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Early the next morning,I was finally home from work and crawling into bed. With all my good intentions, I didn’t slide into my silk stockings. I was too tired tonight, but I would wear them tomorrow. Finally, with a minute to myself, I pulled out my phone and opened the app to see what they had for me now.
I was shocked to see over thirty messages already in the last few hours. I settled back into my pillows and started to read through them, excited at the possibilities so many messages held. But as I read through one after the other, I got more and more frustrated. Every one of them was a message for a hookup, not a date. They didn’t want to talk or get to know me at all. None of them were what I was looking for at all. These were just the sharks in the water smelling fresh blood.
I decided to check another section of the app that held suggested matches for me. Maybe I’d find someone I could send my own message to. I flipped through the pictures, and the first six were more of the same, all ass and abs with sexy smirks—hard pass. But the seventh image made me take in a sharp breath. This picture didn’t look like the rest. It looked more like a professional headshot. That alone was enough to get my attention, but the smile was what got me. He was an older man with red hair, maybe a few silver hairs beginning to thread through the auburn scruff on his cheeks and chin. His smile seemed genuine and kind, and the little wrinkles around his eyes showed that he must smile like that a good bit. There was no dead eye fake smile or smirk here, just genuine humor. His shoulders were broad, and his chest was wide. Everything about him seemed…safe and nice.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was opening up a screen to message him, and then I realized I didn’t even know his name or where he lived.Knowing his name might be helpful, dumb ass.
When I saw the name, I stopped breathing for a second and shot my gaze back to the picture. No, it couldn't be. I looked at the image closely and damned if it wasn’t my James. Wait, no, he wasn’t my James. What the hell. He was the James I had met last week. That was what I meant. He lived in Fairpoint, Alabama, not New Orleans, but I already knew he didn’t live in town. As I read his bio, a huge goofy grin spread across my face. He loved to read and run, he was a doctor, and he volunteered. This was James from the bar. He probably wouldn’t remember me, but I had to give it a shot. This opportunity was too good to pass up.
Deciding to at least try, I composed a message to James Eldridge and without overthinking it, I hit send. I felt a flutter in my belly and hope in my heart as I said a small prayer to the universe and to Gran that this would work. I watched the app for a few more minutes to see if there would be a response, then realized it was four in the morning. Of course there wouldn’t be an answer in the middle of the night. I closed the app and put my phone on the bedside table. Burrowing into my pillows, I hoped that someone somewhere in the universe would hear my little prayer of hope.Yeah, right?
