Cream of the Crop Read Online Free PDF

up.
    â€œLeo ruined the first town hall. It was all finished and ready to go to school the next morning, when he got all twisted up in my panties, tripped us both, and fell, sending me ass first into the cupola. We had to stay up all night making a new one.”
    And just like that, you realize nothing ever really changes.
    â€œEnough with the Mayberry. You planning any trips into the city anytime soon?” I asked, dangling the city carrot every week.
    â€œNothing on the books right now. You planning on coming up here for a visit anytime soon?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
    â€œYou’re adorable,” I said, chuckling, finishing my smoothie and rising off the couch to throw it away in the kitchen. “There’s a big foodie festival here the first week of November; you should try and get your cakes into it; lots of gourmet eyeballs there.”
    â€œSend me the details and I’ll see what I can do. Speaking of food, are you gonna talk to Oscar this week?”
    â€œShush.”
    â€œExplain this to me again, please,” she said, her voice incredulous. “I’ve seen you get a guy to literally eat out of the palm of your hand, and you can’t talk to Oscar the Grouch?”
    â€œHe wasn’t eating out of the palm of my hand.”
    â€œHe ate olives off your fingertips, and he kneeled down to do it. In a bar, for God’s sake.”
    I giggled. He did. Yuri. He’d said he was a Russian mafia guy, but he wasn’t so tough. I stuck my tongue in his ear, whispered what he could do to me if he played his cards right, and . . . wow. He really was eating out of the palm of my hand.
    â€œI don’t understand why this guy makes you so googly! Imean, he’s obviously got that brooding bad-boy sex god thing going on, and—”
    â€œYou can stop there; that’s enough to make me go googly,” I interrupted, my eyes crossing.
    â€œYou know, if you came up here for a visit, I could easily arrange a meetup . . .” Her voice trailed off, plotting.
    â€œNo! I can’t, no!”
    â€œWhy in the world not?”
    It was a good question. Why wasn’t I jumping all over this?
    â€œIf I come there and I see him, and we talk, about cheese or whatever else might come up, then it’s like . . . I don’t know. Something changes.”
    â€œYeah. We get this shit moving past the scrambled-brain phase,” she replied.
    â€œExactly! What if, once we start talking, he no longer scrambles my brain? What if, once I get to know him, there’s no grrr behind the golden? What if”—and I had to sit down to even say this out loud—“what if he’s got a teeny weenie?”
    I could hear her intake of breath.
    â€œWell then, Clara would take the train down and we would get. You. Through!” It almost sounded like she’d choked.
    â€œAre you laughing at me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
    â€œNo. Not at all,” she insisted, and coughed strangely.
    â€œYou are totally laughing at me, asshole!” I exclaimed.
    â€œI can’t believe you’re actually serious! A teeny weenie? I’m pretty sure Oscar is packing a giant milk can . . .”
    â€œOooh, you think?” I asked, relaxing back onto the couch and curling up like a cat, my teeny-weenie terror momentarily subsiding.
    â€œYou’re certifiable,” she said, undoubtedly shaking her head. “Seriously, though, you should think about coming up here and taking this thing to the next level.”
    â€œI like this level. I know this level,” I said, chewing on my ponytail.
    â€œBut it doesn’t make any sense! You should own this guy, destroy this guy—and you can’t even talk to him? Make this make sense to me.”
    I thought for a minute. She asked me this almost every weekend, and every weekend I said I don’t know. I didn’t know, and that was the