“No, wise guy.”
“This explains the herpes.”
He laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it,” I say.
“I just might,” he says. Chills soar through my body, up my neck, and into my cheeks, somehow rendering them burning hot.
“I’ll send you the manuscript. Then, it’s your turn to email me.”
“I know.”
“So, write me tomorrow.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
I giggle, but mostly it’s just nerves. This guy issmooth. “I guess I’ll talk to you then.”
“Sweet dreams. And thanks for the chat. It was great.”
“G’night.”
Click.
Damn.
I send over the manuscript immediately, withBe nice!as the subject title but nothing in the body of the email. Then, I sit at my desk, staring at the blackness of my computer screen in disbelief for what feels like an eternity, replaying as much of the conversation as I can remember over and over again in my mind. When I can stand it no longer, I go into the bathroom, strip down, and run myself an extra steamy shower. One of the luxuries I afforded myself when I got this place was one of those removable handheld showerheads.
That thing is worth its weight in gold.
Colin
Well, that was surprising. She sounded flirty and cute, but not in aditzy way. Smart, with all those jokes.
And something about her made me feel…I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.
I wish I could remember what she looks like.
I open the Amazon app on my phone and look up Grace Landing in the search bar. Hmm. That’s curious. I can’t find anything written by her.
Maybe she’s anti-corporate and only sells her books at those indie bookshops. Elle used to go on and on about how important it is to support the small guys—how they’re the backbone of the industry and yadda, yadda, yadda. But, I don’t know. Doesn’teveryonesell their books on Amazon?
I do a Google search next. I search the images—I mean, really, no sense in beating around the bush. I already know she’s got a fun personality, but if she’s a wildebeest, then I deserve to know that up front.
There’s one small grainy image on a now-defunct Myspace page that shows up. It’s got to be at least fifteen years old—probably her very first attempt at social media. I peer at it. She’s got really long hair, and her body looks curvy. She’s cute. The picture jogs my memory and reminds me that she had a pretty face back in high school.
This whole thing is so bizarre.
The phone dings, and an email comes through with the subject lineBe nice!and an attachment.
I smile.Cool. This’ll give me something to read tomorrow.Right now, I’m beat and my shoulder hurts.
I pop an Aleve and hit the sack. For the first time in a while, I’m actually looking forward to going to work in the morning.
Gracie
I write a group text to Melly, Alisha, and Tori: SOS!!!
