I was organizing files at the doctorâs office the next day when my phone buzzed again.
Monroe Bardot, the text read from the same number as last night.
I stiffened.
He sent a meme of a guy holding up his hands in front of him, placatingly.
I rolled my eyes at his attempt at charm and glanced around the room.
I was alone in the front office, and it was a slow morning; only one patient sat in the waiting room, and theyâd already checked in.
I inwardly shrugged. I guess I could play along for a little longer in the name of socialization and distraction.
You must be pretty desperate if you think texting a random stranger is the universe giving you good vibes, I typed out.
He sent back the picture Iâd sent him last night.
For some reason, a blush spread across my cheeks. Iâd been called âhotâ in my life quite a few times. But, his âfucking gorgeousâ hit me a little harder.
I thought you said you didnât want to see wrinkled old balls, he quickly typed back.
A giggle escaped my lips. I glanced around again to make sure no one had come in and heard me. Although anyone who did would probably faint if they saw me doing anything other than work.
He sent me a picture of a forehead, golden hair cut in a sexy hot guy style falling in gentle waves against tan skin. The golden strands glimmered even in the picture, like he had a spotlight shining on him. Iâd never imagined being attracted to a forehead and a little hairâ¦but here I was.
To my surprise, I got a picture of his leg next, showcasing powerful thighs that were, in fact, drool-worthy. They were sculpted and toned, every muscle visible beneath his skin.
I can do that too, I wrote, sending a picture of my big toe.
LOL, he typed back. I just spit my protein drink all over my best friend.
So how long are we going back and forth before you send me what you look like? I asked.
I giggled again, shaking my head and quickly sending him a gif of a gross looking blonde guy.
This was definitely more than Iâd smiled in a year. I really was desperate.
Just then, my coworker Angel came in.
I gotta get back to work, I quickly typed out before throwing my phone in my purse.
I stayed busy for the rest of the day, pushing all thoughts of the charming stranger out of my head.
It was finally time to leave. I opened the door only to realize it was pouring rain. Normally, I walked to the bus stop, but I had my rented laptop with me today so I could finish the homework I didnât get to last nightâ¦and I couldnât afford to ruin it.
Deciding I had to wait it out since I couldnât afford a cab, I sat on a chair by the door and stared at my phone.
The stranger had sent a few texts since Iâd last looked. Random tidbits about his dayâ¦like we really were friends.
Itâs raining, I inanely texted.
That it is, he immediately answered back, as if heâd been waiting for my text since the moment Iâd stopped. Did that mean he also lived in Dallas? Oh, I guess his area code was 817, I hadnât noticed that last nightâ¦which meant that he could be somewhere in the city right now. Something that faintly resembled butterflies, stirred around in my chest at that thought.
I read through more of the texts heâd sent since Iâd been working. There were a couple of pretty funny memes. But still, no picture. I decided to let it go for now.
There was a long silence.
I scoffed.
Dark pink, he quickly responded. I frowned. That was my favorite color.
I bet itâs really hot, he said with a wink face.
I groaned and pulled up the Weather Channel. Sure enough, it was forecasted to rain until tomorrow morning.
I snorted.
I frowned at his comment. Was this some famous person that had accidentally texted me? Once again, I reminded myself that I shouldnât be talking to a stranger anyway.
I really donât know who you are, I texted. And unless youâre a thigh or forehead supermodel, Iâm not sure that Iâm going to recognize you by what youâve sent.
So you follow thigh and forehead models? he asked with a laughing face.
Another one of those new weird snorts came out of my nose.
What followed was the hottest thing Iâd ever seen.
Now I knew that eight packs werenât real; at least, not according to my science textbook in high school that weirdly outlined that sort of thing. They were a myth. But I felt like writing the publisher at that moment, because what I was seeing could only be categorized as that. In the picture, heâd lifted his shirt, showcasing a pair of tan, perfect abs that made Michelangeloâs sculptures look like heâd gotten it all wrong. Even the arm in the picture was hot, chiseled and strong, tattoos all over. There was the bottom of what looked like butterfly wings poking out from under his lifted shirt. I never wouldâve thought of a butterfly tattoo as hot, but here was living proof that on the right guy, it could be everything.
Please tell me that pictureâs really you, I quickly typed back.
You liked it, he said with a wink emoji.
If you could read emotion in that innocuous text, and I wasnât sure you could, there was almost something vulnerable to that.
How old are you? I texted back, since I seemed to be the only one offering information at that point.
24, he quickly typed.
I snorted and rooted around for a plastic bag in the supply closet, doing a fist pump when I found one from a bag of drugs a medical salesman had dropped off that day.
Todayâs my lucky day. I found a bag, I texted, wondering why I felt so comfortable with this guy. I was freaking texting him about a plastic bag, like he would care.
Be careful out there, he immediately responded.
Good girl, he texted.
Heat rushed through me. I told myself it was the abs picture heâd probably gotten off the Internet somewhere. It was the only reasonable explanation for why two words could hit me like that.
Pushing those thoughts far away, I forced myself not to go any further down that path. Weâd probably stop talking to each other by tomorrow, no need to get attached to the phone stranger now.
I set off down the street, decidedly not thinking about the fact that a perfect stranger had turned me on more than Iâd ever been in my entire life.
Just with two wordsâ¦