Page 54 of Someone to Have
15
TAYLOR
The message an hourafter I get home.
Do you have plans tonight?
Although it’s a Colorado area code, I don’t recognize the number. Outside, it’s dark with the streetlights casting shadows over the snow-covered lawn in front of the building. I glance at the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of me, then run a hand over my baggy sweatpants. They’ve been my favorites since high school and boast more than one hole I’ve mended with my minimal sewing skills. I give myself a mental head shake.
Am I so desperate for connection that I’m going to be one of those people who answers a random text to get drawn in by some scammer or catfishing scheme?
Me: Who is this?
Eric.
Oh. That’s…unexpected. It sends a strange ripple ofawareness across my skin. Did my brother give him my number? I can’t imagine?—
My phone dings again.
Eric: I got your number from Rhett. Do you have plans?
Me: Not really.
Eric: Want to grab dinner?
My heart trips, stumbling over the possibility that he’s asking me out on a date. Or does he figure I’m around and he doesn’t know anybody else?
Eric: Stop overthinking. It’s food. I know you like to eat.
Rude. But not untrue.
Me: What time?
A second later, there’s a loud rap on my door. My phone pings.
Eric: Now.
I pad to the door and open it. “Ever hear of giving a person a little advanced notice?”
“I’m hungry,” he says as an explanation. His hand is resting on the overhead door frame. He’s so tall it barely feels like he has to reach for it. He looks like he belongs there, taking up space in my world. I can’t see his muscles straining under the thick fabric of his canvas coat, but I know they’re there. My body senses it too. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and my lady parts stand on tiptoe like they’re about to start twerking to get his attention.
“I need a few minutes.” Why does it sound like I’m panting? Stop freaking out, I command myself. “I’m not dressed.”
His gaze slides over me. “You’re dressed. I’d notice if you weren’t.”
He says it casually, but his eyes glimmer just enough to make me blush.
“Dressed in something besides ratty sweatpants and a flannel.”
“You look good in flannel.”
“Are you messing with me?”
The corner of his mouth kicks up, and he steps inside my apartment without being invited. I automatically move back because I’m not sure those trembling lady parts could handle it if he touched me, even accidentally. And who knows what could happen if he did it on purpose again?
“Think of it as part of the coaching package,” he says. “Confident people take compliments. What are you going to do when some guy at the theater says you look nice in your…?” He trails off, smirking. “Costume.”
“Stutter and run away?” I suggest, not at all sarcastically.
