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Hell, I have a hard time talking about my professional life. That’s why my bosses don’t know how passionate I am about building community-based indoor farms and that I have a plan that IAS could implement tomorrow to start making those happen around the country.
One of these days I’ll get the nerve to sit down with Lauren and Mason about my ideas. But fuck, how does someone go to two literal geniuses who have years of hands-on experience, who have traveled the globe and seen agricultural issues up close, gotten their hands dirty in fields ravaged by natural disasters and plagued with famine and drought, met with presidents and Nobel prize winners, and say, “Oh, hey guys, I’ve got this amazing plan that I think you should implement”?
Who am I? I need to prove myself. I need to earn the right to sit at the table with them and share ideas and plans.
So, yeah, if I don’t have the experience or confidence to talk to my bosses about ideas in my professional field of study, how can I possibly face a personal life that involves dating a prince? I’ve slept with one guy. Kissed two. And I only liked kissing one of them.
I was thinking maybe Torin and I could have a hot weekend together in Autre where everyone would keep our secret.
I definitely don’t want to go public with anything with Torin.
When it comes to a man who could have any woman he wants, there would constantly be questions. Fair questions. Why her? What could she possibly have that a million other women don’t? Did you see what she said at that state dinner? She’s so weird. She can’t possibly be that good in bed.
And they’d be right.
I can’t possibly be that good in bed.
“Hi. Can I buy you a drink?”
I focus on the man who has just taken the seat beside me at the bar.
He’s handsome. He’s wearing a suit and a big smile. And I’m not interested. At all.
“No, thank you.”
“Sorry, I didn’t see a ring,” he says, looking at my left hand. “Not that you need to have a ring to say no,” he says quickly. “Just took a chance.”
I nod. “It’s okay. No ring.”
“You’re not taken then?”
Torin said I am. That’s the first thing to go through my mind. But he’s the one who’s taken.
“No, I’m not,” I tell the good-looking stranger who I should at least have a drink with.
Instead, I hit send on the photo of my boots on the rung of the bar stool.
Torin’s reply comes in only three seconds later.
Where are you?
That’s all his text says. It doesn’t say anything about the boots. There’s not even one emoji.
I frown. I could ignore him. Keep him on read. Maybe make him sweat.
But my fingers are already moving. The jealous, petty, childish side of me types the words
at a bar.
You better not be dancing with anyone else wearing those boots, Abigail.
What is it about him using my name, even in a text, that causes a little shiver to dance down my back?
I’m the only one you dance with in those boots
I actually laugh at that. He sounds jealous. Good. He can act as possessive and bossy as he wants. Yes, that's a little hot, but there's nothing he can do.
Tell me you’re not dancing in those boots tonight, Abigail.
