I wait. I tap my fingers over the table. I keep my expression as affective as I possibly can. “Oh, okay.”
He takes another sip of his coffee. That sexy smirk of his deepens and I'll be damned if he doesn't look like a lion waiting in the African bush to pounce on unsuspecting prey. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks.
“I’ve got plans,” I lie.
“What about Saturday?”
Sighing, I shove my laptop back in its case, and as hard as it is for me to stand from the table and pretend I’m not interested in him, I know I must. “Depends…”
He pushes his chair back, yanks on Cobain’s leash, and follows me to the exit. “I’ll take you out for drinks. There’s this really chill bar—the Lazy Iguana.”
I want to roll my eyes. That sounds like such a little douche bar, one pricks would go to, but I smile because I want him to like me. “Sure,” I say as I push the door open.
“Sure?” he laughs, rubbing his hand over the back of his head, making a mess of his thick brown hair.
“Yep. Sure.” We walk for a moment in silence. My heart hums in my chest and my lips keep trying to pull into a smile, but I won’t let them.
“I like your accent. Where are you from?” he asks.
“Tennessee.”
“Cool.”
God, he’s so amateur to be such a ladies man. I stop in front of 2140 Water Street. “So,” I say, “I guess Facebook me for detail about our drinks. Marisa Dawson, one ‘s’.” I spin around, swishing my hips as I walk along the sidewalk to the entrance of the building.
I glance through the glass doors and he’s still on the sidewalk, staring at his phone. A pleased smile settles across my lips although my insides are buzzing with a type of euphoria I haven’t felt in years. Shortly after I get inside my apartment, my phone dings with a notification: Author Justin Wild has sent you a friend request. As hard as it is, I wait a good three hours before I accept his friend request. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year watching his Tweets, his public Facebook status updates, the comments…Justin Wild is a player through and through, a womanizer. And although I know this game is risky, today proved what I figured it would…that we belong together.
Love, like any game of strategy requires patience and a certain skill level. You rush a move and you fuck up. And I can’t fuck up.
