M: You’re evil for that one.
R: Have any specific place in mind?
I think furiously. I was so nervous about just asking her that I didn’t even think about where and when and how.
M: How about tomorrow afternoon at the Alex Lighthouse bookstore? That way, you’ve got a big public space for safety.
R: And they’ve got that kickass cafe. Five thirty?
M: Perfect. I think I’m going to skip story time tonight in favor of a cold shower.
R: I think I’m going to go for a bubble bath before bed. And before you start thinking that sounds sexy, I’ll have a charcoal mask on my face, cucumber slices on my eyes, and scrub on my lips. I’ve got a hot date I want to impress.
M: Guess I’ll have to brush my teeth then too. <wink emoji> G’night.
R: G’night.
I take a shower and do a bit more work to calm down my jittery nerves. Still, as I lie down and try and get some sleep, it’s thoughts of Rachel and the stirrings she’s causing me to feel in my chest, in my brain, and yes, in my still half-hard cock, that are on my mind.
Suddenly, my phone dings . . . it’s her.
R: One last goodnight. You’ve been on my mind while I took my bath. How will I recognize you and you recognize me?
M: I’ll wear a blue tie.
R: I’ll wear a blue dress since it’ll look good with my hair. <wink emoji> See you tomorrow. <lipstick kiss emoji>
Chapter 7
Riley
I’m nowhere near ‘big time’ as far as influencers go. In fact, sponsored posts make up less than a third of my monthly income. I still have to earn my money the old-fashioned way, driving traffic to my social media and getting percentage kickbacks on views, likes, and shares. But with my followers growing, that could change. More sponsorships—carefully cultivated ones, of course—can add name recognition to an online personality, leading new followers to a page like ants to a cake at a picnic.
Like this makeup from Joroast Cosmetics. All-organic, animal friendly . . . and so luscious and pretty that as I touch up my eyelashes, I feel sexy and feminine, exactly what I want to feel today.
And I need it. Because as excited as I am about meeting Mark for the first time in person, I’m also nervous.
What if I don’t meet his expectations?
What if he doesn’t meet mine?
What if he’s a psycho killer who’s going to leave my dead body by the river?
“Well, if that’s the case,” I tell my reflection as I cap my mascara and go hunting for the right shade of lipstick, “at least I’m going to be one fabulous looking corpse. What do you think, Raffy?”
Raffy, who has been perched on my queen-sized bed this whole time, watches me intently, probably wondering what I’m doing. He doesn’t even pick his head up from his fluffy paws, but he knows when a reaction is expected and gives me a half-hearted “Rowf!”
“Thanks, but I would like a few more details than that,” I tease, going over to rub behind his ears. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you, boy?”
Raffy affirms for me that yes, I do look cute and that yes, if I do end up abandoned on the bank of the river, his life’s never going to be the same. Most likely because nobody will baby him the way I do.
“Okay, then let’s finish filming my final look.” I’m pulling some double duty today, using my sponsored make-up to get ready for my date but also filming a ‘get ready with me’ video. I just need a shot of the completed look and I’ll be ready to edit the full video into one seamless video with transitions from phase to phase.
I find the right angle on my halo light and use the Bluetooth remote to set the timer on my phone’s camera. Three, two, one . . . pose and click. I reset it to go again and do another pose. And then a third and fourth. Flipping through them, I decide the third one’s the charm and send it to my laptop.
“Raffy, come here, baby,” I tell him. He glares at me, and with a huff of annoyance, he gets up and hops off the bed to come over. But then he stops to stretch, and I encourage him, “You want to be in a picture with Mama? Of course you do!”
He’s a diva in training, minus the training part, and he loves his fans. Mostly because they send him treats. Scooping him up, I hold him at arm’s length and look into his little face. “You’ll always be my number-one boy, right?”
“Rawf!” That gets a more enthusiastic reaction, and I snuggle him in close.
Grinning, I reset my camera and then use the remote to make my phone beep. The noise gets Raffy’s attention, and he looks directly at the camera, right on cue. I have just enough time to smile and pose myself before Raffy starts squirming. It takes more than three tries, but in the end, I have a good one, me smiling to the camera while Raffy looks adorable in my arms.
I send that one to my laptop too. After Raffy’s approval. “Who’s the best doggy model in the world? That’s right, you are.” I set him down, and he jumps right back on the bed and continues with his half-asleep nap. Only half-asleep because if I make a move toward the kitchen or crinkle a food wrapper, he’d be at my feet, begging for a bite, in less than a blink.
I finish the video quickly, posting it to my page with all the appropriate hashtags, including Joroast Cosmetics.
Now that that’s done, there’s no more stalling from nerves or rushing around with excitement. I have just enough time to grab yellow sandals from the back of my closet and slip them on my feet. No socks today, and no Docs, which feels weird, but dressing up for Mark seems like the right thing to do.
I’m also hoping that without my identifiable markers, maybe he won’t recognize me right off the bat and I can explain my work and the fake name. Of course, there’s always the chance that even if I went into the date in full ‘Riley Sunshine’ mode, he still might not know who I am. But I can’t count on that.
Not when it’s this important.
I take a few laps around the apartment, on wood floors and rugs, to be sure I haven’t forgotten how to walk in these things. It’s been at least a year since I’ve worn heels.
Nothing would be more embarrassing than falling on my butt just as Mark and I meet because I’ve forgotten how to walk in heels. I remember falling at the home last week—in my boots, mind you—and make a few more trips from the kitchen down the hallway, using it as a runway. “Okay, I think I’m ready,” I tell Raffy.
Raffy assures me that I’m going to be fine, that Mark’s not going to be a one-eyed Phantom of the Opera, and that even if he is, I’ve got a big boy who’ll give me kisses at home. Or at least that’s how I’m choosing to read his yawn and repositioning to lie on his back with his belly exposed. His head is on my pillow, keeping it warm for me.
I give myself one last lookover in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. Hair, blonde and curled. Makeup, on point, literally photo-ready. Blue dress, like I said I’d wear. Yellow heels, yellow nails, and a tiny gold sun necklace at my throat. I’m still me, Riley, just not the full-throttle Riley Sunshine.
I figure that Mark will be in a suit, coming from the office. Knowing that helped guide my dress choice in that it’s demure but still has enough of a V-cut in the bodice that it’s sexy too. As Eli likes to joke, I could go to the church picnic, but probably not Sunday services. I don’t think Eli has ever been to either, so I’m not sure how he’d know.