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After the second phase of boot camp—where PJ tortured me at the gym, I unsuccessfully tried to flirt with him, and Malibu Barbie Melissa ruined my life—I took ten steps back in this whole self-discovery crap, and that pissed me off. Why was I letting some woman I didn’t even know knock me down a few pegs? Why was I second-guessing everything about myself now that I’d seen the kind of woman PJ goes for? It’s not like I wanted a relationship with this man. I barely knew him.
And yet, as soon as he sent me another text this morning, this time telling me to meet him at Charming’s before they opened, the butterflies started swarming in my stomach, and I took an ungodly amount of time picking out my clothes and getting ready.
I’m wearing that damn peach wrap dress he mentioned in the last flirty text he sent me, and six-inch nude heels that Ariel said make my legs look amazing. It took me an hour and a half to curl my hair and put on my makeup and attempt to look like I wasn’t trying too hard, but it’s all bullshit. I did try too hard. Too hard to be sexy and flirty, and now look where it’s gotten me: Waiting by the phone and jumping at the first sign of attention, even if it’s not the attention I was hoping for. I just wanted him to look at me today and not see the sweaty, hot mess who digs around in her boobs for a water-bottle cap.
I definitely read all the signs wrong. I have no business even trying to look at signs when I’m so far out of my element I’m on another planet. For ten of the thirteen years I was married, Brian’s idea of flirting was telling me dinner was delicious and he’ll meet me up in the bedroom. I shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions on my own. Or when I drink. Or when I’m ticked off. Or pretty much ever.
And of course PJ has to sit there in that chair a few feet away from me, still saying nothing, looking entirely too good for a guy wearing a T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, just like at the gym the other day. The club is completely empty except for us, with the main overhead lights off and nothing but the soft glow of pink-and-white stage lights surrounding us. The silence is deafening as I stand here fidgeting, shifting my body from one foot to the other, until I can’t stand the quiet anymore. It gives me entirely too much time to think.
“So, I’m guessing this is the next phase of boot camp? You want me to dance at the club tonight, right?” I ask, breaking the silence.
He finally makes a sound, but it’s a short burst of laughter, his face completely devoid of a smile. Definitely not what I was expecting and definitely not something that will help boost my wounded ego from my obvious failed attempt at flirting with him.
“No. You’re not ready for that. You have to learn how to walk before you can run. So, move that sexy ass and dance for me.”
Is he messing with me right now? What is happening?
His words should be hot, but they come out all terse and slightly annoyed. What the hell does he have to be annoyed about? I’m the one who put myself out there and got rejected. Clearly sending him that picture of my lingerie was a bad idea. He’d probably just been all flirty with me as part of this stupid stripper boot camp he’s putting me through, and I went and made things awkward and uncomfortable. What guy in his right mind wants to be with a woman who has as much baggage as I do? Who came right out and admitted her ex never satisfied her and she can’t remember the last time she had an orgasm? That’s too much pressure for any guy to handle.
Might as well rip the Band-Aid off and just put it out there in the open so we can move on and never speak of it or think of it again.
“Look, I’m sorry about that stupid text I sent you the other night. It was obviously a mistake and you’ll be happy to know I’m never drinking tequila again. Can we just pretend it never happened and why in the hell are you looking at me like that?” I ask with irritation when halfway through my rambling his eyes lose their annoyance, and even in the dim lighting of the club I can see them darken.
“Looking at you like what?” he asks in a low voice that sends a spark of electricity right between my legs.
“Like . . . like . . . uugghhh, I don’t know!”
