#TeaserTuesday: Feeling Some Type of Way


I can imagine showing up with Ian at the next Thanksgiving. My family accepts all (well, most) and his race wouldn’t be a factor. His wealth, however, might make Sam cry. “Well, my family gets down,” I proudly smiled, “I’ll send them your regards.”

“Always, always.” He chuckled. “What did you cook?”

“I don’t cook,” I shook my head, “I bake.”

“Okay, what did you bake?” He folded his arms.

“The best Duncan Hines yellow cake ever.” I nodded. “With the chocolate frosting to boot.”

“Duncan Hines yellow cake?” He repeated with obvious question marks floating in his irises. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”

Ian is so down-to-Earth that sometimes I forget when people are in a different tax bracket, they’re not familiar with the same things we are. What’s normal to us – going to the bank, eating at McDonald’s, shopping at the mall – is completely foreign to them.

I have a feeling I’m going to be teaching Ian a whole lot about how the other side lives. “Let me get you a slice.” I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a slice of the Duncan Hines. I also poured a small glass of milk because I know he’s going to need it. “Try it and see.” I handed him the plate and glass.

Ian examined the cake like it was a science experiment before he took a bite. He didn’t have the same orgy-in-my-mouth reaction to my family’s food, but he didn’t hurl the cake across the room, neither. “Not bad. Maybe a bit sweet for my taste.” He sipped the milk. “How come you don’t cook?”

“Lazy,” I admitted, “between school and studying, I just don’t want to.”

“You should. It’ll save you a lot of money.” He mentioned. “Try cooking three times a week and work up to five.”

I nodded. Three times a week? Just the number of it sounded nuts. At least I could try. “Okay.”

Ian glanced down at his super-expensive watch as the clock slowly ticked to ten o’clock. I could tell it was because it looked like a clock straight outta Disney. Instead, this wasn’t Cinderella and I don’t have any glass slippers.

Though, Ian might be my Prince Charming. What? No, he isn’t. A man who has admitted to dating (or just sexing; I tend to believe it’s the latter and not the former) two women in the month I’ve personally known him. Who knows how many are truly out there?

“I should get going. I’m sure you have a lot of things planned for tomorrow.”

Yeah, I planned waking up to online shop. No way I’m hitting those crazy crowds on Black Friday. “Not really. Just movies and hot chocolate.”

“How do you make hot chocolate?” He asked. “With water or milk?”

“Just water. You can make it with milk?”

“It’s the only way to make hot cocoa. With marshmallows and whipped cream.” He flashed that beautiful smile again.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” A small sensual air passed through us. Or maybe it was just me remembering to breathe when I’m around him. “You can stay if you don’t have any plans.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to spend the night with you?”

Shit. I did just ask that, didn’t I? Crap. That sounds bad. “Well, I don’t mean it like that! I mean, if you want to stay longer and watch movies or a TV show with me, we can do that.” As well. We can do that as well. You know, in addition to the other things we could do.

Ian slightly chuckled. Either at my stupidity or well, just my stupidity. “Are your roommates coming home soon? I don’t want to be burned or shanked.”

I smiled at the inside joke. Look at us, we have our own inside joke now. Geez, I’m a bigger noob than I thought. “No, Helen and Michelle are gone for the weekend. Helen lives up in the Bay and Michelle is about an hour or so in Riverside so it’s just me.” It’s just us.

“Sure,” he pulled out his Bentley key and wallet. “I would love to stay longer and watch movies with you.”

According to Merriam-Webster, the definition of thirsty is needing water. According to street slang, however, thirsty means too eager to get some play or being rather desperate.

Is it possible I’m a little bit of both right now?


Feeling Some Type of Way is available NOW. To purchase, click here.

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