Five Times Annie and Jeff Got Together in Decidedly Non-Greendale, Non-Shirley Approved Ways


Shirley Disapproved

Part One

In which Annie is a gold-digger and Jeff is one rich lawyer.

Funerals. See, the thing about funerals was that – well, something. She's not in the mood for philosophy at the moment. She needs to concentrate anyway. There are a million and one single rich men (and women, but that's one area she's not ready to experiment with just yet) at Michelle Slater's wake, and Annie needs to find one stupid enough to fall for her and give her money, smart enough to not make a sound when she leaves after some months with piles of aforementioned money and hot enough to make sex fun.

You'd think that'd be hard to find.

What most girls, Annie thought as she picked up a delicate glass of crystal filled with some fancy wine, do is: they go to some old codger's funeral, snag themselves a… what is it called? A sugar daddy, then complain that they have to close their eyes tight in the bedroom and churn out more fake moans than a porn star.

Smiling gently at a tiny little girl, who was standing next to someone who looked enough like her to be her mother, Annie walked on, fast enough to not be caught by unwanted eyes, but slow enough to window-shop.

Too short…
Too bald…
Bad teeth…
Definitely not, he's still carrying his dead wife's picture…
Why has that man brought a date to a funeral? And why is the date a person in a Dalmatian costume?

She's seriously judging Slater for the crowds she used to run in, if there are so many crapazoids mingling with the finery that was the tall, rich and handsome.

Speaking of.

She feels a blush creep up her neck, and a jolt of heat travel through her body. Annie hadn't felt like that in… ever. She had definitely found her target.

He was tall ("Freakish, almost," her inner eighteen-year old commented while the rest of twenty-year old Annie told Other Annie to shut up). Broad shoulders, blue eyes, perfectly imperfect bed head, crisp dark suit, light blue shirt, skinny tie, air of self-assured dickishness…

He was amazing to look at, knew how to dress, seemed rich and was a confident man.
Target? Forget it. He was prey.


Jeff Winger… was getting a little bored. Sure, at the funeral he was all ''.

But now he's moved way past that.

He'd dated Michelle for a while, yes. She was his first real girlfriend after years of simple one-night stands, yes.

But everyone kept acting like they'd been married for fifty thousand years – and happily.

So he'd been feeling guilty, which was a new emotion at first, but it got boring really fast.

Now all he wanted was a glass of scotch and maybe some nice girl to – who is that?

Tiny. Black designer suit. Dark brown straight hair, big dark blue eyes. Youngish. Sexy.

He has never seen this woman before in his life.

She's sneaking looks at you, Winger. Stop being gay and go pork her. That'll even get all these busybodies to stop acting like you're a widower. Let me tell you, I've filled that role about three times, and –

He cuts of his inner Pierce Hawthorne (sixty-six, dick, head of Hawthorne Wipes, kind-of-friend) and makes his way towards her, even as his inner Britta (twenty-nine, therapist, cat lady, sort-of-kind-of-best-friend) starts up.

Oh, come on, Winger, she must be at least twelve years younger than you. Holster it.

Don't Britta my evening!

He needs to meet his friends-not-friends again. The whole simulating-conversations-in-his-head thing has to go. It's ruining his cool.


It doesn't take Jeff too long to realize exactly what Annie Edison is.
He should be getting her clapped in iron or something, but the usually repulsive idea of someone being a gold-digger (look, Jeff worships laziness, but don't go mooching off people who've fought the gods of laziness themselves) has turned into the sexiest and most adorable idea for a woman's job - ever.

If he'd met Annie anywhere else, he'd think she was a lawyer. Or a very hot kindergarten teacher.


He's told her he's a lawyer and that he's partner of his firm and everything.


He's floored her with two Winger Speeches.


She just gave a little girl (the only little one present) who'd fallen down a kiss on the head and a bracelet. Is this woman for real?


She's turning twenty-one in a week.


Screw it, he's kissing her.


Annie wants to say mission accomplished. She can feel the looks Jeff is bestowing even when her eyes are turned away, she can feel his big warm hand on the small of her back, she can practically feel him falling in love.

It's all normal.


But she's not acting normal. Her heart is beating faster, and she's blushing, and she's losing arguments, and – okay. He's kissing her. She's going to stop thinking now.


"You knew what I was doing?"

Annie fell back into the soft cushions with a disbelieving huff.

Jeff moved, leaning on one elbow to face her, then smirked (the same delicious smirk that got her to shamelessly jump his bones).

"Are you that bothered I cracked your cold exterior of ice and deceived you?"

She contemplates glaring at him, but is sidetracked by a sudden awareness of sore legs, which makes her think of last night, which makes her hope for some more… okay, okay, this man has turned her into a horny animal. She barely remembers sleeping last night, and she's already-


In between kisses.

"I'm not going to give you money like some idiot sugar daddy, if you stay."
"I don't really care."

He moves down to her chest, and started kissing… sucking… licking... She throws her head back in pleasure.

"I'm staying."
"Good. Because I wouldn't have liked to stop this."



She smiles and walks past Jeff into their condo (it's theirs!) to drop her suitcases indiscriminately (or in prefect lines, so sue her). Then she turns and feels her smile grow wider.