Colton: I’ll have you know I was working hard. I mean, it takes a lot of effort to look this good …
I attach a selfie, which shows just how tired I am, and my bedhead is mussed in such a way that it’s sticking up in every direction. After I hit send, I wonder if that was a good idea. I don’t want to overdo it and scare her off, but I also want her to feel comfortable with me.
I need her to see me as Colton, not as the Brazen Bachelor, which is a laugh. If you’d asked me two years ago what I’d dub myself as it would most certainly be anything and everything to do with my singledom.
Perhaps I’m getting old. I tap out a message to Simon to tell him that, knowing he’d chuckle at me and my quarter-life crisis.
Violet: Wow, who knew modeling could make you look about eighty in the sun…
I laugh out loud when I see her message, but I notice she’s attached a photo of her at her desk, I presume. She’s wearing a slinky pink camisole, which has parts of my body responding in kind. Her bare shoulders are tempting, making my mouth water for a taste.
Violet is unique in every way, from her dark hair, which shines dark blue to her big, brown eyes, pouty lips, and her makeup-free face. Her lightly tanned skin makes it look like she’s been on the beach for the summer, and her curvy frame has all the dips that make me want to hold onto her in so many ways, most of them far from innocent.
Colton: Are you wearing that to work?
Violet: What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?
Colton: You’re almost naked. I can see your thin bra strap, and it’s tempting me, and I’m on the other side of the city.
Violet: Stop being an idiot. It’s formal wear. I’m not standing around in my bra and panties, having everyone gawk at me like some sort of treat on a stick.
Another laugh barrels from my lips and I shake my head at her snide comments. She’s being playful, letting down her guard, and I like it. I like it a whole lot.
Colton: Touché, sweet treat.
Violet: You did not just…
Colton: Oh, yes, I did.
I find myself staring at my screen, willing the small bubble of dots to start moving to show me she’s typing her snarky response, but nothing. I don’t know if she’s angry with me or if she’s just busy, but I allow her time to do whatever it is she needs to.
I fill my coffee before heading into the bedroom. The bed looks so inviting, and I fall into temptation by flopping down after I set my mug on the nightstand. I pull up my laptop and open the browser to do a little bit of research on my sweet treat.
It fits her perfectly. I smile as I type in her name and scroll through her Facebook before I come across an article she shared on her profile, which is set so I can see certain things, but I can’t get to her photos or any personal information.
"Ask Ida."
Curiosity wins out, and I click on the link, which takes me to a website. I scroll through some of the messages and then chuckle at the advice given. I find myself losing a couple of hours as I read all the way back to three years ago.
But then I stumble on a brand-new post from this morning. It’s to a Nervous in Brooklyn. I read the message and then reread it. It can’t be. Surely. But each time I inhale the words, I know it is. There’s no doubt the message came from Violet.
I read the response from Ida to Violet. She’s told her to wear the black dress, not to feel scared, and to allow me to tell her about who I am. Not the famous face, not the person she’s read about, but the man inside.
I shut the laptop, pondering what that means. I know I have dreams, I have goals, but can I really share them with someone? I wanted to learn more about Violet, to listen to her talk about her hobbies, things she loves, people she cares for, but I didn’t think this through. If I’m expecting her to share, I should do the same.
It’s only fair that I give her a part of me. A message buzzes on my phone, and I open it with a smile on my face when I see her name.
Violet: Okay, then, BB, I’ll be ST.
Colton: You what now?
Violet: If you’re going to insist on calling me Sweet Treat, I’ll call you Brazen Bachelor just like it says on your billboard, which is now right outside our office window.
Attached is a photo of her window, which overlooks the billboard we shot a couple of days ago. I can’t believe how quickly they got that out there. I’m dressed in a pair of black, tight boxer briefs, which leave very little to the imagination, and I can’t help groaning.