My Date With Eric (A Sweet Romance Novel)

By Antony W.F. Chow

Can one date change a person's life? Twenty-two year old fashion photographer Kristin Taylor has low self-esteem, and she is shy when it comes to men. But somehow she lands a date with the hot male clothing model Eric Klein. From this one date, will Eric be able to pull Kristin out of her shell, and convince her that she is beautiful and attractive?

Eric Klein is a notorious womanizer who is afraid of commitment. When he lays his eyes on the innocent and gorgeous Kristin Taylor, he wants her in the worst way possible. Will he succeed in claiming her virginity? Or will Kristin teach him the true meaning of love?

Told from the perspective of an insecure young college graduate in her first job, My Date With Eric (A Sweet Romance Novel) is an emotional, sexy, funny, and heart warming story about life, love, friendship, and career. This 43,000 words story has vulgar language and mature adult situations, but no sex scenes. That's right. This story has NO SEX SCENES! The author firmly believes that a romance story can still be wonderfully and emotionally satisfying without resorting to cheap, crass sex scenes. Still skeptical? You are cordially invited to read this story and see for yourself. This platonic romance story, with a small touch of Christian themes, is suitable for readership of ages 16 and older.

The following is an excerpt from the book:

Eric feels hands holding the back of his head, and feels his head being lifted gently off the ground. Blinking his eyes again, Eric sees my face in his vision. God, I must have died and gone to heaven, he thinks, because I see this beautiful, angelic face looking down on me.

I look down at Eric’s face as I raise his head gingerly off the ground. Did he bump his head? Did he get a concussion? Oh my God, oh my God!

“Eric,” I whisper gently, while moving my face closer to his, until our lips are only an inch apart. “Do you recognize me?”

Eric’s vision is still a bit blurry. He blinks his eyes a few times, until his vision clears. “Yes, I recognize you. You’re an angel,” he says softly while looking directly into my eyes.

As I stare into Eric’s eyes, I see hints of mischief as he recognizes my face.

“I’m being serious,” I smile broadly.

“Who said I’m not,” he counters with a roguish grin, as he gently wipes tears from my eyes again.

I kiss his cheek, and lean my head down, my forehead against his and close my eyes.

We share the moment together briefly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Antony W.F. Chow
• Release date: Mar 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301011803

Antony W.F. Chow

Calling himself a "literary chameleon," Antony W.F. Chow is an experimental writer who enjoys the intellectual challenge of writing in a wide variety of genres. His latest book is a platonic, Christian romance novel titled "My Date With Eric (A Sweet Romance Novel)." He is a longtime resident in the hometown of the New York Mets MLB team. He is best known for his online article on spotting counterfeit Japanese anime figures. He is also known as the author of Broken Hearted: A 9/11 Story, available for PC, Mac, and Linux. An unauthorized webcomic version is available on Google Play.

Book preview

My Date With Eric

(A Sweet Romance)

by Antony W.F. Chow

Smashwords Edition. Copyright (c) 2013 by Antony W.F. Chow, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without prior written permission of the author. Book cover created by Sid Ceaser of Sid Ceaser Photography, based on stock photo ID 25332188 at Dreamstime.com, and copyrighted by Wavebreakmedia Ltd. The image is used under the Royalty Free license. Book formatted by Jesse Gordon.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Chapter 1 – Sleepy Head

Chapter 2 – Manic Monday

Chapter 3 – Task Master

Chapter 4 – Sex God

Chapter 5 – Office Gossip

Chapter 6 – Thinking about Kristin

Chapter 7 – Taking Charge

Chapter 8 – Fated Encounter

Chapter 9 – The Wait

Chapter 10 – The Date

Chapter 11 – Missy's Concern

Chapter 12 – Recap

Chapter 13 – Childhood

Chapter 14 – Upheaval

Chapter 15 – Bargain with the Devil

Chapter 16 – Enter Eloise

Chapter 17 – Warning From a Predecessor

Chapter 18 – New Secretary

Chapter 19 – Phone Call From Eric

Chapter 20 – Eric's Family Emergency

Chapter 21 – Valentine's Day

Chapter 22 – Betrayal

Chapter 23 – The Devil's Own

Chapter 24 – Walk the Plank

Chapter 25 – Resolve

Epilogue

A Note From the Author

About the Author

Acknowledgment

The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Sara Ceaser as a beta reader for various sections of the book and for pointing out the author's strange misuses of the English language, and also McKenzie McPherson, author of the advice book Lessons from Generation X to Generation Next, for her patience and generosity with her time, and serving as a beta reader and a sounding board for the author’s wild ideas for this book.

~~Dedicated to those without confidence~~

Prologue

He is leaning against a red brick wall, with his left leg up and his foot resting on its surface. The wall is worn with age and crumbling, with small pieces of chalk white dust flaking onto his back. Looking relaxed and casual, he does not care. He is wearing a sleeveless but form hugging white shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. His hands are stuck in the front pockets of his jeans. His dark brown hair is kept short and spiked up with a bit of mousse, in a Robert Pattinson kind of style. With a big grin on his face, revealing a full set of pearly white teeth, his gorgeous brown eyes gaze at me with smoldering lust, foretelling a sleepless night of endless passion beneath red satin sheets. . .

I stare at the oversized poster of Eric Klein inside the window display at a Fifth Avenue clothing store. It has been a long time since I last saw Eric, before he moved back to California.

Even after all this time, my heart is aflutter at the sight of Eric. His body is lean and compact, ripped with taut but sinuous muscles. His broad, strong shoulders make me oouuuuu and those tight, six-pack abs make me aaaahhhh. His skin is bronzed but not overly dark. He has firm jaws and strong cheekbones, with a sprinkle of day old whiskers on his chin. His nose is perfectly portioned, with small nostrils framed by a strong bridge on his face. He has a just-got-of-bed exterior that makes you think laid-back Californian. But he has an inner passion that will make you swoon and melt with a mere touch from his gentle hand.

To me, Eric is a sex god who can have any woman he desires. Once, on a hopeless whim, I asked him out on a date. For whatever reason, he agreed to a date with an ugly duckling like me, providing me with a night that I will never forget. And this is my story.

Chapter 1 – Sleepy Head

Knock-Knock!

Are you awake, Kristin? You're going to be late for work!

My mind still in a fog from a restful sleep, I cannot comprehend the words that I hear.

I guess I'll have to do it the hard way, the woman says on the other side of the door.

Click! Step-step-step.

It's time to get up, Kristin! a voice say with a hint of urgency creeping in.

I moan, and wrap my down comforter tighter over my head.

Shake-Shake-Shake.

I feel someone's hand on my shoulder, trying to shake me awake.

No, I moan, shutting my eyes tighter.

FINE! No more nice Missy! the lady says.

Suddenly I feel hands on my tummy, tickling me.

GACK! Ha-hahah-hahahah! Stop it, Missy! I'm up. I'M UP! I say in surrender.

With a huff, I throw my still warm down comforter over Missy's head. My one weakness is that I'm ticklish, and my roommate and best friend knows this.

Missy quickly throws the comforter back onto my bed. Is this how you treat your best friend? And stop stalling! If I have to drag you off the bed, I will, she says while putting her hands on her hips.

Missy Winger is tall, at five foot ten inches in height, athletic, and my best friend. She has long, straight, shoulder length, dark hair that is almost but not quite black, and eyes that are practically black as well. She is beautiful, graceful, and elegant. She enjoys playing basketball, soccer, and jogging, and sports a healthy tan from her outdoor activities. Missy is a jockey's wet dream come true.

I love walking behind Missy, and admire her long, purposeful strides with those beautiful, long legs. I'm not a lesbian, but if I was Missy would definitely be someone that I would go after as a girlfriend. She could be top, and I could be bottom. Her lips are full and firm, and I have always wondered what it would be like kissing those lips. . .

We were roommates in college at University of Michigan, and she was always helping me get up on time for class and now for work. I was notorious in my college dormitory for being a night owl, and not a morning person. At the dorm, when Missy wasn't around to wake me up, she always made sure someone on my floor would drop in and wake me in the morning. Kids at my dorm used to call me the Sleeping Beauty, but unfortunately I am not beautiful. I'm more of an ugly duckling compared to a truly beautiful gal like Missy.

Furthermore, I suspect that part of the reason that everyone at the dormitory, especially Missy, had been so protective of me was an incident that occurred during freshman year in my dorm room. . .

Dragging my still asleep body off the bed, I head to the bathroom for a quick shower. In the mean time, Missy makes me toast with jam and cream cheese, and some Bigelow green tea. I once saw my beloved former Yankees manager Joe Torre in a Bigelow green tea advertisement, and I tried it. After that, I decided to make it a daily ritual to drink a cup in the morning. For whatever reason, it just calms my nerves during my hectic mornings.

Getting out of the shower, and fully awake now, I look at myself in the mirror. I'm five foot six, with a slightly petite build, from my youth as a ballerina, until I hurt my ankle when I was seven. After that, I hobbled around on crutches for a while, borrowed my dad's old camera, and took up photography as a hobby.

I'm a strawberry redhead with emerald eyes, and prefer to keep my wavy hair short, well above the shoulders. I admit that I'm envious of Missy's straight hair. It is hard to untangle my naturally curly hair, especially since they tangle and bunch up when I sleep in bed. I used to keep my hair long when I was a ballerina. But afterwards, when I could no longer do ballet I decided to cut my hair short, and I just kept it that way ever since.

I used to be really short in elementary school, and whenever the kids were lined up by height I would inevitably be near the front every year. Kids used to call me Strawberry Shortcake, and they weren't referring to my hair color! I'll admit that I have low esteem as a result of these childhood taunting, among other reasons, and absolutely try to avoid having the spotlight shine on me. I'm happy being the little mouse in the corner, with no one to bother me. Enough reminiscing about my past. The sooner I eat breakfast, the sooner I can leave for work!

I sit down at the small kitchen table. Offering a quick prayer for my breakfast, I quickly dig in and eat. Missy is also sitting at the table, sipping on her own cup of Earl Grey tea while surfing the net on her netbook for breaking news. Neither one of us is a coffee drinker; therefore, there are no coffee cans or coffee makers in our kitchen.

Missy works for a social media firm in New York's Silicon Alley, and she is glued to the internet almost every waking moment of her life. I shudder at the thought of being tethered like that. It is almost like being one of those unawakened humans in those battery-type cocoons in the first Matrix movie.

Me, on the other hand, I work as a photographer for a fashion magazine called The Fashion Consumer. That means dressing fashionably, trying to find and maintain a wardrobe that would not bankrupt me. I check the clock on the wall. It's almost 8 AM. I have to hurry and finish my breakfast!

Chapter 2 – Manic Monday

I hate Mondays. It is the day of the week that I always dread, even back when I was in kindergarten. Back then, I hated going to school, leaving the comfort of home and my parents, and being in the same room with a bunch of icky, yucky strangers. This feeling of dread and unease continued, unabated, throughout my childhood years while I was growing up. And now that I am an adult woman, a full fledged member of society, I still hate Mondays.

I wish I was a big Powerball lottery winner, and received a share of that ridiculously enormous 580 million dollars jackpot. I figured two dollars and a dream was all I need. Yeah, right. When the numbers were announced, my excitement quickly turned into disappointment when I saw that I did not match even one single number. Buggers.

And now, here I am again, standing in front of a Midtown Manhattan skyscraper building, right on 42nd Street, being jostled back and forth by pedestrians all busily trying to get to work on time. I sigh to myself, and push through the revolving door to enter the tall, glassy exterior building.

Sliding my work identification card through the card reader at the turnstile, I quickly go through and make my way to the elevator banks, standing in place behind a swelling line of sharply dressed people waiting for the elevators to arrive. The atmosphere is somber, with many people in line still nodding and swaying slightly, trying to catch a last second wink of sleep while standing on their feet. I used to one of these people, until I started drinking green tea to help me become more alert in the morning.

Ding!

We wait for the mass exodus of passengers to rush out of the elevator, giving wide berth to the herd quickly headed for the revolving doors in the lobby. Before even the last passenger gets out, people quickly pile into the elevator like sardines in a can. The atmosphere in the enclosed, moving tomb is a nauseating cocktail of pungent odors: searing and strong perfumes, breezy and minty aftershave, yucky sweat, and nasty morning breaths.

As inconspicuously as possible, I scan the crowd of people pressed against me. The problem with being in a crowded, slowing moving elevator is that it gives perverts cover to try to sexually molest me. I've had people put their hands on my ass a lot longer than mere incidental contact. Another time someone squeezed my thigh. The worst incident was during the summer, just after I started working here, when I wore a short skirt, and someone reached underneath it to squeeze my butt cheek.

When I felt my ass being pinched in that crowded elevator, I was frightened. My arms were squeezed to the sides of my thighs, and I could not move. I could not do anything to that hand. I could not grab it. I could not move away from the pervert. The only thing I could have done was scream. But what if the offender was a high level executive