6. Autocorrect on Steroids, Minus the Autocorrect
AUTOCORRECT ON STEROIDS, MINUS THE AUTOCORRECT
WILLA
Me: Slay my own dragons, that is.
Exton: …which is why you’d be easy to fall for. A man loves when a woman knows who she is. And what she wants.
Exton: whersjhuyieowskld
Exton: jasdfakljposa
Me: Huh?
There was banter. And then there was autocorrect on steroids, minus the autocorrect.
“Tell me more,” I say, turning back to Jackie as we have brunch at another posh spot requesting her promotion.
The staff is once again catering to us so she’ll say great things.
How she got to two million followers, I’ll never know.
My Instagram account has less than twenty thousand.
I don’t have nearly that many customers, but the mentions and DMs are too much to keep up with and the fake appointments got so ridiculous I started charging prospective clients for booking time with me and requiring a consult prior to any work.
Walk-ins are different, but the people who come from social media are a whole other ballgame.
“No way. You’ve stalled long enough. Tell me about last night.”
My hesitancy surprises her. I’m not shy and I’ve never been afraid to kiss and tell.
It’s physical. It’s biological. It’s a sexual release, though I don’t release nearly as much as I’d like.
Hell, since breaking it off with Paul, it’s been none.
Well, except for last night. If it had been no big deal, I’d have already shared every detail, so my reticence is noted.
“He is more in control than any man I’ve met.”
“Like a Dom?”
“No. His demeanor, his temperament. He’s a man, not a boy.”
“Duh. That was obvious.”
“No, I’m not explaining it correctly.” She’s not getting it. “He controls himself. He’s settled in who he is.”
“Was he good? Never mind! I heard the evidence. How good was he?”
“Ladies, how’s everything here? Can I take any of your plates? Refill your drinks?” The waiter’s hand flashes out as if it would be his greatest joy in life to remove a single discarded knife.
I set my hand out between his eager one and my plate. “Still working on it,” I say.
Jackie pulls her hands into her lap and nods as he whisks her barely touched platter from in front of her. “Another champagne, please.”
He bobs his head and leaves as I turn to her. “You’re not eating. You didn’t last night either. What’s going on?”
“Nice try. Back to you. Tell me everything.”
“He’s in town for a few days. Can’t become anything serious. But I wish…”
“Oh.” It doesn’t come off as disappointed as I would think, seeing as how she’s been my best friend since we were in the third grade.
The waiter drops a fresh glass of champagne on the table in front of Jackie and raises his eyebrows in question to me, as if willing me to finish.
“Thank you,” I say, in essence dismissing him, and turn back to her.
“About Jon? Do I want to know?
“Probably not, since he’s your friend.”
“Client. He’s my client.”
“Still. He was good. No kink. Straight missionary sex. It was fine.”
I can’t think of much that’s worse than fine, but I don’t say that when I’m fairly certain I had a G-spot orgasm as my fourth or fifth of the night. Like all things with Exton Ranger, he’s trying to ruin me for any man who comes after him.
“Are you going to see him again?”
Her attention is diverted, and she stiffens, but forces her shoulders down and replies, “No. Maybe. Probably not. I’m going back to New York soon, so I don’t see why.”
“Willa?”
I look into the face of my ex, who I did everything but file a restraining order on, and drop my fork. “Paul?”
Jackie looks between Paul and me. It’s been years since the three of us were in a room together.
She took off for NYC, and I moved to Austin not long after.
For me, it was right after I broke up with Paul.
She knows the stories from after she left.
There were threats. There were moments he was too rough.
Nothing I couldn’t handle, but no girl should ever have to handle that kind of shit anyway.
I could read those signs and it wasn’t something I cared to live again, so I cut ties, uprooted myself, and built a new life in Austin.
“What are you doing here?” Jackie says, her usually big personality diminutive in the face of Paul’s shifty demeanor.
“Thought I’d find you here.” He smiles at me, but it’s cold, and his eyes hold no kindness.
He looks disheveled, certainly too unkempt for this kind of place.
His face is weary and his hair isn’t even brushed.
In fact, his average looks, average build, average clothes look worse than normal, like something left in the sun too long—faded, cracked, and stretched.
“Why were you looking?” I hold his gaze, lift my chin in defiance, and ball my hands into fists on the table.
“We need to talk.”
“We,” I emphasize, gesturing between us, and wait for his acknowledgement. “Don’t need to do anything.”
He sits without invitation from either Jackie or me. “I want you back.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. I don’t want him in any way, nor do I welcome this intrusion on my time with Jackie. I’m annoyed that he’s so dense that he thinks I’d consider it. “No. You should leave.”
He reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. It verges on painful, and his eyes shine with anger. “No. We need to talk.”
“She asked you to leave,” Jackie says firmly, beginning to twist in her chair and look around the restaurant.
“We’re not talking or doing anything else. And, Paul? If you don’t take your hand off me right now, I’ll file charges. There are witnesses this time, and it will stick. Go. Now.”
“I don’t work for you, Willa, and I need to talk to you.” His grip tightens.
Out of respect for Jackie, because I know she makes her living with this kind of promotion, I don’t make a scene.
It sure as hell isn’t out of any deference to Paul.
I grab the steak knife in my other hand and let the glint of the blade catch the light.
“This is the last time I will tell you. Get your hands off me.”
He releases his grip, but doesn’t leave the chair.
“Stop it, Paul,” Jackie interjects and flags down the restaurant manager.
“Do not make me file a protective order. You don’t want what that buys you. Now leave.”
He looks around, seeing the manager moving our direction, and rises from his chair, leaving through the front door.
I look at the knife in my shaking hand. Paul never saw the tremors. He didn’t see my panic, but the chill that slithers through me makes my mouth go dry. “I’m sorry.”
I down my water, done with this whole situation, and watch Jackie gulp the rest of her champagne.
“He’s an ass. That’s not on you.” She lifts her flute to a waiter, indicating she’d like a refill.
I hold up my fingers as well to the passing server. “Make that two.”