Bear:If your scowl is half as cute as I imagine, I'm in trouble.
Okay, that one makes me blush. Heat creeps up my neck, and I glance around to make sure no one's paying attention. Everyone's too busy typing or talking on their headsets. No one notices me melting into my office chair.
This is not professional. I barely know him. I don't even know his real name. Bear. Who calls their son that? It's clearly a nickname, and the story behind it was adorable enough to make me save his contact as "Bear ??" in my phone.
Still, I shouldn't be texting a stranger in the middle of my workday. But I can't help it. Every message feels like a spark. Every teasing reply makes my stomach flutter.
Me:Do you flirt with all the women your mom picks out for you?
Bear:Only the ones who steal my attention and don't give it back.
Oh.
Okay.
I lean back in my chair, staring at that message for a second longer than I should. It's just words on a screen. Harmless banter. But it feels like more. There's something about him. A steady confidence that doesn't feel rehearsed. I try to picture his face, but all I see is the idea of him. A cowboy with rough hands and a gentle voice.
Still, curiosity gnaws at me. Who is Bear really? I've caught myself more than once hovering over the search bar, tempted to plug in his number or see if I can find him on social media. Would he even be there? What if I asked for a photo? Just asimple one, to satisfy the itch in my brain. But I haven't. Because deep down, I think I like not knowing. I like the mystery. And I'm not ready to risk ruining the little magic we've built through texts. Not yet.
Because of the bad experience with one guy I've dated since Emma's dad, I wonder how many other women his mom has sent his way. How many women he’s dating. Flirting with. He seems attentive and remembers even the little things. But the feelings I'm experiencing are strong for a guy I haven't met in person, and don't know his real name.
It is Walker Lake. I know I could ask around, but really... I'm not ready to shatter the illusion just yet to find out he's the town recluse or some washed-up cowboy with a beer belly who never leaves his house.
A buzz pulls me out of the daydream.
Bear:You're thinking too hard. Dangerous habit.
Me:And how would you know that?
Bear:I've got a good imagination. Bet you're chewing your lip right now.
Me:Stop it.
Bear:Make me.
My fingers hover over the screen, I could end this. Tell him it's inappropriate. That I have too much going on. That I'm not looking for anything, especially not from a cowboy who's probably too handsome and too unavailable for his own good.
Instead, I type:
Me:Do you always win your little text wars?
Bear:Only against worthy opponents.
I laugh again, softer this time. God help me, this is dangerous. But it's been so long since I let myself have something that felt like this. Something light. Playful. Not about survival or money or work. Just two people teasing each other across a digital thread, pretending the real world isn't waiting right outside the screen.
My phone buzzes again.
Bear:What's the weirdest thing on your desk right now?
I glance around. "Hmm."
Me:A tiny purple stapler shaped like a cat.
Bear:That sounds terrifying. I'm impressed.
Me:What about you? What's on your desk?
Bear:I'm currently sitting on a hay bale eating an apple. Does that count?