Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I haven’t been having much luck on the dating scene lately, ever since my breakup with my longtime college girlfriend. I thought being twenty-five and single would be a blast, but dating apps are trash and I’ve managed to get nothing but three fake numbers at my favorite bar.
Thankfully, the actual owner of the third fake number was kind enough to reply to let me know I’d texted the wrong number. She was warm and open and expressed curiosity about the fake number I’d been given, so we got to texting. She gave me some flirting advice, so I can get a real number next time. But she was so hot when dispensing her advice, and also so kind, I saved her as Hot Teacher in my phone and mustered the courage to ask her for drinks tonight. Not to get more advice, but to persuade her to give me a shot herself. And she said yes. Well, actually, she said maybe. But I honestly think she’s coming.
Sight unseen, I’m already far more attracted to Hot Teacher than anyone I’ve met on the dating scene, so I’m going to pull out all the stops tonight, if she comes to the bar. The thing is, I might be shy and terrible at flirting, but if Hot Teacher gives me a shot, I’m pretty confident I’ll be able to surprise her behind closed doors. I’ve been studying up so diligently since my breakup, in fact, I’m pretty damned sure I’d be able to blow her beautiful mind, if only she’ll give me the chance.
Textual Relations is a steamy older woman/younger man romantic comedy that will make you laugh out loud, fan yourself, and swoon your way to Grayson and Selena’s happily ever after.
NOTE: Portions of the full-length novel, Textual Relations, originally appeared in Lauren Rowe's much shorter novella, Wrong Number, Right Guy, that was only briefly available.
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1
GRAYSON
Oh, God, no. Not this again.
That’s what I think as I sit on my bed and read the disheartening text that just landed on my phone.
Sorry, Grayson. I’m not Katie. Double-check the number she gave you. If you entered it correctly, then it appears she didn’t “thoroughly enjoy” last night’s “stimulating conversation” at Captain’s as much as you did.
Shit.
Why do women keep giving me fake numbers in bars after what I thought was a great conversation? It’s particularly baffling to me that it could keep happening at Captain’s weekly Singles Night, where everyone ostensibly came for the same reason: to meet other singles.
I know I’m not a “lady killer” sort of guy. I’m shy and on the nerdy side. Plus, I don’t get to the gym nearly as often as I should. But if a woman’s not digging me, then why not say so in the moment, rather than laughing at my jokes and replying “sure thing!” after I’ve mustered the nerve to ask for her number?
If a woman told me to my face she wasn’t feeling it, then I’d be able to ask her why. What better way to improve my flirting game than collecting real-time data from a member of my target demographic? I’d be able to turn rejections into focus groups!
Surely, it’d sting in the moment to hear a woman tell me, in brutal detail, all the reasons she’s not attracted to me. But I’d prefer that brief infliction of pain to leaving the bar with a spring in my step and a fake number in my pocket, only to find out later the woman who smiled and laughed was actually plotting her escape the whole time. Is getting a free cocktail really worth humiliating someone?
Without honest feedback, I’ve got no idea what I’m doing wrong. Is it that I come off as too eager and should slow my roll? Do I need to stop telling women the unglamorous truth about what I do for a living—namely, that I work in the IT department at a law firm—but, instead, tell them I’m something cool, like a racecar driver or audiobook narrator? Or is the problem something unfixable, like my face?
Tipsy women often tell me I’ve got an “adorable” face—a “baby face” they want to pinch, poke, and prod, often while cooing at me like I’m a six-foot puppy. Unfortunately, though, after having their way with my cheeks and dimples, women tend to leave the bar with someone else. Usually, a dude with smooth pick-up lines and confidence oozing out his pores. Guys like my buddy from work, an attorney named Max. He not only has a lucrative job to go with his bad-boy good looks, he’s perfected the art of making women chase him. Mostly, it seems to me, by acting like an arrogant jerk who doesn’t give a shit. And that’s just not me. Never has been, never will be.
A car honks its horn outside my bedroom window, drawing me from my wandering thoughts. With a deep sigh, I return to my phone and tap out a reply to the actual owner of Katie’s fake number.
Me: Thanks for the reply. I definitely texted the right wrong number. Katie entered her number into my phone, and I clicked on it when sending my text. Womp.
Unknown: Aw, that’s a bummer, Grayson. Chin up, though. There’s always next time.
Me: That’s the way the ball bounces. It wasn’t the first time and probably won’t be the last I get a fake number in a bar. It’s rough out there.
Unknown: How many times has this happened to you?
Me: This is the third fake number in about two months. In defense of the women, though, I’m terrible at flirting. I was in a long-term relationship that ended about six months ago, and it seems I’ve got a lot to improve upon in my flirting game.
Unknown: Practice makes perfect! A few more rounds in the ring, and you’ll be back in fighting form in no time.
Me: That assumes I was in “fighting form” at some earlier date, when in fact, I’ve always been lame at flirting.
Unknown: LOL. I’m sure you’re not nearly as lame as you think. Let’s look at the math. How many real phone numbers have you gotten in the same two-month period? In baseball, a batting average of .300 is considered fantastic.
Me: Sadly, it’s been Goose Egg City for me since my relationship ended. The good news, though, if we’re going to use baseball metaphors, is I haven’t been “up to bat” all that many times. I only started stepping up to the plate in earnest two months ago, after discovering weekly Singles Night at Captain’s. It’s much less daunting for a shy person like me to try “swinging my bat” when I know everyone at the bar is single and open to at least chatting.