That he knows just the trick to make me into his perfect type of woman.
The Creep: I’m very good at painting nails, you know
I have a very steady hand.
I can’t wait to paint yours.
A little shiver runs through me.I can’t quite put my finger on it. His words remind me of a crime show I recently watched where the killer painted the fingernails and toenails of his victims each a different color. I shake it off. Clearly, I’ve been watching way too much trash TV if a minor comment about my own fingernails has me thinking of that.
I glance down at them. I don’t bite them anymore, but I do have a tendency to pick at them when I’m nervous or stressed, and the move to a new city has definitely had me in that state. A few of them are jagged, and the pink nail polish I applied a couple of weeks ago has well and truly started to wear. There are spots where it’s fully worn away. No wonder he noticed.
He’s just trying to help me to be my best self.
But he’s eyeing me in a way that seems.. I don’t know… like I’m a doll that he wants to dress up or something.
It’s not a look I’ve seen before.
Sure, I’ve had plenty of guys stare at me in that hungry way that means they want to fuck. Where they’re barely containing their lust-filled drool.
And he’s kind of doing that, but this is different somehow.
The Present
Based on his dating app pictures—angled selfies and slightly awkward poses, I figure there’s a ninety-eight percent chance that Timmy’s a few inches shorter than me. I generally do prefer tallerguys, as superficial as it sounds. And I have a feeling that this guy will lean heavily on personality rather than height.
So when this six-foot-two guy appears at my side, I almost lose my shit. His profile was so detailed, and yet somehow he missed this important information.
And wow—he’s adorable. That easy grin, the glimmer of humor in his sparkling eyes, and the way his messy, sun-bleached hair sits just right under his cap—he screams effortless surfer charm. There’s an energy, a sense of ease about him, like someone who belongs to the ocean, radiating warmth and carefree vibes.
His voice is deep, smooth and surfery, with just the right touch of mischief that makes me want to hear everything he has to say. I have to stop myself from swooning.
I feel like I’ve been transported to one of those perfect tropical island sunset scenes where everything is mellow and golden, and life feels simple.
“You look even better than your photos,” he says, flashing that cheeky grin again. I swear my knees wobble.
He’s so attentive, making solid eye contact. As a high-functioning autistic person, my ex had real trouble making and maintaining eye contact, so Timmy’s attention feels extra intense.
We chat easily as I enjoy my second cocktail, the sweet and tart pineapple notes mingling with the buzz of excitement that’s starting to hum inside me. He nurses a dragon fruit cider, swirling the can lazily between his large hands.
“You know,” he says, “I actually designed packaging for this cider company.”
He pulls out his phone and shows me a vibrant design—a mix of swirling waves, oranges and teals, and bold typography. “They didn’t end up using it, though. Creative differences.”
“Oh wow! You’re really talented!” I exclaim, genuinely impressed.
I knew he’d studied graphic design, but up until now, he’d mainly talked about his condo renovation work and vehicle detailing.
To me, being creative as an artist is one of the sexiest things.
There’s something magnetic about the way he lights up whentalking about his art. He tells me about winning an art school contest, and how his professors believed he had endless potential.
We’re two artists, two creators vibing over our shared passion—his art and my books—and it feels electric. The way he listens, really listens, makes me feel seen. His curiosity is genuine.
He asks about my writing process, plots, characters, what I’m working on now, my backlist, what I love about writing, my cover designs. I pull up a few of my covers and he looks at me like I’m his new favorite person. I get the rare thrill that my work actually matters to someone else.
“I think it’s soooo cool that you’re a writer,” he says, his grin infectious. “Anddark romance? That’s sexy as hell.”
Given my ex’s total lack of interest in my writing, this kind of attention makes me feel like I’m winning the lottery. I’ve spent so long craving this kind of connection—someone who not only likes me but also finds my passion for my writing attractive.