Page 3 of Sugar Baby Mine

“I wish I could be more like him” – Eric Cooper

“Simply the best” – Mom

I resist an epic eye roll. He has a really nice smile despite the dumbass review bio.

So instead of giving in to my usual pattern, my finger slides to the right. Immediately the screen lights up saying I have a match, and surprise sinks heavily in my stomach.

Sam Paris is the kind of guy that I would look at and admire in the halls during high school but never actually exchange any words with. It was a matter of social hierarchy—and I was only middle class.

While looking through the pictures he’s posted to his account, I get a little notification of a new message through the app.

|Hey, beautiful.

Well, it’s a good start if anything. Perhaps a little quick on the draw.

Standing up, I type out a quick reply and turn to look at myself in the mirror, only to grimace at the state of my hair and pale cheeks. It makes the scattering of beauty marks on my cheeks and chin really stand out. I need to get outside, maybe get some actual vitamin D and some color to my skin. But there isn’t any time to change things now.

|Do you wanna meet me at Bar 41 off High Street tonight?

His response is immediate.

|For you? Anything, babe. Just say jump.

This time I can’t stave it off—my eyes roll a little too far back into my skull to be healthy. My fingers hover over the screen when his next message comes up.

|You dtf?

I squirm just a little, but that’s what this is, right? This is what I want? It’s highly unlikely that I’m going to meet my end all, be all in the few minutes of scrolling on Tinder as I sit in the bathroom, desperate to make good on my claim to Cora that I am, in fact, going out tonight. It’s just that—that I’m going out.

So why not get laid while I’m at it?

I send him the least sexy emoji there is—a thumbs up—and set the phone down after asking if meeting in an hour is good with him.

Stripping off my baggy t-shirt and pajama shorts, I step into the shower. With the hot water turned to scalding, I settle under the spray and hope it’ll at least give me some pink-faced freshness. Giving my hair a quick wash, I soap up the rest of my body and run a hand up and down my legs before deciding I don’t need to shave. He isn’t worth the use of my razor.

Wrapping a towel around myself, I stand in front of the mirror and run some leave-in conditioner through the ends of my hair before looking through every drawer in the vanity for my hair brush. I almost let out an annoyed screech before I catch the bright yellow sticky note in the lower right corner of the mirror that sayshair brushwith an arrow pointing down. Low and behold, it’s right there in the revolving caddy on the counter next to the lotion I always forget to put on.

I yank at my hair with the brush till my scalp burns. It’ll have to air dry because I can’t be bothered to blow it dry, even if it meansunruly waves. My roots are growing out beyond what looks good. I really need to get my hair touched up, but, you know,money. Blonde is a bitch to keep up. I watch the brush catch on the fading, black streaks woven in my hair and wonder if I should just go completely dark instead. It would certainly be something my mother would hate, but she wouldn’t even see it, so it isn’t worth switching it up.

My stomach growls—perhaps gummy bears weren’t a meal, after all—and I wonder if I can manage to get Sam to buy me something to eat along with a beer. I really fucking love cheese fries.

Dressed in a navy dress and nude wedges, I twirl in the mirror to check the length of the dress in the back and shrug. It’s a short walk to the bus stop down the block from our apartment, so I throw on my favorite cardigan to avoid the light chill in the autumn air that always raises goosebumps along my arms.

It takes nearly fifteen minutes for the next bus to arrive, and I think I could have just walked there, but in heels, I’ll cut as many corners as I can. I figure I’ll be about twenty minutes late by the time I get to the bar, which is the earliest I’ve been to something that isn’t work-related in a long time. Maybe he can just sweat a little while waiting for me.

At least that’s what I thought—until I get to the bar and can’t pick him out of the crowd. Checking our messages and his profile again, my brow furrows.Hell of a guy, for sure.

After ordering a beer at the bar, I sit on a stool and cross one leg tightly over the other, intent on taking up the least amount of space as possible. Taking a long pull from the frosted glass the bartender set in front of me, I can’t help but let out a little hum of satisfaction. At least I’m out of the house, which in itself is something of a miracle.

When my beer is half gone, there’s a gentle hand on my shoulder that startles me into looking up over my shoulder.

“Emme?”

His smile is even better in person.

“Sam?” I ask, taking in the Ralph Lauren polo and the entirely overwhelming scent of his cologne.

His hand slides down the curve of my arm to touch my wrist where it’s resting on my thigh. My scalp starts to get all tingly when he apologizes for running late, the sound of his voice smooth and charming. It has me eager for him to whisper directly into my ear.

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