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Authors: Chance Carter
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little higher than I’d intended. “Because guys like you are constantly hinting and implying that we should.”
“I don’t hint.”
“You just told me that I could be way hotter if I had surgery.”
“You could. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re beautiful now.”
“But doesn’t it imply that I’m not beautiful, if you can think of fifty things I could do to improve myself?”
“Oh, don’t take this personally, Lacey. I’m just telling you what I do for a living. The world I inhabit. I’m not calling you ugly.”
God, was this what dating was like these days?
“You know, there was a time when men told women on dates that they were beautiful. You’re telling me I’m not ugly, and that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No, it’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all.”
The waiter came over, and it was a good thing he did, because I was about to fling my glass of water across the table at Rob. I was fuming. He’d unwittingly hit a raw nerve. I don’t know how it is for all women, but I’m incredibly self-conscious about my appearance. No matter how hard I try, and no matter how beautiful I feel, there are still things about my body that I’m sensitive about. I’ve struggled with my weight all my life. I’ve obsessed about this and that defect. Did he even appreciate the fact that I’d spent over an hour making myself as beautiful as I could for this date? Did he think it was easy? Did he think all girls were supermodels who just fell out of bed looking beautiful?
I fucking put myself on the line coming out to meet him. He was rich, handsome, successful. I’ll admit it. He was a little intimidating. Saying I could do things to improve my appearance, even mentioning the word cellulite , was not cool.
“Can I get you another glass of wine, Madam?” the waiter said.
I turned my wrath on the waiter. The poor guy didn’t know what hit him.
“Exactly when did I go from being Miss to being Madam? I’m thirty-four.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry Miss. I meant no disrespect whatsoever.”
I shook my head. I was losing it. I was making a complete fool of myself.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the waiter. “It wasn’t you. I’m just having a bad day.”
Rob spoke up. “You better bring us a bottle of your finest chardonnay,” he said.
I nodded. More wine would mean I couldn’t drive myself home, but whatever. I obviously needed a drink.
Chapter 12
Lacey
I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH of that bottle of wine Rob drank, but I definitely had too much. I had to lean on him as we left the restaurant. I stumbled on the step.
“Valet,” I said, but he was already shaking his head. “I can’t give you your keys, Miss. You’ll have to pick up your car in the morning.”
“What? How am I going to get home?”
The valet looked at Rob, then back at me. “I can certainly call you a cab.”
“A cab? I live in Socorro Valley.”
All right. I’ll admit it. It wasn’t my proudest moment. In fact, I was feeling completely pathetic. I was drunk. I didn’t feel particularly beautiful because of the whole cosmetic surgery debate. And I was also still feeling completely rejected by Grant, because I couldn’t think of a way to make him want anything more than a one night stand with me. It had been a tough couple of weeks. I wasn’t at my best.
So please don’t judge me when I say I was making a big deal about not wanting a taxi for one reason only. I wanted Rob to offer me a ride. And not just a ride home. I wanted him to get me in his car, take me to his apartment, and fuck me.
Was I attracted to him? Not particularly.
Had I enjoyed my date with him? Not particularly.
Should I have wanted to get in his car? No, I should not have.
I should have had more dignity than that. More self-worth. But I just felt like such a loser. And when you feel like that, there’s nothing better than a sloppy one night stand with a guy who
“I don’t hint.”
“You just told me that I could be way hotter if I had surgery.”
“You could. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re beautiful now.”
“But doesn’t it imply that I’m not beautiful, if you can think of fifty things I could do to improve myself?”
“Oh, don’t take this personally, Lacey. I’m just telling you what I do for a living. The world I inhabit. I’m not calling you ugly.”
God, was this what dating was like these days?
“You know, there was a time when men told women on dates that they were beautiful. You’re telling me I’m not ugly, and that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No, it’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all.”
The waiter came over, and it was a good thing he did, because I was about to fling my glass of water across the table at Rob. I was fuming. He’d unwittingly hit a raw nerve. I don’t know how it is for all women, but I’m incredibly self-conscious about my appearance. No matter how hard I try, and no matter how beautiful I feel, there are still things about my body that I’m sensitive about. I’ve struggled with my weight all my life. I’ve obsessed about this and that defect. Did he even appreciate the fact that I’d spent over an hour making myself as beautiful as I could for this date? Did he think it was easy? Did he think all girls were supermodels who just fell out of bed looking beautiful?
I fucking put myself on the line coming out to meet him. He was rich, handsome, successful. I’ll admit it. He was a little intimidating. Saying I could do things to improve my appearance, even mentioning the word cellulite , was not cool.
“Can I get you another glass of wine, Madam?” the waiter said.
I turned my wrath on the waiter. The poor guy didn’t know what hit him.
“Exactly when did I go from being Miss to being Madam? I’m thirty-four.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry Miss. I meant no disrespect whatsoever.”
I shook my head. I was losing it. I was making a complete fool of myself.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the waiter. “It wasn’t you. I’m just having a bad day.”
Rob spoke up. “You better bring us a bottle of your finest chardonnay,” he said.
I nodded. More wine would mean I couldn’t drive myself home, but whatever. I obviously needed a drink.
Chapter 12
Lacey
I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH of that bottle of wine Rob drank, but I definitely had too much. I had to lean on him as we left the restaurant. I stumbled on the step.
“Valet,” I said, but he was already shaking his head. “I can’t give you your keys, Miss. You’ll have to pick up your car in the morning.”
“What? How am I going to get home?”
The valet looked at Rob, then back at me. “I can certainly call you a cab.”
“A cab? I live in Socorro Valley.”
All right. I’ll admit it. It wasn’t my proudest moment. In fact, I was feeling completely pathetic. I was drunk. I didn’t feel particularly beautiful because of the whole cosmetic surgery debate. And I was also still feeling completely rejected by Grant, because I couldn’t think of a way to make him want anything more than a one night stand with me. It had been a tough couple of weeks. I wasn’t at my best.
So please don’t judge me when I say I was making a big deal about not wanting a taxi for one reason only. I wanted Rob to offer me a ride. And not just a ride home. I wanted him to get me in his car, take me to his apartment, and fuck me.
Was I attracted to him? Not particularly.
Had I enjoyed my date with him? Not particularly.
Should I have wanted to get in his car? No, I should not have.
I should have had more dignity than that. More self-worth. But I just felt like such a loser. And when you feel like that, there’s nothing better than a sloppy one night stand with a guy who
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