by Alice Ward
I finished the rest of my steak and drink, thinking of the possibilities. I could just go back to my apartment and take care of my pent-up sexual tension myself, but that seemed lonely. Empty. No, Gavin was right. At the rate I was going, my cock might end up shriveling on my body and falling off from disuse. I needed to stretch that muscle.
I pulled out my phone, opened it to the internet browser, and typed in, Escort services – Manhattan.
CHAPTER THREE
Juliana
I threw up my hands for the thousandth time that Friday night, wondering what the hell had gotten into me.
Why had I agreed to this again? When it came right down to it, I liked being home alone, with Hobbes and my favorite vegan frozen yogurt. In fact, right then, that sounded like a heavenly night.
But no. I had to go out. On a blind date. That I not only stupidly agreed to but had initiated.
Dumb, dumb, dumb. I wanted to stab myself with the hanger as I held a dress in front of me. God, could I look any more like a schoolmarm? I grabbed a blouse out of the closet and a flowy white circle skirt, my standard go-tos for an evening out. The outfit was nice enough to be dressy, but not too dressy. Perfect.
But when I put it on, I groaned. It was like another Attack of the Schoolmarm was coming on. Apparently, the answer to “could I look any more like a schoolmarm” was a resounding yes.
I ripped the blouse off and stared at myself again in the mirror, repeating You are not a frump over and over again to myself, hoping all that positive self-talk would sink in. If I was a sexy goddess, what would I wear?
I knew what I had to do. Of course. I pulled back on the circle skirt and blouse, stood in front of the mirror, and took my picture. Then I peeled the outfit off, put on a little black sundress, and… whoa, had it shrunk? It barely covered my ass. I took a picture of it anyway, and texted them both to Leah, along with Which one?
Predictably, she said, The black. You look like an old lady in the other.
I groaned and typed. Too short. You can see my ass cheeks.
So? Perfect.
I shook my head. Leah was never afraid to show a little — actually, a lot — of skin. She had the body for it, willowy and lithe like a dancer’s. Her body was made to show off. Mine? I’d been so used to hiding all my life that anything remotely bare outside of the gym just felt too revealing. Though the fat was gone, I still hadn’t quite gotten over all my hang-ups enough to show myself off. I needed constant cheerleading.
But no, really. I would never be able to pull off the black in public. I didn’t know how I’d let Leah talk me into buying it. Oh, that’s right. I didn’t. She’d given it to me as a birthday present last year.
Tapping my finger to my chin, I rummaged through the hangers of outfits in my closet. Finally, I pulled out a dark maroon colored halter top and a pair of skinny jeans. I threw them on with a pair of ballet flats and whirled in front of the mirror. Maybe…
I snapped my picture and sent it to Leah with the comment: Playing it safe?
Safe is boring, but you look fab, she came back a moment later. You going to meet him soon?
I jabbed in, We’re meeting at Terra at 7:30.
Yay! I want details afterward.
She knew our plans, of course. We’d been talking about her brother’s college roommate’s cousin, Zachary Something-or-other, who was, supposedly, such a god it seemed impossible that a man with his perfection was still single. He was a successful businessman, thirtyish, lived in Manhattan, had a cat of his own, and looked like Chris Pratt. She said she would have gone out with him herself, but her brother insisted she wasn’t his type. I kept saying he must be gay, but Leah insisted that he wasn’t and was excited to meet me.
I figured she was embellishing on all counts.
There had to be something wrong with him. A serial killer, probably.
I’ll text you if I survive, I typed in, giving myself another glance in the mirror. What if he hates the way I look?
He won’t. Tom showed him your picture, and he said you were cute.
I’d wanted to see pictures of Zachary, but the only one Leah could scrounge up of him — the one that had led her to declare him really cute — was from when he was in high school. He looked fine, for a kid with moderate acne, I guess. But I knew a lot of things could happen to a man in twelve years, and not all of them were good.
Ugh. But what if I don’t like him?
We both knew that wouldn’t be the case. I didn’t feel meh on many things, especially men. I either hated or loved, and when I fell, I fell hard. Leah always joked I was borderline OCD, Only Cares Deeply. About certain causes, and certain men. The problem was, the men I fell for? I hadn’t yet had one do me the favor of reciprocating those feelings.
Stop. Get out there, woman. You’re a man-eater. Go get him.
Right. Rawr. Clenching my fists, I repeated those words in my head as I grabbed my special date-night purse I never used and checked that it had everything I needed inside. Lip gloss, check. Green Tic Tacs, check. Unzipping the side pocket, I slipped my wallet and apartment key inside. With that done, I took a deep breath and headed out the door.
I was early, as usual. Where most of the world was fashionably late to everything, that didn’t exist in my vocabulary. It was part of the discipline, something I prided myself on, along with working out every day and minding what I ate. Having a regimen in those areas helped me stick to all my other commitments. Plus, I figured that if I got there early, I could get a table in the corner, have a drink, and scope him out as he came in.
I got to Terra at seven, when the place was still relatively quiet and empty, since whatever happened in New York didn’t really start until much later. The hostess led me to the perfect out-of-the-way table in the corner, where I sat facing the door. I ordered a glass of water since I thought it’d be a bad idea to meet this stranger at anything less than one-hundred-percent sober. Then I pulled out a copy of the book I was reading, an Agatha Christie mystery entitled The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. I was actually a sucker for tawdry romances, but I wasn’t sure I wanted my blind date to catch me reading one, lest he think I was eager to reenact some key scenes on our first meeting. That could be awkward.
I sipped my water and looked about surreptitiously. All right. Come at me, lover boy, and let’s see what you’re made of.
Somehow, I managed to drown out the sounds of people chatting, yelling, having fun enough to get seriously into the book. Christie books always required extra brain cells because there were so many characters to sort out, but I managed to settle in, and by the time someone tapped my shoulder, I looked up, surprised to see that I wasn’t in my bed with Hobbes at my side.
It was a tall guy in a cowboy hat, all leather skin, and jowls. Definitely not from around here. I could tell that much, and he hadn’t even opened his mouth.
If this was Zachary, cute, successful Chris Pratt look-alike, I was going to scream. And murder Leah the next time I saw her.
“Hey, you,” he said with a sultry southern accent, and though I had precious little experience at being picked up in bars, I knew that What’s a sweet thing like you doing here all alone? was next. Ugh.
No, this couldn’t be my blind date. Leah had high standards and twenty-twenty vision. This guy was at least twenty years older than me, drunk, and clearly no Chris Pratt.
Before he could say any more, I held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Me?” he asked, leaning forward until I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
I smiled, trying not to be overly rude. “Sorry. Have a nice night,” I said before burying my face in my book again.
Thankfully, he got the hint and sidled back to the bar, where a group of other cowboys were waiting for him, razzing him for his crash and burn with me. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but I guessed they’d all been watching our little exchange. After he went back, the cowboys kept looking at me, giving me grins until a group of rowdy bachelorette party
girls came in, blocking me from their view and detouring their attention. Whew.
Moments later, after I’d read another chapter, I felt another presence hovering over me.
I knew it. This was it.
Steeling myself to make it through the next few awkward moments, I lifted my eyes, expecting to see Chris Pratt the second, or a reasonable facsimile. But it was the waitress, refilling my empty glass from a pitcher. “Can I get you anything, hon?” she said to me sweetly.
“Oh, no, I’m fine right now,” I said, rummaging through my purse for my phone.
I checked the display and frowned. Okay, it was almost eight.
What the hell? My first dip in the dating pond and I was already being ditched? How was that fair?
I opened a text to Leah and wrote, Guess who’s sitting here all alone, because your Mr. Pratt didn’t show up???
TO BE CONTINUED...
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alice Ward is a USA Today bestselling author whose books consistently break into the Top 100 on Amazon. Three of her books were Top 10 Amazon bestsellers, one of which - The Surprise - reached an all-time high of #4.
She writes hot and steamy contemporary romance novels and is prolific, releasing at least one new book every month. Her books are widely read, especially by women and any other lovers of the romance genre. My Stepbrother, My Lover, was her first smash hit.
Alice has been in love with love since she was a little girl. She had quite the collection of Barbie dolls growing up and spent much of her playtime crafting the perfect Barbie wedding day (and when she wasn’t doing that, she was working on attempting the perfect cartwheel).
When Alice outgrew Barbie dolls, she began to write her thoughts down in her diary. This was how she discovered that she had a knack for telling romantic stories. Her first fans were her close girlfriends, and her stories were a hit among them. They, along with her family, enthusiastically encouraged her love for writing.
Alice now lives in Miami with her wonderful, hunky husband. The beach is her all-time favorite place to relax with her laptop and write. When she needs a break from writing (and when no one’s looking) she loves thumbing through celebrity gossip magazines. It’s her guilty pleasure.
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COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Alice Ward
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.