Project Produce(39)

Dylan? What on earth did he do, lock himself out? I went to the door, opened it wide, then burst out laughing. Hot Britches stood naked--except for my way-too-small, make-him-look-like-a-transvestite robe and his snakeskin boots.

“Ha. Ha. Forgot my quarters in my wallet, which happens to be in my coat. The coat I let you wear.”

I grinned. Payback was sooo much fun.

A few of my neighbors chose that moment to walk by, and Dylan flattened his back against the wall as if doing so would make him magically invisible. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. My neighbors’ eyes bugged and they gave Dylan a wide berth, staring at him as if he’d sprouted a pair of breasts.

I glanced down, assuring myself that he hadn’t, but he had left his drag queen digs slightly open. And there was the proof that he hadn’t had a sex change, poking its big ole one-eyed winkie head out. Bet he regretted ever trying to be nice to me now.

Callie had a little lamb, all right, and he wanted to come out and play, by the looks of it. The big guy had no idea playtime was over, with me, anyway.

God, how did I let him know his zucchini was showing without embarrassing us both? “Um, peek-a-boo.”

“Peek-a-boo?” He arched a black brow.

“I, uh, see you?” I chewed my bottom lip and pointed down.

When his gaze followed suit, he cursed, then clamped his legs together and tried like heck to pull my robe tighter. Yeah, not working there for you, buddy. Maybe if Mr. Winkie would quit standing at attention, it would help. I had no intention of sleeping with Dylan, but hey, I still had a project to do. And that was a genuine zucchini in the flesh, nothing rubber about it.

Sorry, Jack. Dylan wins.

Dylan cursed again, clutching the robe in strategic places, but Mr. Winkie insisted on being seen, bobbing and weaving every time Dylan moved. All that embarrassment still hadn’t killed his erection. Now that was impressive.

He charged past me into my apartment and headed straight for my dresser. “This isn’t going to work. I look like a damn pansy. Got any baggy shorts?”

Interesting. Apparently, external appearances were important for a zucchini to feel like a man. It made sense, since they put a great deal of value on the size of their winkies. Joining him, I kept my gaze locked on my dresser and rummaged through my drawers, trying to keep a straight face.

I hadn’t done laundry yet, so the only shorts I had clean were my wishful thinking, never-gonna-see-the-light-of-day, purple spandex biker shorts.

“Try these. They might stretch to fit you.” I glanced at the part of the robe he strangled to death, and swallowed a snort. “I think.”

“Don’t think, just give me the damn things.” He eyed the shorts warily.

“Or you could just wrap a towel around yourself.”

“I think I’ve played enough peek-a-boo for one day,” he grumbled and headed into the bathroom to change.

Running to the laundry room, I started the dryer, then booked it back to my apartment, not about to miss his grand entrance.

Pacing around my living room, I thought about my project. Flasher Freak had a pickle and he went around molesting people, probably because no woman would willingly give it to him. So maybe pickles made men desperate. Then there was Dylan. He had a zucchini, and probably had sex all the time. Maybe it was so good that he couldn’t get enough. That had certainly been the case with Bob. So maybe zucchinis made men obsessed. Maybe the answer to normalcy was a cucumber.

I glanced at the bathroom door. And they said women took forever to get ready. How long could it possibly take a man to throw on a pair of shorts?

Finally, the door creaked open, and Dylan stuck his head out like a reluctant groundhog. “Come on, Dukeypoo. How bad can the shorts be?”

He hesitated, then sighed in what could only be resignation and pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Sweet Jesus! He might as well be naked.

I stared in amazement. The man made bull-riders look like stick figures--bronzed sculpted chest, broad shoulders, tapered waist, and a washboard set of abs to die for. My gaze dropped helplessly lower, and my jaw unhinged.

Still standing somewhat at attention, Mr. Winkie was fully outlined, giving me more than just a peek. No wonder he’d taken forever in the bathroom.

Note to self: Zucchinis take a very long time to deflate.

Dylan cleared his throat.

I couldn’t help it. I stared, fascinated.

“Yoohoo, Callie. I’m up here, remember?”

“H-Huh? Oh, right, I’m sorry. It’s just... wow.” I shot a look at his face, and felt mine flood with heat. “Well, now you know how women feel when guys stare at their breasts.” Hey, turnabout was fair play. He’d certainly seen enough of me for one evening. “Your clothes shouldn’t take too much longer to dry. Bet you could use a drink.”