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But the universe keeps stepping in the way, laughing at the irony of trampling all over our best-laid plans.
Laid. That’s exactly what I want to be.
On the date after gardening with Mom, I told him about Kyle and my mother’s ham-fisted attempt at setting me up. I thought Noah might be upset, but he laughed it off, saying he’s glad my mother cares enough about me to mess things up by trying.
And the date was great.
We went to the movies and hid out in the back row, making out like teenagers, kissing quietly and ignoring the on-screen laser blasts, flying superheroes, and major explosions. Then, just as we were leaving, someone rear-ended Noah’s SUV, and the mood was ruined while we waited for the cops.
“I want your insurance information!” the woman yells, pounding on Noah’s window. “Do you know who I am?”
“Ma’am, you hit me,” Noah says calmly as I check to see that the doors on the SUV are locked. This woman’s batshit and one breath away from that ‘let me speak to your manager’ type of entitled. “Please return to your car.”
“You don’t tell me what to do!” the woman orders.
Thankfully, a security guard showed up a minute later, and the cops soon after that. But the mood was ruined.
Then, we tried staying in the next night . . . only to have Raffy turn into Ralf-y when something he ate disagreed with his tummy. By the time we cleaned up the huge puddle of puppy puke, neither of us was feeling particularly sexy. Thankfully, Raffy felt fine later, and the vet said he’d probably just scarfed up something that didn’t agree with him.
Last night, we didn’t even get that far when Noah had to cancel, saying that Lady Elisa had called him while he was on the way to pick me up. There was some sort of emergency at Life Corp with BlindDate. He didn’t get back to his place until midnight, even though all he could do was watch a bunch of systems administrators reboot and fight off an incursion from a bunch of hackers or something. Luckily, it worked, and the app is fine. Better than fine with its new security.
But Noah and I are balancing precariously on the edge. Our texts are steamy again, but they’re no substitute for the real thing. And while he’s naturally risk-averse and I’m image-conscious, I’m about ready to say screw it all and meet him for a quickie in the car on his lunch break.
And that’s a bad idea. A really bad one in the day and age of security cameras, phone recordings, and viral videos.
Which is why I’ve decided to be the captain of my own destiny and carpe the hell out of this diem by taking control of tonight’s plans.
I look around my apartment, making sure everything’s good. Raffy’s staying the night with Loretta, who’s giving him the full spa treatment and keeping him overnight in full puppy luxury.
In a total sign of our friendship, she didn’t ask why Raffy needed another sleepover so soon, though I’m sure she expects an explanation at some point.
There’s a knock at the door, and I give my fisheye a quick glance to see Noah looking sexy as hell in a dark suit, his hair slicked and his shirt partially open. He looks delicious, suave, and powerful, and I know I’m doing the right thing as I unlock the door and open it, keeping myself behind the door.
“I came straight from work,” he says, and I know he’s ready for tonight too. Even if he doesn’t know what I have planned.
“Come in,” I tell him, smiling from around the door. “How was your day?”
“Now? Much, much better,” Noah says, his eyebrow lifting. “Why are you behind the door?”
“Because of this,” I tell him, pushing my door closed and locking it. “You like?”
Noah’s jaw drops as he sees me, and a little thrill rushes through my veins. Normally, I carefully curate what I wear, both on my social media feeds and in public, so as to not be ‘too sexy’. I’ll wear a tank top, but not something with more cleavage than the Grand Canyon. I’ll wear shorts, but my cheeks are always fully under wraps.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I greet Noah in nothing but a see-through black bra and the naughtiest panties I own, which admittedly were given to me by a manufacturer who wanted me to post something with them. Never in a million years would I do that, though I suppose I could do a review on them.
They do feel amazing, and watching Noah’s reaction is even better.
“Riley, I . . .”
“I don’t want dinner,” I tell him evenly, reaching out and wrapping my fingers through his lapels. “I don’t want wine or cheesecake or a movie or any of that. We’ve been patient. So patient,” I moan.
