I laugh out loud. This guy does it for me.
Part of my heart splinters. What if I were a successful mom blogger? We could be a power-blogging couple.
ANDI: Zero barfing. Neither from the wine drinking nor the kids’ filthy germs.
REID: Good to hear. I missed you.
I send off an emoji, the smiling face with jazz hands.
ANDI: How was your weekend?
REID: Pretty good. I grilled salmon and made these potato skins on the grill (duh).
Of course, I already know this because James was out of his mind over the meal. Me, I was out of my ever-loving mind over the man. Slim-fitting jeans, dark purple Henley, slight beard, and of course, an apron. This one read,CALL ME CRAZY. I GRILL IN THE SNOW.
ANDI: Yep, I saw. Looked yummy.
I respond, giving in to the guilt. I can’t carry it anymore. Delia is right.
I deserve to live life.
ANDI: Maybe you’ll make it for me?
I’m flirting and texting. It’s the most fun I’ve had since Gabby was born. Doesn’t take much, apparently.
REID: Oh yeah, would you like that? With or without Gabby?
He’s poking. I think.
ANDI: Without.
He responds right away ...
REID: Tuesday?
ANDI: I’ll ask Leona. BTW: It’s getting close Valentine’s Day.
I’m fishing like a tenth grader wanting an invite to the prom, but I can’t seem to help myself. When he sends an eye emoji and the wordknow, and then a thumbs-up and a 100 emoji, my mind is put at ease and my thoughts turn naughty.
I should be formulating a plan, but instead, my overactive imagination is thinking of Reid naked. Washboard abs, scruffy face, messy hair, and so very smart.
My hand travels south, under the waistband of my panties and straight to my core. Except, my fingers can barely rival Reid’s, and my climax leaves me less than satisfied.
So I do what every sexually frustrated single mom does, and texts my babysitter.
“Hey,” I say, answering my phone on Tuesday afternoon. I’m waiting at the bus for Gabby.
“I’m going to say it from the beginning. I suck.”
“Everything okay?” I ask Reid, my stomach churning.
“I can’t cook tonight. I’m so pissed right now,” he says, panting as if he’s out of breath.
“Slow down. You okay?”
“Yeah. Shit, I’m sorry.”
I think about him running his hand through his hair, and my nerves settle. “What’s happening?”
