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Him: Six foot, four inches. Thor look-alike. Kickass black belt ninja man, and gym owner.

Me: Barely five foot. Resembles an overstuffed dumpling. Semi-decent receptionist of the office across the road.

Match made in heaven? I think so. Which is why I get to work early each morning, and stare longingly out the window, desperate for my daily glimpse of him.

The man doesn’t know I’m alive, and I don’t have the lady balls to do anything about it. Until the postman delivers the gym’s mail to my office. It’s the perfect excuse to strut over there and introduce myself, right?

 

Wrong.

When he mistakes me for someone else, I’m so blinded by his abs that I don’t correct him. And now he’s calling me someone else’s name, and I don’t know how to turn this around apart from to bolt back to my desk with my ass jiggling behind me.

I never expected he’d follow me.

Or anything that happened next.