Astaire’s jaw slacks and she plucks an ear bud out of her ear. “Oh, come on.”
“For the record, I wasn’t following you.” I lift my palms, walking in tandem with her. “I was at Peridot having brunch and I saw you from the window …”
“Convenient.” She lifts her hand to her ear, but I lower it.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay … after last night.”
“Most people … I don’t know … call or text,” she says. “They don’t borderline stalk.”
The woman with the poodle cranes her neck and shoots me a look.
“I’m serious. I just want to know if you’re okay.”
“Sure you do.” She sips her coffee, her fingers protruding out of her knit gloves. A hint of pink lip balm colors the white lid, signifying where her lips have been.
God, those lips.
Full, soft pillows I’d do anything to taste again …
After she bolted last night, I texted Deidre from 6A, thinking I could close my eyes and pretend she was Astaire for the sake of mentally finishing what I’d started, only when she showed up, she’d dyed her hair shit-brown, started peeling off her clothes before my door was shut, and told me she had twenty minutes before she had to meet some guy off Tinder for drinks.
I immediately lost my hard on, told her to get dressed, and sent her back to the sixth floor without another word.
I need the real thing.
I need Astaire.
And last night, I almost had her.
Almost.
That’s what I get for being honest, for telling her up front that it wasn’t anything more than sex.
It’s quite the conundrum I’m facing: Astaire Carraro needs to be wined and dined before she’ll let a man inside of her, and I need to be inside of Astaire Carraro.
“What are you doing this Friday?” I ask.
She shoots me a squint.
Or maybe it’s a wince. A painful wince.
Either way, it’s not enough to deter me.
“I want to take you out.” I nudge her arm with mine, an attempt at being playful and lighthearted, which is arguably a foreign language for me. “On a date. A real date.”
“No.”
I cough out a laugh. “No? Just … no?”
“No.” She walks faster.
I match my pace to hers. “Any particular reason?”
Her lips twist at one side. “Because it’s a bad idea.”
I slip my hand around her elbow and pull her aside, out of the pack of strangers surrounding us, and I find a section of brick outside an abandoned storefront.
“I can’t undo your first impression of me.” I capture her curious gaze. “Or your second. Or your third. But I would be remiss if I didn’t try to show you a better time.”
Astaire grips her coffee with both hands, chewing the inner corner of her mouth. “We’re night and day, you and me. And I know you’re only after one thing.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You said so last night. You told me I knew why you really invited me over …”
Fair enough. “All right. Fine. I find you incredibly sexy, Astaire. I won’t lie. But I also can’t get you out of my head. I close my eyes and you’re all I see. I re-read your emails every fucking day even if they’re just as infuriating as they were the first time. And maybe we don’t see eye to eye, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Her expression softens.
I’m getting through.
I need to get this woman out of my head, and the only way to do that is to get her out of my system. Only then will I be able to get her out of my life. Only then can we finally move on from this bizarre excuse for a divine intervention.
“Text me your address, Astaire.” I don’t tell her I already know it, that background checks come standard with that information. “I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.”
I don’t linger. I don’t give her the chance to say no. I walk away. And I don’t look back.
I don’t need to.
I’ll see her again in six days.
Twenty-One
Astaire
* * *
I dab perfume behind my ears Friday night—then I check my pulse. I swear it’s beating two hundred times a minute and that can’t be normal.
Then again, neither is accepting a date from a man who is the antithesis of everything you stand for.
A framed engagement photo from happier times catches my gaze from the corner of my dresser. Everything about this feels wrong, but on another level, I know it isn’t. I can’t help but get the sense that if Trevor were selecting someone for me to move on with, Bennett Schoenbach would be the last person on his list.
He’s taking me into the city tonight, to some rooftop restaurant overlooking the pier. The skies are clear tonight so there should be plenty of stars blanketing our view. With anyone else, it’d be a romantic feature, but with Bennett … I’m not sure that’s what he’s going for.
He says he can’t get me out of his head, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered by that. I’m only human.
I imagine part of his fixation boils down to the fact that we always want what we can’t have.
He can’t have me.
Or at least, he couldn’t.
Until tonight.
But I’m keeping my clothes on. Tonight’s about getting to know each other. Feeding our respective curiosities with conversation and quality time.
Nothing more, nothing less.
A knock at the door sends my runaway heart to the floor.
He’s here.
I give myself another once over, smoothing my hands down my fitted black dress, tucking a wave behind one ear, and slicking on a quick coat of pink lip balm before stepping into my heels and trotting to the door.
“Hi.” He wears an impeccable navy suit, a silver watch, and a smile.
It’s strange to see him smile. Unnatural. Even if he looks gorgeous doing so.
“These are for you.” He hands me a bouquet of pale pink roses wrapped in brown paper and tied with a black satin bow. The logo on the wrap tells me he spared no expense, going out of his way to stop at The Darling Peony on Halstead to pick these.
Who am I kidding? He probably has an assistant that handles this sort of thing.
“These are beautiful. Thank you.” I wave for him to come in, and he follows me to the kitchen, watching with his hands in his pockets while I fill a vase with water and arrange the roses as best I can.
The vase is too small and the roses droop.
We both pretend not to notice.
“Did you have a nice week?” I place the vase next to the sink, so the roses will get some daylight come morning. Engaging in small talk whilst pretending everything about this moment isn’t awkward as hell is ironically … awkward.
He’s really going to town with this whole date thing. Pulling out all the stops. Behaving as a perfect gentleman. This isn’t the man I’ve come to know.
It’s … flattering.
Unnerving, too, but in a good way.
“Car’s waiting downstairs.” He checks his watch. “We should probably head out if we want to make our reservations.”