“I’m sorry,” I say, “but this could derail my whole career if it goes wrong. I’m just getting traction, and I can’t do anything to jeopardize it.”
My phone pings with an incoming text, but I ignore it.
“You’re writing a book, aren’t you?” Celena asks. “Can’t this be like a case study or something? Just take lots of notes about working with this guy, then turn them into a book.”
“I can’t do that unless the university’s lawyers get the NDA thrown out, or at least changed.”
Celena considers this. “Okay fine, but I think our first step here is to get you back on a dating app.”
I blink at her. “What? Why is that our first step?”
“If you’re going to work with this guy, you’ll need a boyfriend. You need to be getting sex from somewhere because, let’s face it, that man puts some models to shame.”
I deflate. She has a point. Regardless of how things work out with Ash, it may be time to put myself out there again, but I’m not excited by the idea. I dread it.
Aside from my introversion, there’s also the way my last relationship ended. The one that turned me into a paranoid stalker by the end. The one where I spent the entire day before a date in a state of raw-nerve anxiety until the guy, Drew, inevitably canceled on me at the last minute, and I fell apart.
My phone pings again with another incoming text, and I swipe in thepattern to open it. I frown as I see who the texts are from.
“I’ve got two messages from Ash Gunnarsson,” I tell Celena.
Her eyes widen in excitement. “What do they say?”
I open the texts, and there’s a short message as well as…
“Holy shit!”
“What is it?” she asks, peering over my phone to see the screen.
“He sent me a God damn dick pic.”
“What!” Celena grabs the phone out of my hand, and her eyes blow wide as she looks at the screen.
“Holy fuck,” she says. “That’s…that’s a really nice dick.”
I grab the phone back from her and read the texts. The first came in about a minute ago.
Ash
I was thinking about you. We should get together.
That message sits above a picture of an erect cock that lays across a toned stomach. It’s hard to tell its exact size from the picture, but I’d guess it’s above average both in length and girth. There’s a slight upward curve to the shaft, and the base is nestled in a short smattering of curly brown hair. The message attached to the pic reads, “In case you need some incentive to think about the offer.”
I force myself to click the phone screen off.
“Gray,” Celena says, “if you needed a sign from the universe about what to do, I’m not sure it can get much clearer than that.”
“It’s a sign alright. A sign I should run for it.” I shove the phone back in my purse before taking a big gulp of my wine.
Celena sighs, downs the rest of her Chardonnay, and clunks the glass onto the table. She takes one of my hands in both of hers.
“Honey,” she says, “I’m not sure where you got this fear of life, but I’m telling you now that, as your best friend, I’m not letting you turn down this opportunity. I don’t know what prompted this man to send you a dick pic less than six hours after meeting him, but whatever happens with that is incidental compared to the opportunity you’re being given to work witha professional athlete. Let’s not make assumptions just yet. Maybe the pic was a mistake.”
I blow out a long breath. I suspected the same. He must’ve meant to send the pic to someone else. The thought eases my mind in some ways but not in others.
“You’re probably right,” I say. “He’s drunk, and he sent a booty call to the wrong person.”
“Exactly. Just disregard it for now. In the meantime, we need to update your dating apps and get you back out there.”
