That was the guy he was.
Yes, my entire life just changed.
“Mo,” I called quietly.
His attention returned to my face.
“It’sgonnabe okay,” I assuredhim.
That strong chin dipped again.
Okay.
Moving on.
“Do you want something to eat?”I asked.
“Tour,” he grunted, but he did it not looking around.
He needed to know the lay of the land.
But now I had another problem.
I was nervous.
Actually nervous.
I didn’t get nervous around guys.
Handsome.Confident.Built.Successful.Rich.It didn’tmatter to me.
Were they funny?
That mattered.
Were they smart?
That mattered too.
Did they have goals in life and weren’t afraid to do thework to attain them?
That totally mattered.
Did they define me as a stripper in all that conveyed to thejudgmental world who didn’t get I really couldn’t give that first fuck whatpeople thought about what I did to make a (very good) living?Thus, theythought I was sleazy and easy and could get in my pants and then brag theytagged a stripper and not even remember my name?
That definitely mattered.
I couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous around aguy.
In fact, I didn’t think therewasa time I’d beennervous around a guy.
But I had this insane desire to play with my hair, wasworried I’d trip when I turned around to guide him into my house, and worst ofall, I was suddenly completely focused on not doing anything that would makehim think I was a dork, an idiot, or anything the slightest bit unattractive.
Shit.
I successfully made the pivot and moved him through theshort foyer of my Denver Tudor into the living room and immediately regretteddecorating in mostly white.
White with gray veins in the marble of the fireplace.Boxywhite contemporary sofa (though it had big, colored throw pillows and warm butlight-colored wood feet).White walls.White curtains (though they hung at thesides and the Roman shades were bamboo).Even the rug was mostly white with agray geometric pattern.But the floors were oak (however, it waswhiteoak,gah!).
