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“Maybe… I went through a rebellious phase in high-school,” I find myself admitting. “Fancied myself a brooding, artistic type. Dyed black hair, red lipstick, pretentious clove cigarettes… It took me a while to figure out that just because a boy quotes Nietzsche and plays bass guitar, it doesn’t mean he’s not trying to get in your pants, same as any other guy.”
“I apologize,” the man says, raising his glass to me. “On behalf of horny adolescent boys everywhere.”
I smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I was a horny, hormone-fueled monster myself,” I add. “I mean, I was out there reading eroticBuffyfan-fiction with the best of them.”
“Erotic what now?” he blinks.
I blush. “Don’t ask.”
Looking back now, those wild, teenage adventures seem like an old nostalgic movie, someone else’s story. Once I had a kid before I even graduated college, spontaneous ceased to be a part of my vocabulary. After all, there’s not as much chance for reckless, passionate flings when you have to schedule a babysitter ahead and time and go pump every three hours.
But now my daughter, Lottie, is fourteen-going-on-forty-five, and pretty much everyone agrees, I’m in dire need of some reckless adventuring again. Or even just mildly-intriguing exploits.
Like the kind I could have discovering what this man is hiding under that expensive suit…
My phone suddenly buzzes – this time with an alarm. My flight is boarding. I scramble down from my stool. “I have to go,” I blurt, wishing I didn’t need to be in Miami in a couple of hours to escort half-a-million dollars of rare orchids. “It was, umm, nice meeting you.”
Nice meeting you?This is why I don’t have romantic adventures – not because I’m a mom, but because my skills of charm and seduction have been gathering dust so long, they’re practically pre-historic.
“You too.” The man stands, also, and peels off a couple of twenties from his wallet, gesturing to the bartender that he’s covering my check. “Good luck with those butterflies.”
I wince. “Knowing my luck, I’ll be stuck roaming around with one of those butterfly nets myself, trying to capture the stragglers before they flutter south.”
He chuckles, as we exit the bar area together. “I’m that way,” he nods to the right.
“My gate’s there,” I point in the other direction. But we both pause there a moment, our eyes meeting. I feel my pulse kick.
I should do it; seize the day, or his muscular shoulders, and say something. Ask for his number, or even just his name—
“Scooter! Get back here!”
A shout goes up, and I turn, just as a massive German Shepard hurtles past – sending me stumbling.
“Whoa—” the man catches my arm, steadying me before I go ass-up on the ground. But my busted old carry-on case isn’t so lucky. It goes flying, exploding on the concourse and sending my clothes, makeup, and travel-sized toiletries spilling all around us.
Shit.
“I’m so sorry!” the dog’s owner, a feeble-looking woman, rushes up, apologizing.
“It’s fine!”
But just as I’m bent double, frantically scrabbling to grab sunscreen, sandals, and my precious $100 face-cream from being trampled underfoot, the damn dog decides to make himself useful and play fetch.
With my underwear.
And deposit it right at Mr. Maybe Not So All-Wrong’s feet.
Oh God.
The man leans over and plucks my panties from the ground. “These yours?” he asks, smiling, and I go right ahead and die a hundred deaths.
Because of course those aren’t the sexy, silky new lingerie I decided to splurge on for the trip, all delicate violet lace and tiny ribbons, just begging to be seductively untied. Oh no. The most attractive man I’ve had the pleasure of flirting with in years is standing there in front of me, holding out a saggy, over-sized pair of stretchy cotton grandma briefs.
White ones. Printed with tiny Minnie Mouse faces.
Lottie calls them my period pants. I call them perfect for a night on the couch.
Nobody, by any stretch of the imagination, would ever call them fit to be seen by another human being, let alone a gorgeous, charming specimen of a man with a jawline so sharp I could use it to slice my morning grapefruit.
