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And a large part of me thinks he knows that, given that outside of our interaction, heisan asshole. Surly and short, unable to give a single fuck about what anyone else has to say. I think about the friend he owed a favor to and wonder who that person could be. Or what they’d done to earn a favor from Abraham Pugliesi.
I type out my response and send it while standing at the kitchen sink.
Me: I already saw you on TV.
Abraham: I want to kiss you.
What am I supposed to say to that? I type the first word that comes to mind.
Me: Why?
Abraham: Because I can’t stop thinking about you.
I can’t tell if he’s full of shit. He fucks with my brain, scrambling it with his sexual charm. Sexual charm that makes me wonder how many other women it’s been practiced on before it was perfected.
He texts again, pulling me from my thoughts.
Abraham: Let me pick you up.
I don’t want him to know my address. I want to keep him separate from the rest of my life, safe where we can’t get caught.
Me: You can’t come to my apartment.
I’ve already sent the message when I think about whether what I’ve said will upset him. I know where he lives. I know where he works. I don’t want him to take what I sent the wrong way. But he texts me back quickly.
Abraham: I’ll pick you up wherever you’ll let me.
I send him the address to a restaurant just down the block and agree to meet him in twenty minutes. I rush out of the kitchen to get ready, bumping into Miley on the way to my room.
“Woah,” she says, nearly dropping her plate, her fork sliding to the floor.
As I bend over to pick it up, I tell her I have plans and I need to hurry up.
“Okay, Sabrina,” she drawls as I hand her the fork and rush to my room. “I expect details.” Her last sentence follows me inside my room as I cringe, wondering what I’m gonna come up with to keep her from feeling out of the loop.
I brush the worry away as I reach for a sundress and cardigan. I drop them on the bed and head into the bathroom to take a quick shower.
As I scrub my skin, I think about how I’ll need to discuss exclusivity with Abraham. It isn’t a conversation I’ve ever really had before. I’ve dated guys in high school, but I haven’t had any real long-term romance that required any loyalty. And it was rare that I slept with someone more than a few times.
If I’m being completely honest, when I fuck Abraham, I don’t plan on it just being a few times. Not when we have another month before classes end.
I dry off and lather myself with lotion as I try to figure out the best way to approach that conversation. I don’t want to come off as if I’m trying to tie him down or commit to him.
In my towel, I race back into my room, pull on panties and my dress, deciding to forgo a bra. One of the perks of small breasts.
My hair is damp and I’m not wearing makeup but on such short notice, I like the fresh-faced youthful look. I choose sandals to complete the look, grab my purse, and call out goodbye to Miley who returns it from somewhere in the apartment.
All through the elevator ride and the walk to the restaurant, I’m fidgeting, smoothing my hair, my skirt.
But when I approach our meeting spot, I stop short as a car slides up beside me.
I glance over at the limo that sits there idling a moment before the back window rolls down.
“I know, it’s cheesy,” Abraham starts, “but I want to share this with you.”
My laugh is loud as I toss my head back, staring up at the sky.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking at him again. His hair is disheveled, and he looks beautiful in that tuxedo of his.
