Three dots.
Parker: Eyes open. Not pretending to sleep to avoid people.
A smile tugsat my mouth.
Me: I have a regular job that starts at nine. But yes, my eyes are open.
Parker: It’s Monday, which is my off day, if you remember. That was the day we went ice skating. I need to see you.
Me: But I thought you still have football things.
Parker: I do. Film. PT, but I can move them.
My stomach dips.
Me: Why would you do that?
There’s a pause. Longer than usual.
Parker: Because I want to take you to breakfast.
I suck in a deep breath.
Parker: A real one. Not a-you-showed-up-and-I-fed-you situation.
A real date? I stare at the screen.
Me: Are you asking me on a date?
Parker: I am.
Simple and steady.
My heart picks up.
Me: It’s a terrible idea.
Parker: Live a little. It’s eggs and bacon. You in?
My lids flutter shut. Because I want to. I want to more than anything.
Me: I guess breakfast is safer than dinner.
I hit send too fast and it sounds sexual like I can’t keep my hands off him at night. Which I can’t. I can’t even keep my hands off myself thinking about how he unravels me from my core.
Parker: I’ll take it. Pick you up in thirty minutes. And reschedule your nine o’clock appointment. Don’t argue. You’ll be happy you did.
Me: I’ll see how the date goes.
Men like Parker need to be kept on their toes, or at least that’s my opinion.
I scurry to shower, throw on some buttery-soft lounge pants and a V-neck sweatshirt that hits midriff. My smallish waist is my best quality, and I want him to see it.
He picks me up in his Charger and takes me a half hour from the city to a small diner, Andy’s. It’s not flashy. Not trendy. The kind of breakfast spot that smells like coffee, cherry pie and the cleaning solution used to wipe downtables.
Andy’s is busy but not crowded. Sunlight spills through the blinds of the front windows, warming the tables and catching the mason jars of fresh flowers at each one.
It’s quaint. Normal.