When the text shows delivered, I second-guess sending it.
What would I even say if he is awake? Or what if he only said I could text him to be nice and didn’t mean it?
Ugh.
This is why I’d suck on a dating app.
But maybe Natalie’s right. I’ll never get comfortable with the idea of dating if I don’t put myself out there and try.
Chapter Six
Waylon
My heart sinks at missing her text last night.
Though to be fair, it was way past my bedtime.
Waylon: Morning. I’m so sorry for not seeing your text until now. I was already asleep. But if you wanna chat tonight, I’ll be up late.
I mentally slap my forehead at what a douche I must sound like, but surprisingly, she responds right away.
Poison Ivy Girl: Hey, don’t worry about it! I didn’t realize how late it was and figured you were sleeping.
Poison Ivy Girl—the not so creative name I gave her so I can keep track of her in the group thread.
Waylon: How’s the itch doing today?
Poison Ivy Girl: It’s turned into blisters…I’m in hell.
Waylon: Oh shit. I know that’s painful.
Poison Ivy Girl: I woke up feeling the burning and immediately took a cold shower. Now I’m covered in calamine lotion and trying not to cry about how much this sucks.
Fuck. I feel so bad for her.
Waylon: I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I’m off to work, but I’ll check in during my breaks.
I should ask what her name is and how old she is, but the last thing I want to sound like is a creepy old guy who’s trying to hit on her.
But it’s more than that.
My family’s well-known in Sugarland Creek and as soon as I tell her my name, she’ll have all these preconceived notions about who I am—most of them linked to Wilder. Based on what she’s heard or sees about me online could override everything I’ve shared with her.
Which honestly, hasn’t been too much, but more than I’d typically share with a stranger.
I’d rather let her get to know me outside of what everyone thinks they know before we exchange names.
She could also decide once she finds out who I am that she wants nothing to do with me. Even as friends.
And that’d suck.
It’s not easy making friends outside of being Wilder’s babysitter and working ten-to-twelve-hour days.
Instead of dwelling on it, I make some coffee and get my ass to work. Wilder’s on time for once, so I don’t have to rush through mucking my half of the stalls and we get done early.
“Wanna grab some breakfast before the first tour?” he asks.
“Sure.”
