Fan
AWKWARD? WHAT AWKWARD?
The first thing running through Eleanor Prickett's head upon facing her obsession at a close range was that she'd most probably have to change her panties after this meeting. The second thing running through Eleanor Prickett's head was that she should have maybe, possibly thought her plan through a bit more,considering the huge, hulking, scowling Native American man giving her the stink eye.
No. Actually, taking him in his almost-naked glory, she was absolutely certain she had inevitably and quite gleefully written her own demise. Eleanor's mind scrambled to find the exact moment she thought this was a good idea, so she could successfully identify the type of alcoholic beverage that made her forget precisely how his muscles packed up one over the other to create the most intimidating (and exquisite) package she had ever had the pleasure of drooling over her absolutely fabulous Internet package deal.
In possibly the five seconds standing there (between him answering the door and him actually taking in what, not who, he had at his doorstep), Eleanor considered three ways to go about this: she could run away, although his long, muscled legs would ensure he catch her in less than 2.1 seconds (the first two seconds he'd lose because she had the element of surprise); she could ask if he'd ever considered Jesus as his Lord and savior, but then she'd seem like an asshole because every half-decent fan of this man heard of him accompanying his mother to church, or she could just sit there, gaping like a fish and not saying a word.
Yeah.
Eleanor sure got the whole human interaction thing down pat.
He leaned on the door frame, keeping a hand on the door. He remained quiet, probably waiting for her to explain why she was standing in his space at five o'clock in the morning and not even trying to leer at him from a distance, as most of his female fans did. Finally, his upper lip twitched (which everyone knew meant he was getting ready to kill someone, as in kill) and he stood up to full height.
It was probably a bad time to acknowledge, albeit half-hysterically, that he really shouldn't have gone through the trouble, as him slouching was equally as terrifying.
“What?” he growled.
Eleanor knew she should answer him as fast and as eloquently as possible, but she just couldn't stop drinking him in. The long, shiny raven colored hair, the slightly slanted onyx eyes, his full lips with the cute bow on the upper one, the olive skin suavely caressed by what she undoubtedly knew was silky hair... Even the story of how he'd growled at her would suffice to fill her fantasies for the next five to fifty years. She only wished she caught him at a better, naked time, even if his sweatpants clung dangerously low on his insanely cut hips.
But the thing her mind had remained stuck on was that “You're so pretty!”
His eyebrows snapped up. “What?”
Uh..
“Uh..”
She seriously had to stop repeating everything she thought.
“Ulrich, breakfast is ready! Come in if you want me to leave you any. I'm starved!”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, ensured that not only would Eleanor Prickett never get any orgasm from this memory, but that she should also feel mortified at her obvious lack of information, because she had damn well never heard anything about Ulrich Sloane having a girlfriend.
But the only, singular thing that could have made this thing worse was if the owner of that superb, throaty, feminine voice would come at the door.
And, just because God was in great need of a chuckle at five o'clock in the morning, that's precisely what happened.
“Ul, what's taking you this long?” she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she elbowed (elbowed!) Eleanor's living, breathing catnip and pushed through.
Apparently the high-school bulletproof rule that beautiful people herd together still applied. This woman was a statuesque, slender blonde with fabulous tresses, wearing a fabulous silk robe, which showcased her fabulous sculpted legs. Although girl code demanded she feel in awe of this woman, she couldn't help but wish she'd have at least one visible flaw. But thinking that made her feel guilty and feeling guilty made her feel flushed and her flushed and speechless did not ensure a good combination.
The woman looked around, probably expecting someone within her own visual field, but then seeing no one, her eyes went down, down and, much to Eleanor's embarrassment, down and squealed. That's right. Squealed. Like a six year old does when she sees a short, fat, fluffy bunny.
“Oh my Lord! You're adorable! Isn't she adorable?” She squealed again, this time grabbing Ulrich's arm and pointing at her. “Ulrich, who's this button?”
And then, just because Eleanor had had enough of both of the perfect creatures standing in front of her and because she carried a copy of the Bible her grandmother gave her in her bag (a copy which she loved and probably would love more than her first born child), she did what any sensible, respectable woman in her twenties would do. She threw the copy at Ulrich, which he managed to catch just before it smacked him in the head.
“Accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior!”
And then she ran.
Yeah.
Eleanor sure knew how to talk herself out of a rough spot, alright.
No. Actually, taking him in his almost-naked glory, she was absolutely certain she had inevitably and quite gleefully written her own demise. Eleanor's mind scrambled to find the exact moment she thought this was a good idea, so she could successfully identify the type of alcoholic beverage that made her forget precisely how his muscles packed up one over the other to create the most intimidating (and exquisite) package she had ever had the pleasure of drooling over her absolutely fabulous Internet package deal.
In possibly the five seconds standing there (between him answering the door and him actually taking in what, not who, he had at his doorstep), Eleanor considered three ways to go about this: she could run away, although his long, muscled legs would ensure he catch her in less than 2.1 seconds (the first two seconds he'd lose because she had the element of surprise); she could ask if he'd ever considered Jesus as his Lord and savior, but then she'd seem like an asshole because every half-decent fan of this man heard of him accompanying his mother to church, or she could just sit there, gaping like a fish and not saying a word.
Yeah.
Eleanor sure got the whole human interaction thing down pat.
He leaned on the door frame, keeping a hand on the door. He remained quiet, probably waiting for her to explain why she was standing in his space at five o'clock in the morning and not even trying to leer at him from a distance, as most of his female fans did. Finally, his upper lip twitched (which everyone knew meant he was getting ready to kill someone, as in kill) and he stood up to full height.
It was probably a bad time to acknowledge, albeit half-hysterically, that he really shouldn't have gone through the trouble, as him slouching was equally as terrifying.
“What?” he growled.
Eleanor knew she should answer him as fast and as eloquently as possible, but she just couldn't stop drinking him in. The long, shiny raven colored hair, the slightly slanted onyx eyes, his full lips with the cute bow on the upper one, the olive skin suavely caressed by what she undoubtedly knew was silky hair... Even the story of how he'd growled at her would suffice to fill her fantasies for the next five to fifty years. She only wished she caught him at a better, naked time, even if his sweatpants clung dangerously low on his insanely cut hips.
But the thing her mind had remained stuck on was that “You're so pretty!”
His eyebrows snapped up. “What?”
Uh..
“Uh..”
She seriously had to stop repeating everything she thought.
“Ulrich, breakfast is ready! Come in if you want me to leave you any. I'm starved!”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, ensured that not only would Eleanor Prickett never get any orgasm from this memory, but that she should also feel mortified at her obvious lack of information, because she had damn well never heard anything about Ulrich Sloane having a girlfriend.
But the only, singular thing that could have made this thing worse was if the owner of that superb, throaty, feminine voice would come at the door.
And, just because God was in great need of a chuckle at five o'clock in the morning, that's precisely what happened.
“Ul, what's taking you this long?” she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she elbowed (elbowed!) Eleanor's living, breathing catnip and pushed through.
Apparently the high-school bulletproof rule that beautiful people herd together still applied. This woman was a statuesque, slender blonde with fabulous tresses, wearing a fabulous silk robe, which showcased her fabulous sculpted legs. Although girl code demanded she feel in awe of this woman, she couldn't help but wish she'd have at least one visible flaw. But thinking that made her feel guilty and feeling guilty made her feel flushed and her flushed and speechless did not ensure a good combination.
The woman looked around, probably expecting someone within her own visual field, but then seeing no one, her eyes went down, down and, much to Eleanor's embarrassment, down and squealed. That's right. Squealed. Like a six year old does when she sees a short, fat, fluffy bunny.
“Oh my Lord! You're adorable! Isn't she adorable?” She squealed again, this time grabbing Ulrich's arm and pointing at her. “Ulrich, who's this button?”
And then, just because Eleanor had had enough of both of the perfect creatures standing in front of her and because she carried a copy of the Bible her grandmother gave her in her bag (a copy which she loved and probably would love more than her first born child), she did what any sensible, respectable woman in her twenties would do. She threw the copy at Ulrich, which he managed to catch just before it smacked him in the head.
“Accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior!”
And then she ran.
Yeah.
Eleanor sure knew how to talk herself out of a rough spot, alright.
♠ ♠ ♠
hi, love you, bye.