Instantly, I’m hard. This idiot has me utterly dick-whipped.
I should murder your ass just for making everything into an innuendo.
Is that a promise?
Jesus christ. What am I gonna do with you?
Keep me forever :)
You’re lucky you’re cute.
Wait. Does that mean the bribeworked?
Dark chocolate truffles might’ve bailed you out this time but don’t get any stupid ideas like pulling this shit again.
Mmm, but I love when you taste like chocolate.
Chills ripple across my body in sheets. All I can see are two words:I love. They’re so close to the words I never got to say to him back then. A deep ache wells in the back of my throat. I don’t know if those words scare me to death or bring me to life.
Maybe they do both simultaneously. Because the innocent flame of what I’d felt for him back then seems dim compared to the out-of-control wildfire consuming me now.
Maybe you’ll get lucky and taste me at 7
God I hope I do <3
Carefully, I set the phone down.
A heart.
He’s never sent a solid red heart. It’s always the kissy emoji or the heart eyes. (Or the eggplant.)
I’m reading too deep into this. Getting in my fucking head and overthinking and hyper-fixating and— oh my god he sent me a fucking red heart and I’m having a mental breakdown.
Slapping my cheeks, I step beneath the hot water, taking my time to clean… everywhere.
I’m allowed to be horny and hopeful.
By the time I decide what to wear, my entire closet is a bomb site. My hair takes a hundred years to fix. Apparently I don’t own matching socks. I almost forget to spray cologne. It takes four laps of frantic searching before I realize my keys are in the back pocket of the jeans I wore earlier. The panic search repeats for my phone which is on the counter right next to Win’s note. Then myMaps App states that my destination is in the neighboring town, meaning if I don’t leave right this fucking second, I’ll be late.
Looks like speed limit signs are just conservative suggestions.
I’m flying over the Causeway bridge when the GPS calmly informs me to turn left in three hundred feet. I’m in the far right lane. Hitting my blinker I try to squeeze in the gap.
A bitchy snowbird in a Buick refuses to let me over.
“Comeon!”
My new ETA is ten minutes after seven.
Win’s gonna think I stood him up.
Shitshitshit.
Finally, a nervous teen driver waves me into the turn lane and I floor it toward Downtown Cannon. The streets switch from wide open multi-lane stretches to cramped one-way bricked mazes. I make two wrong turns and add another five minutes to my arrival time solidifying me as Worst Boyfriend of All Time.
“Your destination is on the right,” the useless navigation states.
The only building on my right looks closed. And a little run down. If I got Screwgled I’m going to explode. Crowding the steering wheel, I creep down the narrow road leading to a small parking lot. All spaces are vacant except for a white Range Rover tucked into the back corner. Relief cascades through me. I park beside it and hop out.
