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Todd came along—the total opposite of Logan. He’s suave, cool, gentle, and attentive. I have to wonder if the guy is a saint, because we’ve never even passed second base and he’s still around.
But if I’m brutally honest with myself, I just don’t feel that zing with Todd.
Not like the way it was with Logan.
With Logan, I had the primal urge to jump on him and tear his shirt off like a wild tiger tucking into its prey.
I’m not that kind of person anymore. Now I watch the kind of sickly-sweet romances most of my friends roll their eyes over. They make me feel happy and content.
The thought of ripping shirts and getting intimate makes me slightly nauseous these days.
It takes a lot of commitment to be that vulnerable with a person.
I just want a ring on my finger, and a decent heads-up so I can prepare for it.
Then I can schedule a full body wax, do a sixty-day workout program followed by a juice cleanse to get my body in shape, and read a stack of self-help books to get an idea of what I’m supposed to do.
Physical stuff aside though, Todd and I are a good match. Our relationship moving forward might even make me more assertive at work. Maybe I’ll get a promotion.
Plus, moving out of my rotten apartment would be nice.
I flick my hair back and look at myself in the wall mirror by the door. The red dress clings to me like a second skin. If I didn’t have my shapewear on, I’m pretty sure I’d look like a swollen sausage link.
“Take a breath, Josie. You look cute.”
I nod to my reflection, repeating affirmations in my head. It helps with the sickly feeling swirling around in my stomach.
I glance at my bare wedding finger.
Yes. Tonight, Todd is going to put a ring on it. It’s about freaking time.
The buzzer makes me jump.
He’s here.
I slap on a slick of red lipstick, throw my purse over my shoulder, and march out of my front door grinning from ear to ear.
I look around me at the interior of the most prestigious restaurant in the city. It’s all glitzy, with the fancy chandeliers and carpeted floors.
The ambient sounds of murmured conversation and clinking cutlery are almost muted against the orchestral music playing in the background.
The servers look like the penguins in Mary Poppins—black suits that pleat at the back and white button-up shirts with black buttons.
One of them leans over, smelling of musk and essential oils, and pours wine into my glass.
“Thank you,” I say in my poshest voice.
Todd sits across from me, looking as dashing as ever. His jet-black hair is gelled to the side and his eyes keep darting around as though he’s keeping a lookout for something.
There’s a sheen of sweat covering his upper lip.
He’s nervous.
“So, this is nice,” I say, breaking the silence. He looks at me and tugs on his shirt collar as he clears his throat.
“How was the salmon?” he asks. I give him an appreciative nod. “Delicious.”
He puffs out a breath and sits up. “Good, good.”
