Becca Ritchie

I have comic-book-loving, pop-culture-obsessed parents. The coolest. I’m sure the two Meadows girls and the seven Cobalt children would protest and say their parents are cool, but there’s no comparison.

Hands down, mine are the goddamn best.

I have comic-book-loving, pop-culture-obsessed parents. The coolest. I’m sure the two Meadows girls and the seven Cobalt children would protest and say their parents are cool, but there’s no comparison.

Hands down, mine are the goddamn best.

Done typing, he says, “Silicone-based lube feels better than water-based.”

I glance at him. Just once. “I’ve never tried it.”

He keeps his hand to his mouth. What does that mean?

I start glancing to the road. To him, the road, him, and I realize—he’s smiling. When I catch his expression, he lets his hand fall, his lips stretched so wide, and he shifts in his seat and hunches forward as he types out something on my phone.

“What are you doing?”

He turns his head to me, and bleach-white strands of hair slip to his lashes. “Writing down my favorite lube for you, wolf scout.”

I flex my abs to stop from hardening. Dear World, I hate you. Worst regards, a human being who’s trying not to bust a nut.

“Cool,” I say as he passes me my phone. Yeah, so cool. Let my childhood-crush-also-turned-bodyguard pick out my lube for me. That will make not fantasizing about him so much easier.

So smart of me.

Genius.