My phone buzzes. My heart jumps straight into my throat. I snatch it off the counter so fast I almost drop it.
Biker Boy: You home?
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.
Me: Yeah. Just got in from work.
The three little dots pop up almost immediately.
Biker Boy: Good. I’m finally free tonight.
Biker Boy: Wanna see you.
My pulse kicks up. I bite my lip, trying and failing to play it cool even though he can’t see me.
Me: Yeah. I’d like that.
There’s a pause just long enough to make me stare at the screen.
Biker Boy: Miss you, firecracker.
The words hit me right in the chest. It’s been two days. Two. And somehow that tiny sentence makes the distance feel heavier and lighter at the same time.
I sink back against the counter, phone clutched in my hand, and let myself smile like an idiot.
Me: You just saw me.
Biker Boy: Feels like longer.
Biker Boy: I’ll be there in a bit.
My stomach flips. The quiet house suddenly feels charged, like the air before a storm. I glance around at the dishes in the sink and the throw blanket tossed over the couch and the general evidence of me living here like a normal human being.
And all I can think is that he’s coming over. Tonight.
I stare at my phone for another half second and then I’m moving.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
I dart into my bedroom and skid to a stop at the sight of my bed. The covers are a tangled mess because I definitely did not make it this morning. Heat creeps up my neck as I imagine Lucky seeing it like that. I yank the sheets straight, fluff the pillows, and smooth everything down until it looks like a normal, functional adult sleeps here and not a chaos goblin.
Then I’m flying through the house. I scoop up the stray mug on the coffee table, fold the throw blanket, and straighten the stack of mail on the counter. Every little thing that’s even slightly out of place gets fixed. My heart is thudding the whole time, a nervous, excited rhythm that matches the countdown in my head. He’s coming over.
When I can’t find anything else to fix, I hurry back to the bathroom and twist the shower on. Steam starts to fill the space, warm and thick. I peel my work clothes off, tossing them into the hamper without even looking. My reflection in the mirror looks a little wild eyed and flushed, and I laugh under my breath. I step under the spray and let it wash the day off me, taking my time to shave and scrub and make sure I’m smooth and fresh everywhere.
I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. But I want to be ready for anything. My cheeks heat as flashes of his texts and those late night calls slide through my mind. The way his voice drops when he’s tired and honest. The things he’s whispered that have been living rent free in my head for two straight days. My stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with nerves.
By the time I step out and wrap a towel around myself, my pulse is still racing. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the distant sound of a car passing outside. Any minute now, he’s going to knock on my door.
I stand in front of my closet in a towel, water still damp on my skin, and stare at my clothes like they’re supposed to have the answers.
Comfortable. But sexy. Not trying too hard. But also not pretending I didn’t just shave everything and scrub myself like I’m preparing for a life changing event.
I reach for my favorite soft black leggings and step into them, the fabric hugging my hips and thighs in a way that makes me feel grounded and a little bold. Then I pull on an oversized off the shoulder sweater in a deep, warm gray. It slides down one side, baring my collarbone and just enough skin to feel intentional without screaming it. I twist in the mirror and consider. It’s casual. Cozy. But the way the sweater drapes and the leggings cling makes heat bloom low in my stomach.
I run a brush through my hair and leave it down, soft and a little wavy from the shower. A touch of lotion on my wrists and neck, something light and clean that makes me feel fresh.
When I look at myself again, I don’t see someone trying too hard. I see someone who looks like she’s ready to curl up on the couch… or be kissed breathless in her kitchen.
