"Call him. See if he wants to hang out tonight. I mean, that's what you guys are doing, right? You're becoming friends again, and friends hang out. Call him."
Sliding the towel off my head, I run my fingers through my tangled hair. "No. I can't call him tonight. We already have dinner plans tomorrow night."
"Who cares? Look, I have to go. I'm really sorry. I'll try and stop by Sunday evening to see Max."
"It's okay. I'll see you Sunday." I move to end the call when I hear him yell my name through the phone.
"What?"
"Call. Him." He hangs up before I can respond to his bossiness and I'm left staring at my phone in confusion.
I can't have drinks with Tyson tonight. Can I? Although I can't really deny that I would love to see him again, and it would be really nice to see him outside of work. In fact, since our lunch and brief texting session yesterday, I haven't been able to get him off of my mind.
You know what? Fuck it! I pick up my phone and scroll down to his name. My thumb hovers tentatively over the ‘talk’ button as I give my self an internal pep talk. There is no reason to be nervous. We are friends and friends have dinner and drinks. The only problem is that I can't stop picturing myself shoving Tyson up against a door so that I can rip his pants off, fall to my knees, and worship every inch of his body. And I can't stop imagining him hovering over me and making sweet love to me.
Shit. Where's my damn vibrator when I need it?
I hit ‘talk’ and tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder as I rummage through the clothes on my bed. The skinny jeans and peasant top I’d contemplated wearing earlier were great when I thought I was going out with Levi. But if I go out with Tyson, I need something a little different...a little sexier. The phone rings four times and goes to voicemail. I end the call with a huff, deciding to shoot him a quick text rather than leaving a voicemail.
Me: Any plans for tonight? Max left earlier than expected and I was wondering if you wanted to go get dinner and have a few drinks with me.
My hair is way too long and takes forever to blow-dry. Standing in front of the mirror, I hold my hair on top of my head and then lower it back down, trying to decide the best way to style it. Down—definitely down.
Tyson always did like it down. He used to tell me that when my hair was down and I walked by, he could smell the soft vanilla scent of my shampoo. Picking up my phone, I double-check that the volume is on high, nervous that I might miss his response.
I gather my hair over my left shoulder and pin it in place so that the silky waves drape over my chest. I pull out a few chunks of hair to frame my face and spray it lightly with hairspray. Perfect.
My attention keeps wandering to my silent phone. What is he doing? Why hasn't he replied yet? My eyes flit nervously to my watch. Get a grip, Harley, it's only been twenty minutes. Maybe he's busy, or at work, or— "Fuck," I grunt, my head hanging low. I can't believe that he already has me tied up in knots like this.
What the fuck is my problem?
I promised myself that I would never get like this over a man again—especially not Tyson—and then look what happens! He walks his fine ass back into my life and within days, he’s successfully turned my life upside down. My phone chirps, startling me out of my thoughts, and my fingers itch to grab it and see what it says. A small part of me doesn't want to see the text at all because what if he rejects me? What if he turns down my offer? Or worse, what if he's on another date?
The self-control it takes me to walk across the bathroom without touching my phone is indescribable. "He can just wait," I murmur to myself. Reaching into the drawer, I pull out my makeup bag and begin my ritual. Foundation. Blush. Eye shadow. Mascara. The 'smokey eye' that some girls can pull off is a horrible look for me so I usually stick to my 'less is more' motto. I do, however, apply an extra few extra layers of mascara. If there is one thing about myself that I like, it's my eyes. I was lucky enough to inherit my mom's sage-green eyes and my dad's long lashes.
Looking in the mirror, I do a final once-over, smiling brightly at what I see. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Now I just hope that I didn't get all decked out to sit at home and watch reruns of Friends, while my friends are all otherwise occupied.
My phone chirps again, signaling an unviewed message. Picking it up, I walk through the house to the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of wine. I mean, why not, right? Giving my glass a slight twirl, I take a sip. My body is humming with anticipation and butterflies have taken flight in my stomach. Fucking hell, what is wrong with me? Grow some balls, Harley!
Swiping my finger across the screen, the beginning of a message appears on my phone.
Tyson: I'm at work but—
My hope plummets. Work. Of course he's at work. He's a resident…he works all the damn time. My fingers quickly unlock the phone to bring up the full message.
Tyson: I'm at work but I get off at 7. I would need to run home and get cleaned up, so maybe 8ish. Is that too late for you?
Hope blooms in my chest once again at his words. Hell no, eight isn't too late.
Me: No, that's perfect. Do you want me to meet you downtown since you'll be at your condo?
The butterflies in my stomach shift from fluttering nervously to quivering in anticipation. Taking a deep breath, I open my throat and down the entire glass of wine. I know, I know...It's very un-ladylike. But I'm nervous, damnit!
Crap. Clothes. I need clothes.
I scurry off the couch, sliding across the hardwood floor as I attempt to run down the hallway to my room. Flipping the light on in my closet, I make my way to the back, completely bypassing the skinny jeans and peasant top. Okay, I need something sweet and sexy. There is nothing I want more than to have Tyson back in my life, but more than that, I really want him to notice me. My hand hovers nervously over a hanger as Levi's words repeat in my head...“I’m a guy, Harley, and I saw the way he looked at you when you walked into the bar the other night."
I want to see that look on Tyson's face. Making my decision, I pull a top from its hanger and toss it on the bed next to my skinny jeans. A quick glance at my phone indicates a reply from Tyson.