“Now, right! Right, right, left!”

My body sways from right to left automatically but, truth be said, I’m barely listening to what our dance instructor is saying. She’s shouting at the top of her lungs, dancing as if her life depends on it, but I simply can’t focus on what’s happening right in front of me.

Not after Mr. Wine Bar took me so well the other day.

I thought that dance class practice would help me get my mind off Wine Bar, but it’s actually the opposite: the more I move and sweat, the more I remember how it felt to be held in his arms.

Let’s be honest, okay? Moving and sweating were two of the things I did the most when I was alone with him in my apartment.

“Okay, that’s awesome, class!” Our dance teacher cries out, clapping her hands together. She’s a forty-year-old woman, but she doesn’t look older than thirty. Being a fit woman is almost the same as drinking from the fountain of youth, it seems. “See you next Thursday!” she continues, dismissing the class, and all of us amble down to the locker rooms.

I don’t talk with any of the other women as I undress and hit the showers; my brain is still too busy trying to process everything that happened between Kirk and I. In fact, I’m still so dazed by the freaky sex we had that I must look like a zombie right now. Thankfully, everyone seems exhausted from the strenuous workout we just had, and no one tries to talk with me.

“See you!” I wave to my dance teacher as I head out of the gym, my bag slung over my shoulder. Unlocking my car, I sit behind the steering wheel and rev up the engine. A few seconds later and I’m merging with the afternoon traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge, drumming my fingers against the wheel as I switch lanes. Taylor Swift beats through the car and I let myself wonder what it would be like to be Mrs. Kirk? Mr. and Mrs. WineBar? Having Wine Babies.

“Oh, crap,” I grumble as I see the never ending line of cars in front of me. The toll booth is just one mile ahead, and there’s already a long line of cars before it. I was hoping to get home early and drink some wine while I catch up with Netflix, but I guess I gotta scrap these plans. It’s going to take a while before I get back into the city.

Taylor is done with her song and fiddling with the radio, I try and search for some station that will keep my spirits up while I wait in line. Sighing heavily, I go through station after station, and I only stop when the sweet British accent of the Spice Girls is blaring through my speakers. I have a soft spot for the 90s, so what?

Singing along to Wannabe, I trail off when I notice a car on the lane next to mine; it’s a black Mercedes, one of these German cars that look so stylish and out of place at the same time. My gaze roams over the sleek curves of its hood, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of the driver.

Square jaw, black Ray Bans, and an early stubble that looks just right. I keep on appreciating the guy in the Mercedes, and maybe I do it for too long; he notices that I’m looking at him, and he turns his face to look straight at me. Perching his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, we lock eyes. He smiles at me, his lips curling upward almost too casually, and I can’t help myself; I give him a slight nod, and then face forward as I feel my cheeks turning crimson. What? I’m not used to flirting when in the middle of a traffic jam. That’s the kind of thing that happens in movies, and romance novels, to be fair, not something I’m used to.

Sneaking a glance, I notice that the guy is still looking at me, his smart eyes making my blood boil. “Hey,” I mouth, waving at him before I can stop myself. He gives me a brief and playful salute, and then takes his sunglasses off.

“Hey,” he mouths right back at me, winking. Jesus, am I really chatting with a complete stranger? Seems like it, and more than just being a complete stranger… he’s a completely hot stranger.

I look straight ahead, trying to focus on the never ending line in front of me, but it’s as if my eyes are drawn to that black Mercedes. Slowly, I lock eyes with Mr. Whoever-He-Is (let’s call him Freeway, shall we?), and there’s still that smile on his face. Winking again, he then arches his eyebrows repeatedly in an exaggerated expression, and I can’t help myself; I end up laughing, the sound of my voice drowning out the Spice Girls.

“You’re crazy,” I mouth at him, and he just chuckles, running one hand through his sleek hair.

“Pull over,” he tells me silently, pointing at the side of the road. I just look at him, completely dumbfounded. Pull over where? In the middle of the freakin’ freeway?

“You’re outta your mind,” I try to tell him, but he just gestures at me again, telling me to pull over. “I must be goin’ crazy,” I mutter to myself as I flick the turn sign on, turning the wheel and driving until I’m on the side of the road. Cutting through the traffic, Freeway pulls his car right behind mine and then flashes me his lights, just like in those mob movies. Christ, what the hell am I doing? What if he’s a mugger?

Have you ever seen a mugger driving a Mercedes?, I ask myself, and that makes me relax a little bit. Besides, it isn’t like I’m at a risk of being murdered in the middle of a freeway, right? Right.

Holding my breath, I watch through the rearview mirror as the driver’s door of the Mercedes swings open, and a pair of black polished shoes hit the asphalt underneath it. Freeway is wearing dress pants and a black shirt and, I gotta say, he looks… delicious. Tall, handsome, and well-built; the perfect ingredients for a tasty recipe.

“Okay,” I tell myself as I reach for the handle on my door, “let’s do this.”