don’t know, let’s say had a pickle for a Mr. Winkie.”
He gaped at me. “A Mr. Who-ie?” Poor Dylan looked like a cartoon character, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
Darn my parents for having made this so hard to talk about. “Um, a Winkie. A Mr. Winkie,” I answered, sinking lower in my seat. Wonder if he’d notice if I slipped all the way under the table to hide? I discreetly pushed the tablecloth aside and peeked under, but got an eyeful of his massive feet. Talk about intimidating.
“Jesus, who talks like that?” he asked, jarring me from my thoughts.
Oh, just everyone in my flipping family . Since there was no chance of escape, I sat up straight and said, “Hey, you’re the one who started with the nicknames. Besides, don’t all you guys name your Mr. Winkie?”
“Believe me. No one calls ‘it’ a winkie.” He went back to the kitchen and returned with a big bowl of homemade sauce and meatballs. “Let me ask you a question.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You mentioned a pickle, so I’m assuming you mean how would my ego be affected if I had a small Mr. Winkie.”
I nodded, swallowing hard, and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
“Then my question is would my Mr. Winkie be a pickle when relaxed or standing at attention?”
Instantly, my face flamed probably three shades of red, and my ears felt like they were on fire. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk about this stuff with me, let alone be so open about it.
I opened my mouth and then closed it three flipping times, unable to speak. The words that formed in my brain sounded so idiotic, I just couldn’t spit them out.
“Because you know,” he continued, “at its relaxed state, looks can be deceiving.”
I squeaked. I actually squeaked out loud. No words, just a high-pitched sound like an over-excited piglet. Darn Professor Butthead for assigning me this topic. All my worst nightmares about this stupid project were coming true. Things couldn’t possibly get any more embarrassing, could they?
Dylan grinned as he added, “But Mr. Winkie does have a tendency to turn into Pinocchio when provoked.”
Okay, the conversation had just escalated from walking around with your skirt tucked in the back of your
“Why would she do that?” It seemed like an odd gift from a sister.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He winked.
This guy was way too cute for his own good. I cleared my throat and tried to stay focused. This could be one way to find out how his Mr. Winkie affected his personality. “Obvious how?”
“Supposedly, I’m the perfect male specimen. Vain, and in love with my own body.” He shook his head. “And I just can’t help it if women throw themselves at me, so my sister says.”
“Your sister sounds interesting.”
“She’s something, all right. That statue doesn’t look anything like me.” He poured us both a glass of merlot.
I took a sip. “Really?” Glancing in the other room, I studied the statue. He couldn’t have handed me a more perfect introduction into my paper if he tried. My heart started beating furiously as I plunged in, head first. “So, you’re saying you’re not lacking in certain areas?”
His eyes followed mine. “I haven’t been castrated, if that’s what you mean.”
Good God! I fell into a coughing fit. When he looked back at me with an arched brow, I croaked, “I’m fine. Continue.”
“I was just saying poor guy. I hope you didn’t enjoy that. Imagine what that would do to his ego if he were real.”
I snapped my fingers, trying to keep the ball rolling. “Now, there’s a thought. Let’s do that.”
Dylan blinked at me. “Do what?”
Watch me stumble my way through this insane conversation . I took a sip of my wine for courage and said, “Let’s pretend you’re him before his little accident. What exactly would it do to your ego if you... oh, I don’t know, let’s say had a pickle for a Mr. Winkie.”
He gaped at me. “A Mr. Who-ie?” Poor Dylan looked like a cartoon character, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
Darn my parents for having made this so hard to talk about. “Um, a Winkie. A Mr. Winkie,” I answered, sinking lower in my seat. Wonder if he’d notice if I slipped all the way under the table to hide? I discreetly pushed the tablecloth aside and peeked under, but got an eyeful of his massive feet. Talk about intimidating.
“Jesus, who talks like that?” he asked, jarring me from my thoughts.
Oh, just everyone in my flipping family . Since there was no chance of escape, I sat up straight and said, “Hey, you’re the one who started with the nicknames. Besides, don’t all you guys name your Mr. Winkie?”
“Believe me. No one calls ‘it’ a winkie.” He went back to the kitchen and returned with a big bowl of homemade sauce and meatballs. “Let me ask you a question.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You mentioned a pickle, so I’m assuming you mean how would my ego be affected if I had a small Mr. Winkie.”
I nodded, swallowing hard, and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
“Then my question is would my Mr. Winkie be a pickle when relaxed or standing at attention?”
Instantly, my face flamed probably three shades of red, and my ears felt like they were on fire. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk about this stuff with me, let alone be so open about it.
I opened my mouth and then closed it three flipping times, unable to speak. The words that formed in my brain sounded so idiotic, I just couldn’t spit them out.
“Because you know,” he continued, “at its relaxed state, looks can be deceiving.”
I squeaked. I actually squeaked out loud. No words, just a high-pitched sound like an over-excited piglet. Darn Professor Butthead for assigning me this topic. All my worst nightmares about this stupid project were coming true. Things couldn’t possibly get any more embarrassing, could they?
Dylan grinned as he added, “But Mr. Winkie does have a tendency to turn into Pinocchio when provoked.”
Okay, the conversation had just escalated from walking around with your skirt tucked in the back of your
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