Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 71688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
My shift flew by. That could have been because I was only working eight hours instead of ten, but I mostly attributed it to the fact that I was in a great mood.
Even though I always made a point of being upbeat at work, my coworkers noticed the change in me, and most of them felt the need to comment on it. Fortunately, Yolanda had the day off. She definitely would have wrung the whole story out of me, and I wasn’t ready to talk about this yet. I didn’t even know what I was doing, so how could I put it into words?
I found myself looking for Theo repeatedly over the next few hours, which was pointless. He’d gone home soon after I left his office, and there was no reason to think he’d return that evening. Even if he did, it would just be awkward. In fact, I didn’t know how we were going to work together this upcoming week…or ever again, really. He’d probably be his usual cold, distant self, and I’d be all distracted remembering how gorgeous he’d looked when my cock was buried in his ass.
Around ten p.m., I took a break and went straight to the locker room to check my phone. When I saw there were no messages, I sat down on the bench and sighed. Then I rolled my eyes and chastised myself. Since when did I act like a teenager, running to my phone to see if a cute boy had called?
I really wanted to hear from him, though.
It wasn’t just that I wanted to fuck him again—although I wanted that desperately. I also just wanted to see him, and touch him, and maybe even manage to have a conversation with him—though that last one seemed like a long shot.
When I returned to the locker room at midnight, he still hadn’t left me a message. I changed back into my street clothes and slung my backpack over my shoulder, then went out to the parking lot and sat in my car. “Come on, Theo,” I muttered, as I stared at my phone screen. “Stop being stubborn and call me.”
I decided to give him a few minutes, so I checked my email to pass the time. There were a bunch of notifications from the hookup app, letting me know I had new messages. I clicked over to the app and deleted my account without bothering to read any of the messages. There was only one person I wanted to hear from, and it seemed he was currently pretending he didn’t want this as much as I did.
Eventually, I gave up and started the engine. I’d made it halfway across the deserted parking lot when my text alert beeped, and I slammed on the brakes and grabbed my phone. The message said: Come over. There was an address beneath those two words.
A moment later, a second message popped up. It said: Or don’t. Whatever.
After a pause, that was followed by: I mean, I want you to, but it’s your call.
I waited a few seconds, and sure enough another message appeared on my screen. It said: This is Theodore Koenig, by the way.
I chuckled and replied: I know it’s you, Theo. I’ll be there in a few minutes.
When I typed the address into Google maps, I was surprised to find he only lived five blocks from me. I put the car into gear and tried not to break every traffic law as I rushed across town.
The pink Victorian was two blocks below Delores Park in the Mission District, and Theo’s house was two blocks above it in Delores Heights, while the park itself was one block wide. I knew finding a parking spot would be impossible this time of night, so I decided to park in the Victorian’s driveway and walk up the hill.
Once I reached his street, I scanned the row of houses and tried to guess which one was Theo’s. This was an upscale neighborhood. Each home was beautiful, well-kept, and stunningly expensive, but there was one that was bigger and nicer than the rest—an immaculate, gray Edwardian with white trim. That just had to be his. A glance at the house numbers proved me right.
I’d always assumed Theo came from a wealthy family, and his home confirmed it. In this ridiculously overinflated housing market, a place like that would have been priced in the millions—unaffordable even on a doctor’s salary.
I stood across the street for a few moments and took it in as I adjusted my backpack. At the top of the stairs, the deep blue front door was framed by two perfect, spiral topiaries in a pair of matching planters. A light was on upstairs, and I could just barely make out someone pacing through the semi-sheer white curtains. It seemed my host was a bit wound up.