Page 7 of How to Date a Younger Man
“That’s fucking nuts.”
“He had a tiny man bun. I should have known.”
“A man bun? Oh, Layne, sweetie, why?”
“I’m thirty-three, Kris! If it’s taken me this long to find someone, clearly I need to start casting a wider net.”
“Or maybe you just need to throw the net in a different direction.”
“Listen, if any part of me were attracted to women, I’d already be married with a couple of kids by now.”
We both laugh, and my mind wanders to the man candy again. Something tells me a younger man isn’t what Kristen means by a different direction. But for a moment, I consider telling her about the whole ordeal, from the magic of his hands on my skin to the shock of him asking me out afterward. It was certainly the most interesting thing to happen to me in recent history.
But she launches into one of her latest dating horror stories—a guy who not only insisted on ordering the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu, but also expected her to pay for it—and I decide not to tell her. I can’t quite decide if the whole thing is flattering or embarrassing, and at this point, I don’t want help finding out.
Once she wraps up her story, a waiter comes by to see if we need another round. We’ve downed two bowls of popcorn by this point, but my stomach is still growling. Something tells me that one more drink will go straight to my head, and I have to drive home after this.
“I’m okay,” I say, closing the cocktail menu and glancing at Kristen.
“Me too.” She smiles as we hand the menus to the waiter.
He places our check on the table, and I barely beat her in grabbing it first, quickly slipping him my credit card before she can.
“Too slow, once again,” I tease.
She clucks her tongue and crosses her arms. “Well, that just means I’ll have to pay for takeout at my place. I was thinking Chinese?”
“This is why I love you.”
“Do you think you could give me a ride? My car’s in the shop, so I had to Uber here.”
“Only if you promise we can get at least two orders of spring rolls.”
“The things we do for our friends.” She sighs like it’s some great hardship while I grin at her.
By the time we pull up in front of Kristen’s building, we’ve already placed our order for delivery. She moved into an adorable apartment last year and has spent every waking moment since making it her own. The last time I saw it, she claimed it was still in progress. So now, almost a full year later, I’m excited to see what she’s done with the place.
“Welcome, welcome!” she squeals as we walk through the door, instantly greeted by the subtle yet calming scents of eucalyptus and lavender. We hang our purses on the iron coat rack in the corner, the first stop on the grand tour.
“It smells like a freaking spa in here,” I say, admiring the seascape artwork she has hanging near the entryway.
“Oh, that’s all my baby brother. I bought an aromatherapy machine ages ago but never got around to actually using it. He just graduated from Northwestern and is crashing with me for a few weeks while he looks for his own place.”
I follow her into the kitchen, which isn’t huge, by any means, but a good size for one person. Copper pots hang from a rack on the wall, giving the space a warm, homey vibe. We then move to the living room, with a plush cream couch and a warm sand-colored rug over the hardwood floors. She’s painted the one brick wall the same shade as the couch and strung some cool-looking yarn artwork across it.
The place is perfect for her, both in size and style, and I’m so happy she’s finally living where and how she wants. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is the smell. The spa vibe fits with her style, but something about it feels a little . . . off.
“They teach the art of essential oils at Northwestern?”
“Not quite,” a male voice answers from around the corner. It’s low and calm, and eerily familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it before.
A tall, dark-haired figure steps forward. I was so busy admiring Kristen’s artistic eye, I didn’t see him when we first walked in.
I turn to apologize for not noticing him sooner, but stop dead in my tracks when I lay eyes on his face. He has greenish-blue eyes, almost turquoise, and brown hair that’s close-cropped on the sides and longer on top. But more than anything, it’s his body I can’t get over—because I’ve spent the past few days fantasizing about it. Even without the black T-shirt, I’d recognize those biceps anywhere.
It’s him. the massage therapist. Here. In Kristen’s apartment.
