In fact, I felt so lonely that I found myself doing something I almost never did.

Logging onto Facebook.

It was my personal account, so there wasn’t much going on.  I had two friend requests, but only one of them had my heart racing.  I clicked confirm on both before I could talk myself out of it.

Less than two minutes later, a little red number one appeared above my message box, and breathless, I clicked on it.

Tristan had left me a short message.

Tristan Vega:  Thanks for accepting my friend request.  I promise to try my hardest to refrain from sending you too many dick pics.

That surprised a laugh out of me, and then a smile that just wouldn’t go away.

Danika Markova:  How sweet.  What a gentleman you are.

Tristan Vega:  By too many, I mean more than a dozen, just so you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.

Danika Markova:  Don’t make me find the unfriend button.

I sent it as a joke, but his response back was effusive and apologetic.

Tristan Vega:  I’m very sorry.  I was totally joking.

Danika Markova:  I was only joking, too.

Tristan Vega:  You have any exciting plans this weekend?

I sighed, not knowing what to tell him, not knowing what to do.  What I wanted to do and how I needed to handle things were two polar opposites at the moment, actively working against each other.

Danika Markova:  I do have plans.  How was the show tonight?

Tristan Vega:  Good.  Want to have lunch tomorrow, at the casino?  I’ll be in early, and I know you’re working.

I shut my eyes, knowing that I should find an excuse to say no.  I needed to slow this thing down, and if we started seeing each other on a daily basis, that wasn’t going to happen.

He was easing his way into being a big part of my life again, and I knew that it was nothing that I should encourage.  He took a mile for every inch I gave.  He always had.

Still, I told myself it was only lunch.  And if he was already going to be there, it seemed over the top rude to turn him down.

Danika Markova:  Sounds good.  Just let me know when you want to go.  My lunch hour is flexible.

Tristan Vega:  Perfect.  I’ll text you around noon, when I get close.

I logged off quickly after that, making a note not to go on Facebook again.  That had backfired on me in a hurry.  But even as I had the thought, I was smiling.

I dressed with care the next day, wanting to look my best for the most obvious reasons.

I loved clothes, loved fashion.  I always had, and my fashion sense had been constantly evolving through the years.  I had a great job, and little in the way of expenses, so I indulged myself in this.

I’d been very into pleats and collars last season, bringing a bit of prep into my business attire.  I liked this look because it was cute and feminine, but still classy.  My hemline was usually at my knee or lower, my neckline high, and though everything was usually fitted to complement my figure, it was all very modest.  My color palette was usually neutral, with lots of creams, beiges, grays.  Colors, when I’d worn them, had been muted.

I found myself shopping more than usual the last few weeks, though (specifically since the wedding), and it seemed that my style preferences had changed seemingly overnight.

Now what caught my eye were plunging necklines and raised hems.  A bit more skin.  A flash of vibrant color.  Still classy, still professional, but I’d definitely found my sexy side again.

I didn’t have to think hard to know why this had changed for me.

Needless to say, I’d been shopping a lot, updating my wardrobe, turning it up a notch.  Lucky for me, I worked in a building with some of the best shopping in town.  And Vegas was a town with some killer shopping.

Today I wore a fitted black tuxedo jacket, and a white pleated skirt that hit me mid-thigh.  I kept the jacket buttoned, because underneath I wore nothing but a violet bralette.  It was modest enough, as long as I kept the jacket buttoned, just a glaring flash of lace showing at the neckline.

I wore bright white patent leather loafers with it.  They were flats.  That couldn’t be helped.

I parted my hair down the middle and curled it into thick ringlets, then tousled it a bit.  My makeup got as much care, with a dark eye and glossy pale lips.

My extra time paid off when I walked into work feeling sexy.   Pride was a perverse thing.

The morning dragged and right before noon, I went to the bathroom, refreshing all of my makeup.  It was foolish, but even if we were just being friends, I wanted to look my best in front of Tristan.  And by my best, I mean sexy as hell.

It was Frankie who came strolling into the gallery at about eleven forty-five.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you,” I called out to her, smiling, “but I’m ninety-five percent sure that some wild animal ate the bottom half of your tank top.”

She smiled ruefully.  “You’re just jealous because your job has a dress code that doesn’t include belly shirts.  I can recall you rockin’ your own under boob a time or two, or have you forgotten?”

I hadn’t forgotten.  I still had a few of the trashy shirts, for the random rainy day indoors.

“Tristan is going to meet us at the restaurant,” she continued.  “I invited myself to lunch with you guys.  Hope you don’t mind.”

I shook my head, eyes wide.  “Not at all.  Sounds like a great idea.”