She’s late.
Whoever Gareth is sending in his stead is five minutes behind schedule and it takes my mood from bad to worse.
I suck in a breath of the sultry, tarry air, reminding myself it isn’t this person’s fault that I woke up harder than rock with my erstwhile lover nowhere to be seen.
I should be grateful—I hate the ‘morning after,’ the awkwardness of extricating myself without leaving a phone number, the conversation about, ‘Thanks, I’m just not in a place where I can commit to anyone right now...’
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