“You okay?” Garrett asks.
I reach for my wine, mustering a convincing smile. “Yeah. I’m good. Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew.”
Garrett turns around, glancing toward the bar, but Bennett’s back is facing us now and he’s settled in between a handful of other patrons, blending well. Returning his attention to his menu, he says something about the steak, but I can’t focus on his words.
“I’m sorry—would you excuse me for just a second?” I scoot out of the booth and follow the restroom signs to the back of the restaurant, and when I’m out of Garrett’s sight, I lean against the wall, arms folded, and wait.
Twenty seconds pass, maybe thirty, when Bennett appears from around the corner.
“I knew it,” I say.
“You knew what?”
“You followed me here.”
He huffs, hands resting at his hips. “Don’t flatter yourself, Astaire.”
He’s definitely read the email …
“Then explain what you’re doing here.” I cross my arms tighter. I hate the way he says my name.
“You do realize this is a public restaurant.”
“Okay, then just admit that you’re following me.”
His gaze narrows and he wears a twisted half-smile. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or messing with me. “I’m not following you—though maybe someone should.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a con artist.” He doesn’t blink, as if he’s merely stating a fact. “A predator.”
“Excuse me, what?” I choke on my words. Never in my life have I been called anything remotely in the vein of predator.
“You find rich men and you find ways to insert yourself into their life for reasons I can only assume have to do with financial gain.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m on a blind date right now and—”
“Right. A date with a guy who happens to be wearing a twenty-thousand-dollar timepiece. Have you told him your sob story yet? About your terrible childhood and your fake dead fiancé?”
I try to respond but the words get stuck. My vision blurs. Heavy tears slide down my cheeks before I have a chance to swipe them away.
“Move,” I say when I realize he’s blocking the door to the ladies’ room.
“Astaire.”
“Move.” So help me, if this asshole doesn’t get out of the way, I’m bowling him over.
Bennett steps aside, his lip twisting like he’s about to say something, but I disappear inside before he gets the chance. The overwhelming pong of industrial bathroom cleaner and cinnamon potpourri assaults my lungs, providing a much-needed sensory distraction that steers me out of my tearful state.
I’ll be damned if I let him ruin this night.
I yank a paper towel from the dispenser and clean up my mascara before reapplying some lip balm, washing my hands, and taking a handful of deep breaths.
When I emerge, the bastard is gone.
Thank God.
But when I return to my table … so is my date.
Sixteen
Bennett
* * *
I swipe my keycard against the lock on the penthouse elevator and wait for the doors to part.
I’m not sorry for what I did tonight—for warning that sad bastard in the tired Prada suit that the woman he was enjoying his lovely evening with was nothing more than an angel-faced hustler.
At first he didn’t want to believe me … until I introduced myself—last name first, of course. I’m not afraid to namedrop myself when the situation calls for it. I was tasteful about the entire thing though, kept my voice down, shared my concerns with him ‘bro to bro.’
When I was finished, the sorry sap couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He shot up, swiped his jacket off the hook, tossed a wrinkled hundred onto the table, and booked it out of there.
I got the hell out of Dodge too.
No point in sticking around for a teary encore of her last Oscar-winning performance by the ladies’ room.
God, she’s good.
Truly.
She almost had me convinced that she was authentic Saturday night. The conversation flowed. She held her own. Couldn’t take her eyes off me.
I’m convinced the sole reason she pulled the brakes on her little operation was because she knew after I’d read her email, the jig would be up, there would be no lucrative payday, and her efforts would’ve been in vain.
I toss my jacket over the back of a chair and drop my keys and wallet on the counter before heading into a darkened living room lit by the night sky filtering in through the naked windows.
It was pure chance tonight that I spotted her inside Fino.
I was walking back from my cardiologist appointment when I happened to glance over and spot my little Anonymous Stranger sipping red wine and laughing with a tall, dark, and extremely rich-looking gentleman who had nothing but kaleidoscope eyes for our sweet Astaire.
He reminded me so much of myself a few days ago—minus the kaleidoscope eyes, of course, and I had to do my due diligence and warn the poor guy.
Checking the time, I head back to my room, change out of the day’s clothes and into sweats and a t-shirt, and settle into my bed.
Tomorrow I’m interviewing nannies for Honor—something I never thought I’d be doing in a million years. Margaux was supposed to send me all of their resumes along with a schedule before she left for the day, so I grab my phone and pull up my work email.
Sure enough, she sent everything at 4:58 PM—two minutes to spare. I’m about to select her message when I notice something above it—an email hot off the presses and sent a mere three minutes ago.
Smirking, I feed my curiosity.
* * *
TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp
FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail
SUBJECT: RE: re: re: re: Condolences
Bennett,
If you want to be miserable—fine. That’s your prerogative. But it doesn’t give you the right to go around destroying everyone else’s happiness. I’m not sure why you think I’m some kind of scammer or that I would have any reason to lie to you. I’ve never asked you for a thing. I’ve only ever shown you kindness, compassion, and sympathy. Perhaps those are foreign to you. Perhaps you’re so miserly and habitually dejected that those things are a language you couldn’t possibly begin to understand.
The things I did … sending you those emails … came from a good place, even if you refuse to believe that. And running into you last weekend was purely coincidental—not that you can say the same about tonight.
Maybe I should have spoken up last Saturday—and believe me, I wanted to many times—but I was enjoying my time with you. You made me laugh, you made me feel alive again for the first time since losing Trevor, and I was clinging onto that feeling until you put your hand on my knee—then I realized that I couldn’t possibly let it go any further, couldn’t bring myself to add insult to injury by going home with you, because you were going to read my email sooner or later.