Page 21 of Catfish

So to those not privy to the Google Voice app, take notes.

With this app, you can pick from a list of phone numbers to call or text with. Cool thing about this app is that the "new" phone number links to your real one. So anytime a message or phone call comes through, it rings to my real number, but people think that my "new" number is my phone number. No one would ever know. And my real number is never given out and stays unknown.

Now, back to the violet-eyed vixen who just texted me.

It’s been over thirty-six hours since we chatted. I didn’t text her like a loser with no friends and gave her some space.

What’s the point anyways?

The jury is still out on why the hell I even went through with getting her number.

This wasn’t going to work, we weren’t going to meet, especially with all the responsibilities and press I was going to be doing in the next few months.

Add in my family bullshit, and she definitely would need to stay clear of me for her own sanity.

I skim her words, already thinking of a way to slowly start to break this—whatever this was—off.

Even if it helped me cling to some of my sanity while giving me something else to think about, I don’t want to be “that” guy. The fucking tool that I’m sure she’s experienced once in her life or weekly.

At least I could save her that.

Reagan: New York Yankees: 2. Boston Red Sox: 4.

I scoff out loud, a grin playing off my lips.

Me: What do you want, a cookie for your win?

Reagan: Yes, please. White chocolate macadamia nut.

Me: Smartass.

Reagan: Why, yes, I am. I picked the winning team, didn’t I?

Me: It was one game, Sox, calm yourself.

“There is a tree planting in Harper Square on Tuesday, Wade,” Em advises. “A lot of families will be out there, did you want me to book it for you?”

I don’t look up from my screen, hammering at my keyboard. “That’d be fine.”

Me: Next game is tonight, double or nothing?

Reagan: You’re on.

Me: Good luck.

Reagan: Don’t need it. What’s your request if you win, Yank?

An inaudible hum leaves my throat.

I want her.

I want her legs wrapped around my head while I lick and taste her pussy. My name off her velvet-looking lips when I send her over the edge more times than she’s ever had with anyone else.

That’d be a goal I’d love to work towards.

Me: What’s off-limits?

"Who are you yapping at?" My best friend tries to lean over my seat to look, but I angle my phone away.

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