15
Delaney
Later that day, I set a hand on my belly, to quiet the burst of nerves. Little morsels of guilt slip and slide over my skin.
But it’s just an email. It’s not even the email from the private detective. But even so—why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong?
I squeeze my eyes shut, as I grip the bureau in my bedroom, white-knuckling the wood.
Shake it off.
I open my eyes, flop down on my bed, and grab my phone. I re-read Trevor’s note that he sent while I was working today.
Hey Delaney,
Hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I saw a six-pack of plastic rings on the ground and thought of you. And, truth be told, the straw I found on my sidewalk the other day reminded me of you, too. Come to think of it, so did the crumpled-up newspaper skittering around outside my office building.
But, I’ll have you know, I cleaned them up and disposed of them properly.
In any case, I had a great time with you the other night, and I swear I’m not just saying that because we share a pet peeve. I’ll be taking off tomorrow for my trip, and I’ll do my best to make sure the contestants don’t shed a tear from my critiques. By the way, do you have a favorite cuisine? Let me know, and I can book a reservation for dinner when I return.
Hope you have a great Girls’ Night Out tonight. No doubt it’ll be a blast.
Talk soon,
Trevor
I toss the phone to the middle of the bed, grab a pillow, slam it on top of my face, and curse into the downy feathers.
But my pillow tirade solves nothing.
So I sit up, drag my hands through my hair, and try to figure out what the hell to do.
Trevor is such a catch.
He’s so normal.
And fun.
And witty.
And similar enough to me.
And thoughtful.
He’s exactly the type of guy I wanted to date during my last spin of the dating merry-go-round more than a year ago. Why the hell didn’t I meet a guy like Trevor then? Instead, my wanna-get-a-coffee adventures with the opposite sex consisted of a guy who texted me obsessively pre- and post-date, never once using a complete word in his texts, another who confessed to being a big fan of tickling (the date didn’t last long enough for me to learn if he was a tickler or ticklee), and finally a buff, muscular banker who spent our date sharing the details of his workout routine and the bond market. I’m not sure which was more dull, the amount of weight he bench pressed or the amount of money he’d invested.
But no Trevors.
Not a single one.
And now here’s this perfectly normal guy walking into my life without a dick pic, a fetish, or a narcissistic bone to be seen.
I should be writing back to him with a goofy smile on my face. I should be parked cross-legged on my bed, grinning happily as I tap out an equally witty and sweet reply. I should share his email with Penny and Nicole, oohing and ahhing over each word.
Instead, my stomach churns.
I don’t want to feel this way.
I try to center myself with a few deep breaths. I imagine my massage room, and I pretend I hear the gentle patter of falling rain. I let it wash away the strange sense that I’ve done something wrong.
I haven’t. Have I?
That thing this morning in the mailroom has nothing to do with this email, and vice versa.
I head to the mirror on the back of my closet door and check out my outfit for tonight’s Girls’ Night Out—jeans, a slouchy emerald green top that slopes off one shoulder, and a pair of silvery pumps that Penny picked up for me when she and Gabriel traveled to Paris last month. “Quarante-et-un,” Penny declared with excitement, using the French word for my shoe size as she presented them to me. “They have gobs of size 41 shoes in Paris, and I couldn’t resist these.”
As I appraise the shiny shoes in the mirror, I imagine Tyler’s reaction to them. The way his eyes would linger on the heels, the throaty growl that would rumble up his chest, how he’d push me against the wall, cage me in, and whisper hot, dirty words in my ear about what he wanted to do to me while I wear nothing but these shoes.
My hand drifts over my belly, then down, down. My eyes float closed as a blast of heat floods my body. A pulse beats between my legs as I imagine what happens next. All my late-night fantasies suddenly feel thrillingly real.
Like they can happen. Like they will happen. My fingers travel lower over my clothes. A gasp rushes across my lips, and shockingly, I find I’m aroused just from that fleeting vision.
I’m so ridiculously aroused I’m about to touch myself again.
Get it together.
I open my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, as if I can ward off the fantasies. This thing with my ex is just physical, right? It’s butterflies and tingles. It’s sizzle and spark. It’s a man who has my number. My interest in him is like my lust for a pair of shoes.
That’s all.
Nothing more.
There can’t be anything more to it.
My phone buzzes, vibrating on my bed.
I stride over, grab it and slide open a group message from my girls. Nicole says she’s on her way to the wig shop. Penny chimes in that she’s running a few minutes late. I hastily reply that I’m on my way.
Grabbing my wristlet, I stuff my phone inside and ignore Trevor’s message as I catch a subway downtown.
I’ll write back later.
On the train, I stare at my shoes the whole time, daydreaming.