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Smitten.
That’s a romance word if I’ve ever heard it.
“I’ll be at the party, too,” he adds. “Anyway, gotta go. See you tonight.” He hops onto his skateboard and takes off back to his friends, who are laughing after one of them nearly ate the pavement on a bad trick.
And now I’m left with a bit of a dilemma.
Too distressed suddenly to enjoy sightseeing, I head back to the Elysian. Upon entering the elevator, I’m met with a very familiar face: my masseuse Liobardo. He gives me a very tight and handsome smile, says, “Hello, sir,” in his overly polite, obsequious tone, and then we stand side-by-side as the elevator slowly takes us to our respective floors. His comes first, thank the gods. Before he leaves, he says, “Have an amazing day, sir,” and my eyes drop straight to his tight ass as he heads off, oblivious to any unintended sexual tension between us. It’s weird, it’s confusing, and I have to curse Rico for introducing that into my life.
Rico.
I literally forgot.
What about my plans with Rico? Do I honor them? Do I cancel and go to this party? Do I somehow combine the two? What in the actual fuck?
I yank out my phone and quickly send a text to Rico, asking him if he wants to go to the party on the north pier. A literal handful of seconds later, he responds with: “HELL NO. We are going to meet up with Adrian and those cute guys at Sunnyview. Why aren’t you here at the gym yet?”
I clench shut my eyes.
This is gonna hurt.
“Maybe we should go,” I text him back. “The party is gonna be awesome.”
Then I stare at the screen of my phone.
He types. Then deletes. Then types. Then deletes.
Then finally: “This is about Kent, right? He’s going?”
I swallow hard. I sometimes hate that I have such a perceptive best friend who knows me too well. “Yes,” I reluctantly reply.
A long moment passes.
Then he simply says: “Have fun.”
I know what that means. He’s pissed. I let him down. I broke off our pseudo plans. But doesn’t he want me to live it up here? Be daring? And isn’t going to this party both of those things?
Sorry, Rico, but I’ve gotta do this for me.
I pocket my phone, then push into my room. The party isn’t for several more hours, but I may need every last one of them to get ready for this thing. After all, you only get one chance to make a third or fourth first impression on the guy you’re totally into who kinda just called everything off a few hours ago.
That didn’t make any sense.
I’m losing my damned mind.
Next thing I know, I’m stooped in front of my opened suitcase that looks like it exploded on my bed, and I have literally nothing good enough to wear for a party tonight.
What do I do?
Exactly sixteen minutes and forty-four seconds later, I shove through the doors of a boardwalk boutique and find a pair of female employees standing by the racks chatting about their weekend. At first, I’m entirely ignored. They start to take notice when they see clothes flinging off the racks. “It’s alright, I’m a professional,” I say as they both watch, likely equal parts curious and terrified by my hurricane-like maneuvering around their store. “I know what I’m doing, I got this, I just need a minute.”
And from the selection I’m limited to here, I put to use my few years of fashion experience and piecemeal the perfect outfit together. When I emerge from the dressing room to take a look at myself in the bigger mirror, both of the girls have their full attention on me. “Wow,” says one of them, wide-eyed. The other is gawping and silent. The two of them are all but taking notes with their eyes.
“Uh, do you need a job?” one of them asks through a nervous titter. “Because your styling is spot-on.”
“Totally,” agrees the other. “I’ve never seen someone mix and match clothing like that before. You look hot.”
“Thanks,” I tell them both. “I really appreciate it, but it won’t matter if I can’t figure out what to do with this.” I point rather dramatically at my hair. “Not my expertise.”
The girls look at each other, then smirk. “Just around the corner is Francisco’s salon,” the one on the left says. “Ask for him. He loves an urgent job, and … sorry for the assumption, but you seem to be on an urgent mission.”
“I am.” I turn to them. “Can you lovely ladies ring me up?”
Five minutes later, I’ve got a bag full of clothes hooked on either wrist, and I burst through the doors of the salon further down the boardwalk. “Francisco?” I call out over a sea of hairspray mist and salsa music. A dripping-hot Latino hunk with abs and pecs that show through his tight top emerges from the back, and when his striking face is on me, his eyes light up with curiosity.
