Page 18 of Operation Annulment
I might have assumed he was blowing me off with the work excuse if it weren’t for the daily texts. And these aren’t just any texts—no.
These are texts that no self-respecting woman should respond to, texts that leave me aching and take everything I thought I knew about relationships and turn it upside down.
Nate: I can’t get you out of my mind, Katy girl. I’ve got to see you again soon. The things I’ve got planned for that mouth of yours…
I blush just thinking about them before going back to rowing with a frustrated growl. All the pent-up sexual tension is taking a toll on my mental state, leaving me in a perpetual state of wanting that all the vibrators in the world can’t fix.
Did I join my sister’s gym to spend more time with her? Absolutely.Do I scan the parking lot whenever I come, hoping to spot Nate’s car? No comment.
Dakota’s gone completely still on her machine, hands gripping the cables while she stares into space.
“Earth to Dakota,” I sing when she shows no signs of snapping out of her stupor anytime soon. “What happened to ‘We’re rowing until our arms fall off?’”
She jerks and pulls herself forward before stopping again. “Why are we doing this to ourselves?”
I couldn’t even begin to guess. Rowing on a machine is an incredibly dull workout.
“Agree. Pancake time?” I suggest with a hopeful grin.
She grabs my calf as I move to stand, tugging me back down. “No. I mean, why are we chasing after men who clearly aren’t interested? I’ve thrown myself at Zane for the past few weeks, and he politely turns me down each time. You’re hung up on a man who has an unhealthy obsession with his ex-wife. Why?”
My heart drops down to the rubbery mat at my feet. I’ve tried to accept that he’s busy with work, but the truth has been staring me in the face the entire time. His ex is still involved in his life to some degree—he admitted as much at dinner—and I’d bet my next paycheck she’s the reason we haven’t gone out again.
Well, maybe not my entire paycheck, but, like, a couple of dollars.
Nate may be texting me daily, but I don’t know him. Not really, anyway. I know his work is demanding, but not what he actually does. I know he’s a damn good kisser, but not why he’s kept in contact with the woman who broke his heart. And the worst part is, he seems perfectly content to keep it that way.
I swallow past the sudden dryness in my mouth as the universe provides a much-needed cosmic tit slap to the face.
“You’re right—why should we wait around night after night, just hoping they’ll show up and take us roughly against the wall while telling us what a dirty, dirty girl we are? If they can’t see what’s in front of them, then screw them! You and I are going out for drinks,and they can sit at home, waiting for us to call. But we won’t because we’ll be out, drinking alcohol and meeting new men—better men.” I clear my throat, aware I said much more than I meant to.
Dakota’s eyebrows are hovering near her hairline. “Wait—that’s not exactly what I was?—”
“Awesome,” I interject, reaching for my water bottle. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
And if this doesn’t work, I’ll recruit Jeremy to take my mind off Nate.
I’m getting desperate here.
“This article says tequila shots are the best way to forget your troubles.”
“Seriously?” Dakota asks, adjusting her glasses as she leans over to peer at my phone screen. “That seems a little, I don’t know, hardcore for our first time. I was thinking more along the lines of Coors Light or maybe one of those wine spritzer things.”
“It’s not our first time,” I argue, despite agreeing with her logic. “We’ve had drinks before.”
“A glass of champagne at weddings doesn’t count,” she mutters while tugging at the top of the strapless dress I insisted she wear. “Don’t text Zane back. Don’t wear the Deadpool shirt and jeans. I gotta be honest here. So far, I’m not loving ‘Girl’s Night.’ I sort of envisioned something a little more—I dunno—fun.”
That makes two of us.
Nate: Okay, I’m starting to worry. Text me back… please.
I gnaw at my thumbnail before placing my phone face-down on the bar.
Not tonight, Mr. Davis. Not tonight.
“What’ll it be, ladies,” the bartender asks, his eyes dropping to the deep v of my dress.
I plant the toes of my heels on the footrail beneath the bar and lean across, giving him an even better view. “We’re thinking of tequila shots,” I say, toying with the ends of one of my curls. “But I might need a few pointers.”
