Have the greatest job ever working on my family’s pumpkin farm? Check.
Marry the town pharmacist and have a nice, quiet life with our son? Check-check.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you say you were happy? LOLOLOLOL!” ~ Life
Ember Hastings never thought she’d be dragged away from White Timber and everything she loved, thrust in the middle of a big city she hated, or have her husband of nine years say, “I can’t do this anymore,” all within the span of three months, yet here she is.
She misses her family, she misses the farm, and she misses having a backbone and caring whether or not the stain on her shirt is chocolate or shit. She works from home doing transcription. Does she really need to shower or leave the house?
Baker Matthews has been bringing everyone down lately with his grouchy attitude. His job is stressful and sometimes depressing, but he wouldn’t change anything about it. When a glitch with the transcription company he’s using mistakenly sends him notes he wasn’t supposed to see, Baker finds himself laughing out loud for the first time in months.
He’s never met a woman who says whatever she’s thinking and doesn’t fawn all over him when she finds out what he does for a living. Until Ember Hastings comes barreling into his life, calling him Shit Mouth and asking if he has any balls.
But she wants to keep this professional. She made him pinky swear, and you don’t mess around with pinky swears. Baker will have to get creative if he wants to prove to Ember that he’s just her type.
“Well, I’m good and truly fucked.”
“If you can say the F-word all the time, I can say penis whenever I want,” Lincoln announces as I look up from my phone to find him standing in front of me with his backpack on and his teeth freshly brushed.
“Okay, fine.” I shrug, grabbing my keys from the counter and choosing to deal with this problem right now instead of the Shit Mouth one. “But since I’m the adult, I’ll test it out first, okay there, penis? Did you pack your penis in your backpack? Did you study for your penis test?”
“Moooom,” Lincoln whines as I usher him out the front door.
“What’s wrong, penis? I thought we were cool with penis,” I say as we get into my car and buckle up. “Turn on the penis and find a good song. I bet it will be a song about pe—”
“Okay!” Lincoln finally shouts with a laugh. “It’s not cool when you say it. It’s kind of gross. I won’t say it all the time anymore.”
Well, I’m not going to win Mother of the Year anytime soon, but that’s one problem solved.
We spend the rest of the car ride to school coming up with names for the dog I’m caving on more and more each day, none of which have anything to do with the male anatomy, thankfully. It’s not until I’ve dropped my car off at home and headed back out on foot for my Monday morning coffee ritual that I start worrying about problem number two.
“Jesus, just read the email, Ember. What’s the worst it could say?” I mutter to myself as I lock up my front door and walk down the porch to the sidewalk, my cell phone practically burning a hole in my back pocket with that unread email waiting for me.
I called the client Shit Mouth. I accused him of not having any balls. And steroid use, just because he owns a gym. He’s going to rip me a new asshole.
“It’s not like this was my fault. He never should have seen my notes. I did nothing wrong,” I mutter to myself again as I reach into my back pocket and pull my phone out when I get to the end of my front walkway and turn right.
You did so much wrong. He’s going to murder you. He has your email address now. He could hire himself a hacker and find out where you live. I really need to stop watching Dateline.
Before I can give myself any more time to freak out, I quickly open the email as I walk and hold my breath, wondering if he’ll just call me a bitch, or go right for the kill and whip out the old C U Next Tuesday. Honestly, for a guy who owns a gym and “looks like he works out,” he better bring the big guns, or I will have lost all faith in ’roid rage.
Dammit, Ember! That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and I come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk when I read the email. And read it again. And one more time, just to make sure I’m not seeing things.
To: Ember Hastings
Subject: Shit Mouth Transcription
She twirls her hair around her finger every fucking time she laughs.
I said purple, clear as day. Get the shit out your ear.
My balls are where they always are. Slung over my shoulder, because they’re too big to carry. (GIGGLES)
I have never, nor will I ever, use steroids. Drugs are bad. Needles are scary. Shut up. Big, manly men can have fears too, GOD.
She is definitely not a professional interviewer. Does Dan Rather drop his pen every fifteen minutes so he can bend over and show people his cleavage? More importantly, does Dan Rather have cleavage?
But seriously, DO I sound like I have shit in my mouth? I feel like you’re lying.
Not Necessarily Shit Mouth, a.k.a. Baker