Page 37 of How to Date a Younger Man
I shoot her a quick text letting her know that I’ll be there. She responds with a bunch of excited emojis, and I can practically hear her squealing with delight.
It’s not like I turn down all of her invitations to go out with our friends but it has been a while since I’ve had a fun night out. And that definitely includes going home with some rando from the bar.
With only a couple of hours before I need to leave, I figure I’d better start getting ready now. I used to love this part of going out, the hours spent primping and priming, making yourself as smooth and pretty as possible before going out for the night. Now, with my goals a bit more focused than they used to be, I’m inclined to take a more clinical approach to the whole process, optimizing the way I look and smell so I’m as desirable as possible without looking like a total one-night stand. I’m looking for a bit more longevity now that I’m no longer in my twenties.
This new process includes a lot of the same things as before—washing my body with a lightly scented bodywash, shaving practically every surface of my skin, exfoliating, using my best moisturizer, putting on my good underwear, blow-drying my hair and curling it into loose waves, and applying a fresh, slightly less natural than usual face of makeup. Heck, I even decide to match my bra to my panties—and by that, I mean they’re both black. I can’t remember the last time I bought a matching set of lingerie.
After dabbing a soft pink shade of lipstick onto my lips, I take a step back from the full-length mirror to take it all in.
I went with a knee-length, formfitting maroon dress I haven’t worn in years, which, honestly, fits way better than I remember. The fabric is tight and thick enough that I don’t feel like I need to wear any shapewear underneath, thank God. I’m all for the miracle of Spanx, but it’s nice to be able to breathe too.
Stepping into a pair of strappy black heels, I call an Uber, checking my texts to make sure Kristen hasn’t yelled at me for being late yet. Thankfully, she’s running a little late too, but she assures me that the group is already there.
I check my reflection one last time before walking out the door, silently pleased with how my dark waves fall around my cleavage—and how my ass looks in this dress, if I’m being honest. If I were a guy, I’d want to take the girl in the mirror home. She looks confident, refined, and sexy as hell. A sly smile sneaks across my lips as my phone dings, letting me know the Uber driver is here.
I give the girl in the mirror a wink before walking out the door. Who knows, maybe tonight is the night she’ll meet someone. Someone who’ll make her feel as sexy and desirable and worthy of her dreams as she wants to be.
After all, it’s doctor’s orders.
12
* * *
GRIFFIN
This bar is noisy as hell, but I can’t say that’s a bad thing. I have to lean down so Layne’s lips are brushing against my ear, just so I can hear her. And, fuck, if that isn’t fuel for every fantasy I keep returning to . . . you know the one. Of our naked bodies, finally entwined.
“You should really do therapy,” she yells before pulling another sip from the straw in her tequila sunrise.
Kristin and her new boyfriend are leaning over the bar, ordering their next round of drinks, while Layne and I kill some time at the old-fashioned jukebox. I lean against the metal and plastic along the side, browsing the songs for an oldie but goodie.
“What?” I ask, pretending not to hear her.
“You heard me,” she yells again.
The feel of her hot breath on my neck sends chills down my spine, straight to the growing tightness in my jeans. I close the space between us, so our faces are only inches apart. Her eyelids flutter at the proximity, and I meet her gaze with a smirk. I know I affect her, even if she pretends I don’t. Layne tries to pretend it didn’t, but something changed between us after that camping trip. It’s little things, like the way her gaze lingers on me too long, or how she pretends not to be affected when we’re standing close like this.
“What do you want to listen to?” I ask, tapping on the glass of the jukebox.
“You’re deflecting,” she says, but still leans over my arm to look at her options.
My fingers flex across the glass involuntarily as the fabric of her tight red dress brushes against my arm. “I like your dress. Did you learn that word from your therapist?” I ask her, my gaze wandering across her body.
