Page 52 of How to Date a Younger Man
I pick up my phone to text her, because apparently I’m still the same thirsty fuckboy I was back in college. “Love struck,” Kristen would say. And for once, I don’t think I’d argue with her.
WYD?
I click SEND and lean back in my swivel chair in my home office, rocking aimlessly from side to side.
Without my permission, my brain hurtles me back into memories of that night with Layne. The way that dress . . . was it lace? Whatever, it was fucking gorgeous on her. Then that beautiful smirk on her face that I couldn’t help but kiss, right before I left her in the bathroom. I’ve never taken part in such a well-executed quickie before.
I chuckle at the thought, my chest warming. Then my phone buzzes with her response.
I think you just butt texted me.
I snort. My thumbs fly across the screen of my phone with the ease of a millennial who grew up learning how to text before learning how to pay a phone bill.
It’s harder to butt text on a smartphone than you’d think. It’s an abbreviation.
This time, the response is immediate.
I’m so old. Would it kill you to type a sentence for the sake of the elderly community?
I smirk. Layne is a lot funnier than she gives herself credit for.
Only if u stop calling yourself old. What are you doing on this fine day, Layne?
My phone buzzes almost instantly with her response.
I’m at work. Like I am every Monday.
Okay, I should have guessed that. I deserve the sass she’s dealing. I wonder if she’s having a bad day.
Can I come visit you?
I toss my phone back and forth between my ink-stained hands, waiting for Layne to bicker internally with herself before she ultimately decides that she does want me to visit her and improve her Monday. My phone buzzes, and I unlock my phone hurriedly.
Only if you bring dinner. I’ll be working late tonight.
I can’t help it . . . I grin. I have the makings for pasta fra diavolo, a meal I’ve been itching to make for someone special for a while now. Considering Layne is the only someone special I’ve had for years, this particular meal is long overdue.
You got it, beautiful.
The thin drafting paper on my desk ruffles softly as I breeze my way to the kitchen. I have less than two hours before the end of the workday, the ideal moment for me to show up with piping-hot dinner for her. God, I can’t wait to see her face when I bring a full-on picnic to her office.
First, I need to double-check that I have all the ingredients. I rummage through my well-stocked cabinets for the necessities: olive oil, basil, oregano, parsley. It’s all here. Maybe I’m still a frat boy in some ways—well, mostly my sense of humor—but I sure as hell don’t have the kitchen of a college kid. I keep my fridge full of fresh ingredients and shop for groceries a couple of times a week.
I’m relieved to find some remaining cloves of garlic, fresh and fragrant, nestled away in my produce drawer. Deep in the back of my freezer, I find the ropes of Italian sausage I purchased from the local deli last week.
An hour’s work in the kitchen results in a damn good-looking meal. And the smell . . . well, the heady scent of wine plus the sharp scents of garlic and onion have my mouth watering.
I pack away the pasta in glass containers, and add a bottle of pinot noir, looking around to see if I’ve forgotten anything. I decide to pick up a warm loaf of Italian bread from the corner bakery, and preemptively pack a stick of butter.
With about a half hour before the end of the workday, I make my way to the train, dinner arranged neatly in the satchel slung over my shoulder.
In twenty minutes, I’m back where my fascination with this woman all started, standing at the entrance of the chrome-and-glass building that houses Anderson and Associates. This time, I’m carrying a picnic, not a cumbersome massage table. The moment would only be a perfect full circle if I somehow managed to rub my hands all over Layne’s naked back again.
Here’s to hoping.
When I make my way to the front desk, Layne’s assistant, Sabrina, is gathering her coat and purse. She meets my eyes with a smile and gives me permission to enter with a sweep of her arm.
I tap my knuckles against the door softly before turning the knob. “Room service.”
Layne is facing her computer, her eyes focused on the screen. She looks stressed, and something inside me clenches.
“Hey,” she says, her voice hoarse from lack of use, making me wonder if she’s been holed up in her office all day.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I say, closing the door softly behind me. “You hanging in there?”
