R: And they’ve got that kickass cafe. Five thirty?
M: Perfect. I think I’m going to skip story time tonight in favor of a cold shower.
R: I think I’m going to go for a bubble bath before bed. And before you start thinking that sounds sexy, I’ll have a charcoal mask on my face, cucumber slices on my eyes, and scrub on my lips. I’ve got a hot date I want to impress.
M: Guess I’ll have to brush my teeth then too.
R: G’night.
I take a shower and do a bit more work to calm down my jittery nerves. Still, as I lie down and try and get some sleep, it’s thoughts of Rachel and the stirrings she’s causing me to feel in my chest, in my brain, and yes, in my still half-hard cock, that are on my mind.
Suddenly, my phone dings . . . it’s her.
R: One last goodnight. You’ve been on my mind while I took my bath. How will I recognize you and you recognize me?
M: I’ll wear a blue tie.
R: I’ll wear a blue dress since it’ll look good with my hair.
Chapter 7
Riley
I’m nowhere near ‘big time’ as far as influencers go. In fact, sponsored posts make up less than a third of my monthly income. I still have to earn my money the old-fashioned way, driving traffic to my social media and getting percentage kickbacks on views, likes, and shares. But with my followers growing, that could change. More sponsorships—carefully cultivated ones, of course—can add name recognition to an online personality, leading new followers to a page like ants to a cake at a picnic.
Like this makeup from Joroast Cosmetics. All-organic, animal friendly . . . and so luscious and pretty that as I touch up my eyelashes, I feel sexy and feminine, exactly what I want to feel today.
And I need it. Because as excited as I am about meeting Mark for the first time in person, I’m also nervous.
What if I don’t meet his expectations?
What if he doesn’t meet mine?
What if he’s a psycho killer who’s going to leave my dead body by the river?
“Well, if that’s the case,” I tell my reflection as I cap my mascara and go hunting for the right shade of lipstick, “at least I’m going to be one fabulous looking corpse. What do you think, Raffy?”
Raffy, who has been perched on my queen-sized bed this whole time, watches me intently, probably wondering what I’m doing. He doesn’t even pick his head up from his fluffy paws, but he knows when a reaction is expected and gives me a half-hearted “Rowf!”
“Thanks, but I would like a few more details than that,” I tease, going over to rub behind his ears. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you, boy?”
Raffy affirms for me that yes, I do look cute and that yes, if I do end up abandoned on the bank of the river, his life’s never going to be the same. Most likely because nobody will baby him the way I do.
“Okay, then let’s finish filming my final look.” I’m pulling some double duty today, using my sponsored make-up to get ready for my date but also filming a ‘get ready with me’ video. I just need a shot of the completed look and I’ll be ready to edit the full video into one seamless video with transitions from phase to phase.
I find the right angle on my halo light and use the Bluetooth remote to set the timer on my phone’s camera. Three, two, one . . . pose and click. I reset it to go again and do another pose. And then a third and fourth. Flipping through them, I decide the third one’s the charm and send it to my laptop.
“Raffy, come here, baby,” I tell him. He glares at me, and with a huff of annoyance, he gets up and hops off the bed to come over. But then he stops to stretch, and I encourage him, “You want to be in a picture with Mama? Of course you do!”
He’s a diva in training, minus the training part, and he loves his fans. Mostly because they send him treats. Scooping him up, I hold him at arm’s length and look into his little face. “You’ll always be my number-one boy, right?”
“Rawf!” That gets a more enthusiastic reaction, and I snuggle him in close.
Grinning, I reset my camera and then use the remote to make my phone beep. The noise gets Raffy’s attention, and he looks directly at the camera, right on cue. I have just enough time to smile and pose myself before Raffy starts squirming. It takes more than three tries, but in the end, I have a good one, me smiling to the camera while Raffy looks adorable in my arms.
I send that one to my laptop too. After Raffy’s approval. “Who’s the best doggy model in the world? That’s right, you are.” I set him down, and he jumps right back on the bed and continues with his half-asleep nap. Only half-asleep because if I make a move toward the kitchen or crinkle a food wrapper, he’d be at my feet, begging for a bite, in less than a blink.
I finish the video quickly, posting it to my page with all the appropriate hashtags, including Joroast Cosmetics.
Now that that’s done, there’s no more stalling from nerves or rushing around with excitement. I have just enough time to grab yellow sandals from the back of my closet and slip them on my feet. No socks today, and no Docs, which feels weird, but dressing up for Mark seems like the right thing to do.
I’m also hoping that without my identifiable markers, maybe he won’t recognize me right off the bat and I can explain my work and the fake name. Of course, there’s always the chance that even if I went into the date in full ‘Riley Sunshine’ mode, he still might not know who I am. But I can’t count on that.
Not when it’s this important.
I take a few laps around the apartment, on wood floors and rugs, to be sure I haven’t forgotten how to walk in these things. It’s been at least a year since I’ve worn heels.
Nothing would be more embarrassing than falling on my butt just as Mark and I meet because I’ve forgotten how to walk in heels. I remember falling at the home last week—in my boots, mind you—and make a few more trips from the kitchen down the hallway, using it as a runway. “Okay, I think I’m ready,” I tell Raffy.
Raffy assures me that I’m going to be fine, that Mark’s not going to be a one-eyed Phantom of the Opera, and that even if he is, I’ve got a big boy who’ll give me kisses at home. Or at least that’s how I’m choosing to read his yawn and repositioning to lie on his back with his belly exposed. His head is on my pillow, keeping it warm for me.
I give myself one last lookover in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. Hair, blonde and curled. Makeup, on point, literally photo-ready. Blue dress, like I said I’d wear. Yellow heels, yellow nails, and a tiny gold sun necklace at my throat. I’m still me, Riley, just not the full-throttle Riley Sunshine.
I figure that Mark will be in a suit, coming from the office. Knowing that helped guide my dress choice in that it’s demure but still has enough of a V-cut in the bodice that it’s sexy too. As Eli likes to joke, I could go to the church picnic, but probably not Sunday services. I don’t think Eli has ever been to either, so I’m not sure how he’d know.
That reminds me, I’m supposed to let Eli or Arielle know where I’m going when I go out on a date. Safety first. Arielle has still been swamped at work all week, so I send Eli a quick message . . .
Riley: First date with app guy, Mark. Meeting in public at Alex Lighthouse at five thirty. I’ll text when I’m home.
Eli: So I should expect your text in the morning? Don’t do anything or anyone I wouldn’t do.
Riley:
Eli’s instruction leaves me more than enough room to do anything I would want to because I’m not half as crazy as he is.
I grab my purse and look back at my apartment, just in case we do ‘happen’ to end up here. I’m pleased as always with what I find. Sure, it’s not the biggest. It’s just a one-bedroom place. But it’s in a nice complex in a good part of town, within walking distance of a nice supermarket, and best of all, I don’t have to break the budget on a monthly basis for it.
“Wish me luck, Raffy. Don’t wait up!” I
sing-song as I pull the door closed behind me, checking the lock. As I head to my little yellow Volkswagen bug, with sunshine hubcaps, of course, my brain replays my messages with Mark over and over. I’m looking for red flags I might’ve missed, but I mostly end up smiling as I remember funny things he’s said.
There’s something about Mark that tells me he’s one of a kind and that where we don’t match, we compliment. We fill gaps, as someone once said. I’ve got gaps, he’s got gaps, and together, we’ve filled gaps.
Now let’s see if we want to fill those gaps that haven’t been filled properly in a long time.
Riley Ann! I yell at myself. But truthfully, I don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed about my naughty thoughts. After last night, I might have to hold myself back from Mark if he’s half as amazing as I think he is.
I cross my fingers that it’s the case, and I start my car and head to the bookstore, hope blooming the whole way there.
* * *
Driving toward the bookstore, I try to be present in the moment. Briar Rose is a beautiful town with crape myrtle trees blooming in pinks and whites in the medians, families playing in the park as I pass, and people walking the sidewalks.
It’s not small, though. We have a bustling downtown and rail system that’ll get you anywhere in town easily.
The sun is shining, there’s not a cloud in the blue sky, and I’m on my way to meet Mark.
It doesn’t get any better than this right here, enjoying the moment and on the precipice of something possibly great.
Stopping at the Iron Bridge, I decide to skip the radio today and instead tap my phone quickly. “Play audiobook Baby Daddy.”
“Playing audiobook file,” my phone replies, and I have to grin. Voice control’s a lot easier than tapping at a screen while I drive, that’s for sure. Safer, too. Although my insurance agent would probably have a heart attack if he knew I was driving along while listening to a romance audiobook.
But I’ve been reading and listening to a lot of romance lately. At first, it was just to live a bit vicariously since my own love life is so nonexistent, but after chatting with Mark for the past week, I’ve been drawn into the steamier side of romance once again. I even imagine that the voice actor playing the lead in this audiobook is what Mark sounds like.
And as the book gets steamier and hotter, I imagine Mark telling me things like he did last night. Much more explicit things . . . what he wants to do to me, what he wants me to do to him, what we can do together.
Whew! I turn up the air conditioning a notch because with the sunshine beating down through the windows, it’s getting hot in here. Yeah, that must be it.
Suddenly, my book stops, and a ringing tone comes over my speakers. “Mom calling.”
Ugh. Okay, okay . . . well, that’s what I get for having my phone synced with my car’s audio system. Mom can interrupt a hot romance with a phone call. Reaching over, I tap the green button on my screen. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey,” Mom says, like she starts every phone call since I moved out of the house. “How’s my baby girl doing on this beautiful afternoon?”
“Ah, Mom, you mind if I call you back?” I ask as I turn down Vine, a half-mile from the bookstore. “I’m in the car. You know, safety?”
Okay, I do feel a little guilty about trying to claim safety when I was just listening to a guy talking about what his mouth and tongue were doing on his lover’s body twenty seconds ago . . . but not too guilty. Mothers ruin date moods. It’s a universal law. Besides, I don’t want to tell her, but I also don’t want to lie to her.
“Aw, honey, okay, that’s fine,” Mom complains before sighing. “You still coming over soon?”
“I sure am,” I tell her. “I’m volunteering with Arielle a lot right now, but I’ll come over as soon as I can. I’ll let you know.”
“Good. I can’t wait to see you. We can play in the garden.”
Oh, no. Mom said ‘play’, and of course my phone’s voice controller’s still turned on. And with the nice speakers in my little bug of a car, my phone decides to start playing my book again.
I try to turn it off, but I’m in stop-and-go traffic and can’t seem to close it.
"What’s that? Is someone with you?” I can hear the interest through every syllable, the hope in her tone.
“Ah . . . just someone next to me, Mom. Their windows are down and they’re yelling into their phone, that’s all.”
“Oh, okay,” Mom says as I scramble to try and turn off the book without rear-ending the pickup truck in front of me.
I manage to hit a button, and thankfully, not the truck because that hitch would destroy my cute car, but it’s not the ‘stop’ button. Instead, I guess I hit the fast forward because my car fills with the sound of . . . oh, sweet Jesus.
“Yes! Yes! Fuck me, fuck me harder!”
“Riley, what is THAT?!” Mom screeches as the blood drains out of my face.
“Ah . . . sound file,” I reply, tapping the phone again, but nothing happens. “I had an . . . audiobook up.”
“She spasms underneath me, her sweet, silken pussy milking my cock of every last drop—” my radio continues, and I groan, my brain going into circuit overload. Why can’t I get this damn audiobook to stop?
Mom is on a roll. “I know you are a grown woman, but your choice of books could use work, Riley!”
Swallowing my pride and feeling my face burn, I grit my teeth. “Turn off Baby Daddy!”
The partial silence that fills my car is a relief until Mom sighs heavily, letting me know the call’s still connected.
“Mom, it’s just a—” I start, but she’s not having any of it.
“Riley, I thought I raised you better than that. To be driving while listening to . . . that,” she complains. “You could have gotten into an accident! And to think, what would you tell the police? Oh, I’m sorry, Officer, that I got into an accident. I was too busy listening to porn.”
It’s not porn. I know that, but there’s no sense in explaining to Mom. And as if that’s bad enough, she’s not done.
“Or worse, what if you were trapped in the car and they had to cut you out? You’d have that smut playing while they’re trying to help you. At least tell me you have on clean underwear?”
What is it with moms and clean underwear? Do they think people go around turning their skivvies inside out to get another day of wear? I certainly don’t, and even if I did, would the doctor in the emergency room notice as they cut my clothes from my body? I doubt it. Shoot, I’d probably pee myself if I did get in an accident just from shock and fear. And then no one would know if my pretty, lacy panties were fresh or not. So there, Mom.
But she’s right. Ugh. You win, Mom. “Mom, I know, I know! It’s just a book. Listen, I’m gonna let you go so I can focus on driving in embarrassed silence.”
“Okay, but we’re not done talking about this,” Mom says.
She’s wrong on that one. I’m never discussing this horrifying moment with her again. Once was too many times.
“Bye, Mom,” I say, not agreeing with her.
“Bye, honey. See you soon.”
Mom hangs up, and I sink into the seat, wishing a sinkhole would open in the road beneath me so I could fall even deeper into that. It’d make avoiding that future conversation with my mom that much easier.
Taking advantage of the clear lanes ahead of me, I hurry down the street to the Alex Lighthouse bookstore.
Parking in the lot, I take a moment to breathe deeply, trying to calm my pounding heart. It’s not just the embarrassing conversation with Mom but pure fear running through my veins.
Is this going to go okay? Is Mark going to be everything I’ve built him up to be?
I look into my makeup mirror, and I see scared, wide eyes looking back at me.
Taking a final steadying breath, I get out of my car and walk with determined steps toward the entrance.
The whiff of paper and air conditioning that hits me when I open the door helps. Alex L
ighthouse is one of the last of a dying breed of bookstores, what Barnes & Noble used to be when they were at their peak, but better. There are overstuffed chairs everywhere, half of them filled even at this hour by bookhounds reading a little bit of everything, with quiet music filtering over everything to give the entire space a romantic, hushed importance. It’s the sort of place where you could spend an entire day and still feel like you want to come back the next day. This place is special.
Alex Lighthouse has a full cafe up on the second floor. The food’s pretty good, and through the big arched windows, there’s a great view of Hamilton Park, which is one of the nicest public parks in the city.
In the café, the mood is different. It’s more casual, with soft chatter from the tables of people as they sip their coffee. It’s perfect for a first date.
I find an empty table and sit down, taking out my phone to message Mark.
R: Hey, I’m here a bit early. Found us a table.
A moment later, Mark replies.
M: Great! I just turned into the parking lot. I’ll be inside in 3 min.
I smile. That’s so Mark. Not ‘in a minute’ or ‘see you in five’, but specific . . . three minutes. I bet I could time him and he’d be spot on.
I wiggle in my chair, smoothing my dress and my hair. Then, just in case, I huff a breath into my palm to make sure it’s okay. Minty fresh.
Taking a quick glance around, I see three other women in blue. Uh-oh, how will Mark know which one is me?
I don’t get a chance to figure that out because a man comes up the winding staircase, and at first, what I see is a thick shock of nearly jet-black hair, definitely a business cut, with no hair touching the collar of a bright white shirt. He takes another step, and broad shoulders clad in a smoke-gray suit come into place, not so wide that he casts shadows when he walks, but strong and athletic.
I can feel my body start to yearn, and my core starts to yell yes! yes! yes! with every beat of my heart.
Another step, and he starts the turn that’ll bring him up to the café level, and my mind really, really needs to slow down. Still, it’s somewhere for my nervousness to go, and I eagerly anticipate his approach. He hits the landing, and as he turns this direction, I start to get up.
The Blind Date Page 8
