Page 43 of Dear Rosie

But then, in the light of day, I remember all the reasons why it’s a bad idea.

There’s too much history.

Too many bad days in the last twenty-five years to even try to answer when he undoubtedly asks how I’ve been.

Too much at stake.

I can’t risk all that heartache over a fling.

And a fling is all it would be because we don’t even know each other anymore.

It’s been too long.

And Nathan didn’t just move away to have a normal life. He went on to become a famous football player. He’s retired now, sure, but he’s famous, nonetheless.

Hell, the man has been on the cover of magazines. In his underwear.

I eye my nightstand, then shake my head.

My apartment still reeks of smoke from my failed tarts. I do not have time to play with my silicone boyfriend.

Grumbling over the way I have the worst luck, I shrug off my robe and toss it onto my bed.

Then I just stand there, naked, with my feet planted wide and my arms straight out at my sides while my hair drips down my back.

My shower was supposed to be a quick rinse off, but then I decided to wash my hair, and I lost track of time.

Now I’m sweaty again, and I want to get back in the shower, but I have a new batch of tarts to make.

Thankfully my ceiling fan is spinning at its max, and the breeze is helping to cool me down.

Just another glorious day in my life.

And it’s then, as I stand there, like a chubby, naked starfish, that my phone starts to ring.

In the kitchen.

I grind my teeth.

I’d love to ignore it, but as a business owner, I can’t do that. It’s always easier to answer the phone than to try to call back and catch someone.

So, in nothing but my skin, I hurry back to my kitchen.

My phone is on the small island, and I lunge for it.

As I lift it to my face, I remember my patio is wide open and the apartment building across the street is occupied.

Hitting answer, I crouch behind the island.

The movement parts my parts, and my vagina is blasted with cold air from the floor vent below me.

I force a smile into my voice. “This is Rosalyn.”

“Uh, hi,” an unfamiliar male replies. “You’re the caterer, right?”

“Yes.” I shift so my knees are together, feeling weird talking to this stranger while completely nude.

“Cool.” The voice is definitely young. “I’m, um, Blake, and I’m in charge of our company picnic, and I wanted to see if you could cater it.”

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