Page 1 of Undone, Love Times Three

One

Sylvie

The small café next door to the library is busy with only a couple of spare tables. Looking around, I don’t see any guys sitting alone, so figure I’ve arrived first. My palms are sweating and despite using a ton of deodorant, my armpits feel a little damp.

Way to make a good impression on a first date. Do I have time to go to the bathroom and freshen up? What if I do and he thinks I’m not coming and leaves? The alternative is meeting him with sweaty hands. Oh God. Why am I doing this to myself?

Because it’s time.

That is what everyone has been telling me. It’s what I’ve been telling myself for a couple of years now. I’ve just never got around to it. I’m too busy, my career comes first, men are a pain in the ass. All valid reasons.

But, my career doesn’t keep me warm at night. It isn’t there to hold me when I’ve had a crappy day. To make me dinner, take me out dancing. Or… that other stuff. The sex stuff.

And it doesn’t buy me flowers and chocolates on Valentine’s Day. Even when I’m surrounded by flowers, it’s not the same as someone buying them for you.

God, when was the last time I had sex? I’ll never admit I can recall down to the minute when someone last peeled my panties off me and brought me to the heights every woman dreams of.

Although it wasn’t memorable. It’s only when you go without sex for so long that you remember when and where it last happened. Even when it wasn’t that good.

We were clinging on to something that was no longer there. Doing that thing where you think intimacy can save a relationship.

Enough of that. He belongs in the past. It’s time to focus on the present. And that I need to break this dry spell. I’m not getting any younger after all. Let’s just say I’m just shy of half a decade away from the big four-oh and leave it at that.

Dating apps are a nightmare. I tried three and hated every single one of them. They were full of men fishing for sex, some of them married. I’ve never got past the chatting on the app stage. Always chickening out when men suggested we meet. Especially if there had been any flirty banter.

I’m not a prude, but I have a very good radar for bullshit. It was obvious when guys just wanted sex.

Then, my friend told me about this new dating app. It’s not a traditional dating app. There are no pictures, and you only get one hour to talk before you agree to meet or not.

It’s kind of risky and I freaked out about it, but they have such excellent reviews and a high success rate. The joining up process was long. Lots of checks and questionnaires. I figure if someone got to where they wanted to chat, they had to be serious. No one looking for a fuck buddy would go through such a rigorous application.

Okay, I’ve been standing here like an idiot for about five minutes now, far too long to be normal.

Surreptitiously wiping my palms on my jacket, I go to find a table. Maybe we should have set up some kind of signal to recognize one another. Like a rose on my lapel, or a book on the table? I’ve watched far too many romance movies.

Fear grips me now. What if he doesn’t show up? Worse still, what if he does, sees me, and leaves?

I’m not a troll. It’s hard to objectively score yourself, though. Maybe I’m a seven or eight? I look after my appearance, blind date pits notwithstanding. My dark brown hair is curled and bouncy, my make-up neutral but classic, and I’m wearing a knit dress with knee boots and a belted blazer. Casual, but not too casual.

Someone stops near the table, and I look up.

Holy shit. My jaw drops, my mouth goes dry.Thisis not him.

This guy is a twelve. He’s perfect. His hair is dark, all wind tousled and curling at his nape. He has the perfect amount of stubble. You know, the kind that feels good between your thighs without scratching the hell out of your skin?

His eyes are like two dark pools, the pupil blending into his irises. And his lashes, man, I’d kill for those, long, curled and dark. He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans and is carrying a rose.

More like twisting it, the stem has snapped near the end. That makes my heart weep a little.

He glances down at me as he pauses, frowns, and looks around again.

My heart plummets. He doesn’t like me. Oh God. I’m going to puke.

“Alison?”

“Uh,” my cheeks flame and I’m speechless for a moment. Oh no, this isn’t Henry, the man I agreed to meet. We at least shared our names in our one-hour chat. Mine is most definitely not Alison.

This is a huge mix-up.

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