Page 68 of Fabulous Filthy Friend

RACHEL

I can’t believe I’m really doing this.

With a shaky hand, I brush over my silky blouse and look down at myself.

You look good, Rach. Relax.

Actually, I look better than good. I look smoking hot. Hotter than any kindergarten teacher should. Black leather leggings hug my curves like they’re painted on, and the deep V of my shirt shows more cleavage than I would normally allow. But tonight felt like a going-all-out night.

If I’m going to meet a total stranger who I’ve jerked off with, I might as well be the fun and flirty Rachel instead of the conservative teacher version I have to be during most of the time. Then again, maybe dressing like this will make him think I’m open to exploring what we did online in person. And I am nowhere near ready to say yes to that.

Yet.

You’re just having a drink.

It’s not like you’re gonna walk in and have sex right here at the restaurant.

Although…if I really think about it, that might be kind of hot, actually. The whole public sex thing. I’ve never tried it, mostly because if I ever got caught, my job and career would go down the toilet so fast, it would make my head spin. But the idea of being that naughty. Of the possibility of someone seeing us. I can’t deny it sends a shiver of anticipation and warmth through my body.

And, if anyone would be up for it, it’s probably HRD4U.

Jesus, I don’t even know his real name.

I’m walking in to meet with him—maybe…probably for sex, eventually—and I don’t even know the guy’s name.

I am crazy.

But it would be rude to turn back now and stand him up. And like I’ve told myself a thousand times since our “chat” last night, this is just a drink. Either of us can walk away with no hard feelings. Yet no matter how many times I remind myself of that, my heart won’t stop racing, and the shaky breath I take doesn’t do anything to calm my nerves.

How do people do this?

Meet up for drinks or more with perfect strangers?

I shove through the door into The Shed with that question still lingering. A cacophony surrounds me—the clang of silverware, the barrage of voices—people laughing, joking, having a good time.

My stomach churns.

Ugh. I might throw up.

I thought I had mentally prepared myself for this, but it’s completely new territory. With another deep breath, I scan the small group of people waiting for a table but don’t see anyone in a blue button-down.

Maybe he’s running late.

My watch reads 5:55, so maybe I’m early. Or, he might have arrived even earlier and already gotten us a table. I guess we never talked about that.

This was a little ill-planned. A rushed idea neither of us really thought through. Spur of the moment. But if I had actually had time to sit and consider it, I may not have even agreed.

I might still be sitting at home on a Saturday night feeling sorry for myself instead of being here.

Should I walk through and see if he’s here?

Typically, if I arrive somewhere early, I’ll grab a drink at the bar, so that’s the most logical place to start. I make my way toward the long, dark wooden bar, brushing past groups of people standing around with drinks and chatting, and freeze.

Someone with a very familiar profile sits on a stool at the end of the bar.

Holy shit.

What the hell is Flynn doing here?

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