Page 8 of Mister Sexy Pants

That’s him. “Mister Dessert,” I call out.

But he keeps walking because . . . earbuds.

Damn earbuds.

He’s probably listening to a baking podcast about making delicious cake for the woman you can’t stop thinking about. I try to wave too, but he doesn’t look up.

Le sigh.

Then he passes me, and I get a back view for the first time.

Oh. My. Stars.

Did I just become an ass woman?

I think so.

I can’t look away from his booty. My eyes are drawn to his perfect tush, and his fantastic pants—trim, checked, blue. They’re fashionable and such a welcome change from what most men wear—baggy, boring cargo shorts or too-loose jeans or, barf, khakis. “I shall call him Mister Sexy Pants,” I declare, as he turns into a nearby building.

I don’t feel so silly anymore. I feel . . . inspired. I break out my phone and dictate my column.

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