The annoying sound of my alarm pulls me from the deepest sleep I’ve had in a long time.
“God, not again,” I groan as I roll over and feel for my clock to turn off the alarm. I was so close to finishing this time. This is the third sex dream about my boss in as many weeks. At first I thought it was just a stupid brain dump after spending a few late nights in his office, being surrounded by his scent and close proximity, but now… I think it’s something more. Something I can’t help but blush about when I remember the way he had me convulsing in pleasure on his desk.
I’ve always had an attraction to Theo; it’s almost like biology didn’t give me a choice. He’s pushing six four and built like Chris Evans. Yeah, it’s disgustingly unfair. His eyes are a shade of gold I’ve never seen before and sometimes, I feel like they linger on me a second longer than needed but maybe that’s all in my head. His thick black hair still doesn’t have a single gray and his Disney prince-like jaw could probably cut glass. I’ve pretty much only ever seen him fully clothed but I would bet money he’s got the most mouthwatering six-pack beneath his bespoke suits with the way he wears them. And judging by the small patch of black hair at the base of his neck, I’d guess he has a perfect little happy trail that leads alllll the way down to his huge… I roll to my side and look at the clock on my bedside table to check and see if I have time to finish what I started in my dream.
“Shit.” It’s going on six a.m. already and I like to be at the office by eight. I need to get my ass in gear if I don’t want to sprint for my train.
I roll to my back and stare up at the bright-white ceiling, trying to work up the energy to get out of bed. With a little mental pep talk, I manage to sit up and get my feet on the floor. First stop, coffee. The scent wafting from my kitchen already has me in a better mood. I have my coffee pot set on a timer so by the time I reach the kitchen, it’s already done brewing. I’m not one of those just a splash of cream type girls. I like it rich, sweet, and creamy. My recent obsession is a Madagascar vanilla creamer with a dash of cinnamon on top. I reach into the fridge, deciding that today calls for a healthy dollop of whipped cream on top, and then I squirt a generous amount directly into my mouth before placing it back in the fridge.
I place my cup of coffee on the highest shelf in the shower and climb in. My little routine makes getting up at the ass crack of dawn bearable. I bring my coffee into the shower with me so that I can savor little sips while I wash and shave. It’s like a little spa experience in my head—only there’s no plinky music and fresh cucumbers. By the time I’m showered, slathered in lotions, creams, and serums, I’ve finished my first cup and am heading to the kitchen for the second.
I take my second cup of coffee to my room and sip on it as I open my iPad and hit the Spotify app and select a Women of Pop playlist. The first song that comes up is “Work from Home” by Fifth Harmony and I grab my hairbrush to sing along as I dance around the room.
I love all things girly—the makeup, cute clothes, and bright colors. To me, fashion is a way to express myself. I love my job, but it’s not very creative so being able to doll myself up and add a punch of color with bright-red lips or a bold smoky eye is a form of self-expression. Also, I’m not one of those dab on some lip gloss and mascara kind of girls and run out the door. I like to take my time, choose the perfect lip color with the perfect outfit, and make sure I feel and look my best before I head out the door.
I place a few drops of Argon oil in my palms, running it through my bouncy barrel curls before walking over to pick out an outfit from my closet. I’ve never been one of those stick-thin girls and I never will be. For years I struggled with the fact that I matured before anyone else in my class. I went to great lengths to try and hide my body, but it was no use. They didn’t exactly make clothes for girls in sixth grade that already had D’s. It wasn’t until I was forced to defend myself that I realized how grateful I am for the body I have. It’s healthy, gets me places I need to go, and looks fucking phenomenal in a pencil skirt.
I’ll never forget the second day of my sophomore year in high school. Kyle Westmore, the class jerk-off, told me that if I wasn’t careful, the friction between my thighs was going to start a fire. I just ignored the comment, but my friend Whitney told him to fuck off and that he wished he was the reason for the friction between my thighs. I tried hiding my giggle, but Kyle saw it and replied with, “No, thanks, I don’t date fat chicks.”
And that was the day, the exact moment actually, that I gave up trying to hide or care about what others thought of me. I’ll never forget the surge of courage I got in that moment. I froze, turned around, and marched right back up to Kyle and told him that maybe if he had half as much dick in his pants as he did in his personality, a girl like me might consider him. The crowd that had gathered around us laughed and jeered as Kyle slammed his locker and shouted some unmemorable comment back to me.
I giggle to myself, grabbing my favorite red heels, or as my best friend likes to call them, fuck me pumps, and slip them on with my high-waisted pencil skirt and polka-dot blouse. Looking myself over in the mirror, I smile with excitement. I look like I just stepped out of the fifties and I love it.
I gather my things for work, pour my unfinished cup of coffee in a to-go cup, and leave my tiny apartment to make my train on time. I’m a few minutes early so I take a seat on my usual bench and pull out the newest book I picked up from a local bookstore. It’s about an ordinary girl who meets and falls for a guy who just so happens to be a prince. I know it’s unrealistic but hey, that’s why we read romance, right? To get lost in the fantastical stories about average people falling in love with a secret prince and dirty scenes so hot you have to fan yourself so your cheeks don’t catch on fire.
My phone beeps from my bag and I suddenly remember that I forgot to take it out yesterday and charge it. There’s no telling how many calls and messages I’ve missed in the last twelve hours. I just hope none of them were about work. I pull the phone out of my bag and notice the battery bar on the top of the screen is red. It’s on its last bit of life and I remind myself to plug it in the moment I get to my desk. What captures my attention next is the fourteen missed calls and the nine unread messages—all from the same person. My ex, Penn.
My stomach tightens when I see his name. It’s not the fact that he’s reaching out to me that’s bothering me; it’s the feeling that his behavior is becoming unhinged and erratic. It’s not normal in the slightest to call someone fourteen times outside of an emergency, especially someone you broke up with seven months ago.
Penn and I had what I thought was a good relationship—until it wasn’t. We met four years ago and started dating pretty much immediately. I felt like we had an instant chemistry and connection that I’d never experienced before, but really, I only felt that way because he constantly told me that’s how he felt. I’ve since learned it’s what my therapist calls “love bombing.” It’s a trick narcissists use to make you feel like what you have with them is so special and can never be recreated and it slowly turns into guilt and manipulation to keep you with them.
He really is a nice guy—or was a nice guy. I have to remind myself constantly that being controlling, projecting his insecurities, and making ridiculous accusations isn’t being nice. It felt like he changed somewhere along the way and I completely missed it, but my therapist also told me that this is what narcissists do. He hid who he was from me until he’d gained my trust.