The Wedding Date

Shouldn’t this hunger for him and his body and his touch have worn off already?

“Just because their standards are low does not mean that we should lower ours.”

Fine, she was a bleeding-heart interferer. It was probably in her job description.

Right now she needed to hug this whole weekend close to her chest and hold on to it tight before sharing it with anyone.

Okay, Alexa. Just don’t think about it. Just lie here and be content in this cozy sleeping bag of pure male goodness and let that lull you back to sleep.

White men hated it when you reminded them of their privilege, she knew that all too well.

Was she being filmed? Was this a dream? Was this some kind of “This is Alexa’s lucky day!” fake reality TV show? Her boss was in on her pet project, a hot guy wanted to fly her to L.A.—was she going to get an email with a $1,000 gift card to Sephora next?

Boy, was it nice when this guy touched her. The hand-holding was particularly great. She felt like she was back in high school, except instead of the nerdy girl that everyone liked in that generic way, she was the girl holding hands with the hot guy at the party. She’d always wondered how that had felt.
News flash: it felt awesome.

He’s hot, he’s funny, he’s flirty, and he’s a doctor. I’m your standard short black girl with big boobs and hips who can barely look him in the eye without looking away.

She had a very active imagination. It helped to make up for her current lack of a romantic life.