Never? I type back. Could this be true? My heart’s hammering afresh at the possibilities that abound. I’m getting quite the cardio workout for standing still on a treadmill, ignoring questioning glances and glares from fellow gym-goers.
Who doesn’t like feeling wanted? Frank writes.
I consider his words. That was certainly a factor in my negative experiences in the city. I was a drop in the bucket, a dime a dozen, completely replaceable. Few if any people there wanted me for me.
Maybe if they had, I’d still be there.
Thanks, man, I reply to Frank, then navigate back to Bethany’s chat window, armed with new resolve.
I just want you to know, I type, feeling like even in this written format, I’m babbling, that I think you’re really special. I’d love to get to know you better.
Bethany’s response appears almost immediately. How much better? ;)
I swallow hard at the clearly suggestive reply. I gird my loins, gather my courage, and respond with the truth. Intimately. Then I add the most flirty emojis I can think of — eggplant, donut, fire, monkey covering its face, googly eye face.
After I hit send, I wonder if maybe I should have curated the emojis more. I can’t decide if they make me look like a fuck boy or just fucking funny.
I breathe a sigh of relief when Bethany sends back a horde of laughing face emojis.
I want to text her more, but one of the gym’s clients is over at the towel desk, talking to a staff member and pointing at me. I’ve got to use my treadmill or give it up. And I’ve still got to get my workout in.
As much as I hate to do it, I start the machine’s belt again — but not before I send Bethany one last message.
Hey, I adore chatting with you, but I’m at the gym. Pretty sure I might get tarred and feathered if I don’t actually use the treadmill I’m on. Can I text you later?
Bethany replies, You can text me any time you want. ;)
Despite the incline and speed of the treadmill, my cock hardens at her words.
Damn. Forget fucking funny — I’m fucking lucky.
This workout can’t go by fast enough. I’m eager to text her when I get home. I expect it’s going to be a long night, and I’m not even a little sorry about it.
Bethany
“Hurry up,” I say to Tansy, practically pulling her into a run as we rush from the staff parking lot through the back entrance to Santa’s Workshop. “I can’t wait to see Sexton.”
“Okay, okay,” she protests, “but I don’t want to break an ankle before we get there. Slow down, lady.”
I slow my pace, barely. She rolls her eyes at me.
Once again we take the long way to Santa’s Photo Shop so we can swing by the reindeer barn. After the way things went last night, I expect he’ll have a warm welcome ready for me.
“You really texted with him all night?” She leans in close so none of our coworkers overhear.
My cheeks heat. “I mean . . . not all night.”
Mischief dances in her eyes. “But late?”
I can’t stop a grin from spreading across my face. “Yeah. Really late.” I’ve never been happier to feel exhausted.
She squeals and performs a happy dance in place. “I’m so excited for you! What’d you talk about?”
My ears suddenly feel like they’re on fire. Because we’d texted about everything from his life in New York City before he came to Santa’s Workshop, how my growing up years one town over in the much more developed Wilmington compared to his here in North Pole, and even about my side gig as a romance writer.
Then we got to talking about how I feel like a fraud, writing about true love when I’ve never experienced it myself. Sure, I’ve had boyfriends, but never one that stuck. Never one that felt like the one.
To my surprise, Sexton had shared the same. That he’d felt so isolated in the city, invisible. I can’t imagine a stud muffin like him ever getting overlooked. Strangely, it makes me feel better to know that even a paragon of a man like Sexton can feel lonely, disconnected, and unsatisfied.
Then, three glasses of wine into our text conversation, I’d started waxing poetic about how it felt so right for us to have found each other, that it felt like fate.
He’d said he was feeling the same, that meeting me was not a gift he’d expected Santa drop down his chimney but one that he’s grateful for all the same.
Giggling, I’d told Sexton I wanted him to drop into my chimney.
Then I asked for a dick pic.
And he sent one.
I saved it to my phone’s Favorites album.
Tansy doesn’t miss my discomfort. “Oh my gosh, did you get naughty last night?” she gapes.
I cringe, thinking of the pic I’d sent Sexton, the one where you can see everything I’ve got to offer, from my modest breasts to the one-hundred percent natural thatch curling over my nethers. “Er, maybe a little.”
Tansy leans closer. “You slept together?”
“No.” My gaze slides to meet hers and I smirk. “Not yet.”
Another happy dance. “Damn, you’re living your dream and I’m so jealous.” She stops dancing, face serious. “I mean, good-jealous. Like where I want the best for you. Because I totally do. And you give me hope that I’ll find the same.”
“I have no doubt that you’ll be snapped up by some lucky guy before long. Any man would be a fool not to.” I purposely bump into my friend in a reassuring way. Then I sigh in a swoon sort of way. “Sexton is fucking glorious.”
She grins. “Plenty of fodder for your writing then?”
I think of how he bade me good night, saying he needed to get some sleep so he can best appreciate me in the morning.
Which is today.
And I also recall how I fingered myself to sleep, impatient for the day that it’ll be his fingers on my clit taking me to new heights.
We round the corner and I stop in my tracks because there he is, brushing down one of the reindeer.
Sexton Kail, the man of my literal dreams. He showed up in them after I finally fell asleep last night, whispering sweet nothings and adorning my neck with kisses.
I shiver at the memory.
Tansy’s staring at me. “What are you waiting for? Get over there!” She nudges me with an elbow.
I’m nervous. Suddenly I fear that it wasn’t Sexton that I was texting all night, that it’s all some cosmic misunderstanding. Because surely a hunk of a man like him couldn’t possibly be interested in a mortal like me.
I force my feet forward, traversing the cobblestoned walk between us.
He doesn’t look up as I step under the barn’s awning.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to speak. “Hey, Sexton.” My voice sounds thin, reedy, ready to be blown away by the slightest wintry breeze.
He finally lifts his eyes, but when they meet mine, they don’t light as I expect. “Oh,” he says, the single syllable dull. “Hey.”
I paste what I hope is a seductive smile on my face, pushing one hip out and planting a hand on it. Is this sexy? I have no idea. My smile grows wider, more desperate. “I loved talking to you yesterday.”
Should I wink? Is winking a sensual thing these days or just creepy? I refrain, just in case.