“Listen, if I was to meet that man in an enclosed, soundproof office? We damn sure wouldn’t be talking about his feelings.”
“You’ve never cheated on Bobby a day in your life,” I snicker. Pat’s husband was her high school sweetheart and her first love.
“And I never would, but a girl can dream, can’t she?” she chuckles.
An image from the other day at the park of Dak looking like a snack in his sweats invades my thoughts.
Yeah,I think to myself,a girl can definitely dream.
katrina
My sister’smention of Wonder Woman reminds me of a psychological study I read in graduate school on superhero science. The study concluded that if you stand up tall, and pose in a superhero stance, that it will actually raise testosterone levels and make you feel more powerful, which is why I’m wearing my red power suit.
Just like Wonder Woman.
Well, sort of like her.
I’m wearing a red skirt with a matching red blazer, a muted gold tank underneath, and red heels. To polish the look, I’m wearing a gold cuff bracelet that belonged to my mother. I treasure this piece, remembering that she loved it so much and typically wore it on special occasions.
But today is a special occasion.
I’m going to claim my power back from this Dak Warner man. A bad first impression and a trip to the toilet bowl last week had me seriously doubting myself, but not today Satan.
Today, I’m Wonder Woman.
I pose for a moment, with my hands on my hips, chin up, and then take a last-minute look at myself in a small mirrored compact, which I keep in my purse. I blew my hair out, flat ironed it, and smoothed into a high, slick ponytail. Not a single hair is out of place. My no-makeup, makeup look, still looks good and my under eye concealer hasn’t creased yet. I’m swiping another coat of my Pat McGrath Lust lip gloss in shade Blood 2 on my lips when there’s a knock at my door. I quickly shove my items back into my purse and get ready for session two.
This is going to go real different today.
“Come in.”
There’s a slight hitch in my breath when Dak enters my small office because it seems as if this guy put on his own superhero suit today.
He’s wearing dark wash jeans that fit his thighs and ass like a glove, with an understated light blue tee and a midnight blue motorcycle jacket that seems to be made out of the most buttery soft leather I’ve ever seen.
And his hair.
His fucking hair.
Today it’s not in a bun, but falls in this large mane of freshly washed dark (almost black) waves that end a little past his broad shoulders. This hairstyle makes him look even bigger as he stands across from me, almost as if it’s the mane of a predatory male lion.
Ready to pounce.
And possibly devour me.
I desperately want to place my hands on my hips and strike another Wonder Woman pose to get my head back into the game but that would seem weird, so I swallow my random thoughts of wanting to caress the leather of his jacket and take a sip of water as he takes a seat.
I smile uncomfortably as this man stares quietly at my shoes, then back to my face. Suddenly, I’m questioning whether my outfit is a bit too much.
“Welcome to session two, Mr. Warner.”
“Dak,” he corrects me with almost what I’d describe is a new darkness to his voice. A voice that is drawing a dampness to my core.
And that’s when it finally hits me.
Dak Warner is no superhero in this unfolding story between us.
He’s my arch enemy.
