Fake It | ✔️

Twenty-Eight | 💋

No.

I couldn't.

Once the mini-series got on air; my identity would be compromised. Maybe I would get additional views? Possible dates.

None of those outcomes tickled my fancy.

Just a brunette with a helper's heart and a delicious name. I craved her melted buckeyes, milk chocolate and peanut butter.

I typed in my phone.

Hey Suga!

It's been awhile. I have updates on our project. Want to come over to my place and chat?

I reread it.

I shook my head.

Seemed too desperate.

Isn't that what I want to say?

Yes.

However too forward.

Any other words to ask? I leaned back on my couch, twisting to my left. Feet and legs propped on the middle seat.

My thumb held down as the words disappeared.

Instead, I wrote. Clicking followed my movements.

Want to come over?

Ugh. This was bad.

I held down the button. Waiting for the clicking noise, I heard a "swoosh" instead.

The message sent.

Crap. Crap! No! No!

I jumped up from the couch. My phone slipped from my hands, hitting the couch's cushions. It bounced once before staying still. The screen dimmed. I held both of my hands in front of my mouth. Curse words all over the spectrum flowed in my brain.

I can't delete it. Who invented text messages? Especially without a delete right away?!

My fingers laced through my hair, the ends standing up as I continued the motion. A pattern. Root to end. Root to end. Somehow the gesture seemed to ease me of this bad circumstance.

I know! I'll add another sentence.

I picked up my phone.

Underneath my message, it said delivered. I had a chance. She hadn't read it yet. Need to say something else. Without coming across needy and desperate . . . and creepy.

"What kind of a man are you? Getting too skittish."

I grind my teeth. That voice. Deep, quick to slice in my gut.

Go away. You're gone. Go away.

My fingers typed in a quick response.

Mr. Dalton told us the release date. Also gave me a short clip for the "teaser."

Yeah, that seemed legit.

Nothing too weird. A nice flow. A reason. A purpose for her to come over. Nothing to do with the fact, I wanted to hug her, embrace those warm arms, cashmere aroma inhaling, or her caramel eyes –

My phone lit up. I gulped. I clicked on the green message.

Sugar: Where do you live?

Sent 4:06 PM

What – did she – really ask?

I reread the message three times. Actually, seven. I locked my phone and opened it again. To make sure my eyes weren't reading something that I wanted her to say. This was reality. Correct?