“It will be about 10 minutes,” the hostess says.
I find a spot away from the draft of the door to lean my shoulder against the wall and get out my phone to text Owen and let him know. I can’t believe I’m finally meeting him.
I think back to that moment just 3 weeks ago when he told me, “come to Texas.”
“You don’t really want that.” I said.
“Perhaps not. We can simply have dinner. We’re friends, right?”
“Ha! Ok. I’ll wear one of my modest sweaters so as to not tempt you…”
So here I stand, wearing a grey turtleneck sweater, black skinny jeans, and calf high boots. I feel good, but respectful of the situation. Unlike my husband, his girlfriend doesn’t know about our relationship. I can’t believe how nervous I am. I love him. Meeting him is the dream.
Suddenly, a hand slides under the back of my sweater to grip my bare waist, and I feel a warm breath against my ear as a low voice says, “as if you really thought that sweater would keep you safe from me, Fucktoy.”