taste was much broader than mine.
I just headed home alone that night and watched another episode of Game of Thrones, along with the rest of my usual routine.
Part of me wondered if I made the wrong call. What if Enigma really wasn’t just a player. What if he was a nice guy who just wanted to spend a little time to get to know me? With his gorgeous face and smooth, confident nature that would seem a little far-fetched, but I might have missed out if it were the case.
I shrugged away my curiosity and headed for the guest bedroom in my apartment. No matter what his intentions were, what was done was done, and I’d probably never see that guy again.
The guest bedroom had been half converted into an office. There was a still a bed there, and it was decked out in all the girly decorations that I had added when I first moved in, but I had since added a desk, a set of file cabinets, copier, and other office gadgets.
I sat down at the desk, powered up my MacBook, and a smile crept over my face.
I’m sure part of the reason that I blew Enigma off the way I did was because I thought he was a player, but in the back of my mind I knew the real detractor of interest was because of my little secret.
Dante.
I had been talking to Dante for 6 months already, and Kim had no idea. There was no way I was about to tell her either, because she would start lecturing me about how much of an idiot I was for wasting time with guys from the internet. And maybe she was right? The pool of guys on the internet was terrible—most all of them were a total waste of time.
But Dante was different somehow.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, body like a Norse Viking; Dante was my daily indulgence—him and my husband Jon Snow, of course. But I’d never tell Dante about my husband. I had already made silly plans in my head that he and I would watch Game of Thrones every night, and I’d simply pretend I was engrossed in the magical story, not the long-haired demigod of the show.
I had been pouring through promotional emails for my company one night after a long day of work, and I just so happened to get a random mailing from the website Dateme.com.
“FIND YOUR DREAM LOVER” is what it said—in all fucking caps.
I almost hit the Spam button, which would have sent the email into oblivion and left me forever without the knowledge of Dante’s existence, but instead, I clicked the picture of the overly happy man carrying an overly happy, smiling girl on his back. It probably should have ended there, but when I landed on the site, I was greeted with more pictures of happy couples: old couples, interracial couples, newlyweds. Hell, the site made me feel like something was wrong with me for being single.
Plus, it was free to join.
It was a little intimidating filling out a personal profile and writing what I liked on the internet for all to see, but I was genuinely curious about what kind of messages I would get.
Professional woman. Independent. Loves a nice movie and a daily dose of GoT.
I didn’t put a lot of thought into my profile, and I figured that most men would just look at my pictures anyway. When it came to the pictures, I decided to upload just one—a snapshot Kim had taken of me, wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt ensemble, standing on the Santa Monica pier. Something about a guy clicking on pic after pic of me weirded me out, so I decided that if they didn’t like that one picture I made public, then it probably wouldn’t work out anyway.
A day later, I had two messages in my Dateme inbox.
The first guy was 67 years old who wrote me a fucking book about his life, how he had married and divorced twice, had a couple kids, a dog, and was looking for a woman to settle down with. Apparently, he overlooked the fact that I set my appropriate age ranges of suitors to a max age of 35, and he was nearly three times my age.
The other message? It read “Winter is coming….”
It gave me a good chuckle when I read it, but when I looked at the
I just headed home alone that night and watched another episode of Game of Thrones, along with the rest of my usual routine.
Part of me wondered if I made the wrong call. What if Enigma really wasn’t just a player. What if he was a nice guy who just wanted to spend a little time to get to know me? With his gorgeous face and smooth, confident nature that would seem a little far-fetched, but I might have missed out if it were the case.
I shrugged away my curiosity and headed for the guest bedroom in my apartment. No matter what his intentions were, what was done was done, and I’d probably never see that guy again.
The guest bedroom had been half converted into an office. There was a still a bed there, and it was decked out in all the girly decorations that I had added when I first moved in, but I had since added a desk, a set of file cabinets, copier, and other office gadgets.
I sat down at the desk, powered up my MacBook, and a smile crept over my face.
I’m sure part of the reason that I blew Enigma off the way I did was because I thought he was a player, but in the back of my mind I knew the real detractor of interest was because of my little secret.
Dante.
I had been talking to Dante for 6 months already, and Kim had no idea. There was no way I was about to tell her either, because she would start lecturing me about how much of an idiot I was for wasting time with guys from the internet. And maybe she was right? The pool of guys on the internet was terrible—most all of them were a total waste of time.
But Dante was different somehow.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, body like a Norse Viking; Dante was my daily indulgence—him and my husband Jon Snow, of course. But I’d never tell Dante about my husband. I had already made silly plans in my head that he and I would watch Game of Thrones every night, and I’d simply pretend I was engrossed in the magical story, not the long-haired demigod of the show.
I had been pouring through promotional emails for my company one night after a long day of work, and I just so happened to get a random mailing from the website Dateme.com.
“FIND YOUR DREAM LOVER” is what it said—in all fucking caps.
I almost hit the Spam button, which would have sent the email into oblivion and left me forever without the knowledge of Dante’s existence, but instead, I clicked the picture of the overly happy man carrying an overly happy, smiling girl on his back. It probably should have ended there, but when I landed on the site, I was greeted with more pictures of happy couples: old couples, interracial couples, newlyweds. Hell, the site made me feel like something was wrong with me for being single.
Plus, it was free to join.
It was a little intimidating filling out a personal profile and writing what I liked on the internet for all to see, but I was genuinely curious about what kind of messages I would get.
Professional woman. Independent. Loves a nice movie and a daily dose of GoT.
I didn’t put a lot of thought into my profile, and I figured that most men would just look at my pictures anyway. When it came to the pictures, I decided to upload just one—a snapshot Kim had taken of me, wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt ensemble, standing on the Santa Monica pier. Something about a guy clicking on pic after pic of me weirded me out, so I decided that if they didn’t like that one picture I made public, then it probably wouldn’t work out anyway.
A day later, I had two messages in my Dateme inbox.
The first guy was 67 years old who wrote me a fucking book about his life, how he had married and divorced twice, had a couple kids, a dog, and was looking for a woman to settle down with. Apparently, he overlooked the fact that I set my appropriate age ranges of suitors to a max age of 35, and he was nearly three times my age.
The other message? It read “Winter is coming….”
It gave me a good chuckle when I read it, but when I looked at the
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