Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
It’s not that I want Liam to suffer. Not really. It’s just that his suffering is so intensely performative that I can’t help it. He really is the sweetest guy, loyal to a fault, but he’s also fiercely territorial. And nothing gets him more dramatically worked up than the mere suggestion that another man exists in my orbit. Example? Once, he genuinely thought our elderly mailman was trying to woo me with junk coupons.
I call this dynamic “emotional seasoning.” He definitely calls it “a breach of sacred trust.” Either way, it’s wildly entertaining…for me anyway. lol Last Friday, we were out at our friend Sarah’s housewarming party. We’d been there about an hour, and Liam was settled into his usual routine – explaining the complex history of artisanal brewing while simultaneously keeping a nervous tally of everyone who crossed my line of sight.
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Just then, I spotted Mark across the room. Mark is a guy who works out at my gym. He’s tall, harmless, and looks permanently confused by geometry. Perfect. Liam was just getting to the part about hop varietals, so I chose my moment. I sashayed over to Mark, who was guarding the chip bowl like it held the Holy Grail. “Mark! Long time no see,” I chirped, giving him a massive, two-handed squeeze around his shoulders.
Now, I held that hug. I held it for exactly seven seconds. Liam usually operates on a six-second surveillance delay, so giving him the extra second ensures maximum dramatic impact. Seven seconds in, Liam stopped midsentence, his voice catching on the word “malty,” and swiveled. The look on his face was absolutely priceless. It was a combination of deep betrayal, confused math, and the realization that his entire universe had just crumbled because I was hugging a man who smelled faintly of old protein powder.
I pulled away from Mark, who just blinked at me, probably wondering if he owed me money for the contact. “Well, I’ll catch you later!” I waved cheerily and headed straight back to Liam. He grabbed my arm immediately, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. “Seven point four seconds, Amber. I counted,” he whispered fiercely, leaning in close so only I could hear the outrage. “He was smirking.”
“Mark? Honey, he looks like that when he reads a menu. He’s just genetically prone to resting smirk face,” I replied, innocently picking up a pretzel stick. “No,” he insisted, eyes twitching. “That was possessive eye contact. Did you tell him about the trip to Iceland? You know I hate when you share travel plans with rivals.” I leaned up and gave him a quick peck, right on his furiously furrowed brow. “A rival, Liam? Mark asked if I had seen the remote control.” I smiled and walked away.
Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
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