Page 11 of Something Forever

Step one: get married

Step one: meet a man who is not insane (difficult)

Step two: get married

Pushing down the urge to stop there, I finish my list with a grimace.

Step three: business plan for the salon

Step four: find location

Step five: think of trendy name

I put the list away when my food arrives and eat in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder every five minutes, wondering if he will make an appearance. But there’s nothing. Not even a peep from his side of the apartment. Once I finish eating, I try to keep working on the list, but it suddenly looks pathetic. It feels like my brain is devoid of any good ideas, and the list of potential names for the salon is downright criminal. Hair Haus? I hate myself for even writing that down.

Instead, I decide to download Hinge and make a profile, spending way too long trying to come up with responses to the prompts.

What I’m looking for? A fake husband.

You should *not* go out with me if… you don’t want to get married.

All I ask is that you… marry me.

That’s how I fall asleep: with my phone in my hand, open to a photo of a man holding a fish.

I wake to complete darkness, my throat dry and itchy. Checking the time, I realize it’s almost three in the morning. I reach over for my water and find it empty. With a sigh, I roll out of bed and trudge into the kitchen. The light from the fridge is blinding as I pour from the Britta. I chug it down in three gulps, then pour another glass and close the fridge.

I hear something, and I turn around.

“Ahh!” The scream bursts out of me when I see the silhouette of a man in my kitchen. I stumble backwards and flip on the light switch, the fluorescent bulb glaring as I blink furiously, trying to take in the scene in front of me.

“Christ, that’s bright,” the man says.

Holy hell.

He’s hot.

Like, really hot.

He’s shirtless, standing in nothing but his boxer briefs, his rich brown hair tussled in a mess on his head. Dark tattooed lines cover his broad chest and toned arms, and boy is there a lot to cover. His jawline is sharp, and he’s scrubbing his scruffy beard with his very… large… hand. Usually I’m more into a cleaned up, preppy sort of guy; my ex was that type; but something about this man’s rugged, messy look has my nerve endings tingling.

I need to get laid, like, yesterday.

“Um. Hi?” I squeak.

He eyes me, his dark eyes pinning me in place as he scans me from head to toe. His gaze is intense and causes all sorts of unexpected somersaults in my stomach.

“Hi,” he replies, brushing past me towards the fridge. He pulls out a carton of orange juice — my carton of orange juice, actually — and takes a long pull. Straight from the bottle.

“Is that my orange juice?” I ask.

He turns and finally pulls the jug away from his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He doesn’t say anything as he puts it back in the fridge and closes the door.

“Well?” I prompt him, getting frustrated by his brick wall demeanor.

He just shrugs.

“Night,” he says, pushing off the counter and heading back towards his bedroom. I hate myself for the way my gaze watches him go, tracing the muscular lines of his back.

---