Chapter 2
Danni
I bolt out of my car, dig the cockroach out of my cleavage, and fling it to the asphalt. “I hope you enjoyed it, buddy,” I growl, and then stomp on the little sucker until he’s unrecognizable, feeling only a teeny tiny shred of guilt for killing a living breathing... monstrosity .
Where did it come from? My neighbor’s trash? Worse. My apartment ? I shudder at the thought. All I know is, I won’t be the one paying for an exterminator.
My nerves start to settle, my brain clears, and I realize I’m still on a deadline. But I obviously can’t go like this. Time for outfit number four (after brushing my teeth and jumping in the shower.)
Ten minutes later, I’m back in my car wearing an ankle-length tank dress. It has a hippie vibe without looking too flirty and offers proper ventilation for a hot night on the maiden voyage of the Charleston Excursion.
Thirty minutes later I’m downtown. Through divine intervention, I find a parking spot along the street, a direct shot to the Carolina Excursions brand-new dock. When I arrive, a throng of harbor cruisers are standing in the winding line, waiting to board. I search the crowd for a blond-haired, blue-eyed hunk but come up empty-handed.
“Sorry. I’m not trying to cut in line. I’m looking for someone. A guy. He’s uncommonly handsome. Have you seen him?”
A gray-haired husband points to himself. “I’m uncommonly handsome.” His wife swats his arm. “You’re supposed to vouch for me, honey,” he adds, winking.
They split ways and let me through. I tunnel between bare arms, poke my head through small openings between bodies, the hot sun glaring down on us all, doubling the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.
“Excuse me. Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.”
Where is he? I’ve passed two handsome men in the eight to nine range, not the ten that popped up on my phone when I hit MatchAI’s Choose button. Plus, they both had dates.
I feel a confident thump on my shoulder. The sun blinds me when I turn to investigate. I form my hand into a visor and behold the haloed person who just tapped me so hard I felt it in my bones.
“I’m your date.”
“Um. I don’t think so.”
The guy standing before me is not blond, not blue-eyed. Not in the slightest. A ten, yes. But that’s irrelevant.
“I’m Chance Balasu.” He peers at me with dark eyes, beneath dark eyebrows, beneath an impressively thick, and masterfully styled head of dark hair. Or maybe it just falls that way naturally.
“My date is blond with blue eyes,” I say. His pouty lips will not distract me from finding my actual date. I show him my back, form my hands into a shark fin, and continue parting bodies.
I feel another tap. “Your date has black hair and brown eyes.”
A young girl with glossy curls looks over my shoulder, one eyebrow raised. I think she noticed his impeccable hair too. I continue along my way.
Tap, tap, tap.
I turn around. “My date is blond. Haunting eyes. Chiseled jaw. You possess none of those things.”
“None?”
“The jaw. But the eyes. No. They’re more sultry than haunting. The rest, totally wrong.”
The spark in his eyes reduces to a smolder as he contemplates my comment. “Do you have something against brown people?” His features say Indian; his accent says American.
“Of course not. But I do have something against lying.”
He seems stumped by my accusation. I take it as an opportunity to continue looking for some blond guy named Chance, who I’m increasingly suspicious doesn’t exist. “Excuse me. Don’t mind me. Sorry.”
Another tap on my shoulder.
I bristle. The crowd around me starts moving toward the gangway, but I remain still as a post.
The guy calling himself Chance rounds my arm.
“This is starting to get weird,” I say.
He offers me his hand. “I’m Chance Balasu. My real name is Jyotiraditya Balasubramanian. I go by Chance because it’s easier for Americans to pronounce.” Realizing I have no intention of shaking his hand, he lowers his and stuffs it in his pocket.
“Prove it,” I say.
“Try to say Jyotiraditya Balasubramanian.”
“No, prove that you’re the guy MatchAI matched me with.”
“Pull out your phone.”
People are still streaming past, several of the ladies stealing glances at Chance as they walk by. I would too. He stands nearly a head taller than me, his sturdy build dressed in a navy T-shirt that looks dressy against his dark-wash denim.
“Ask me where I went to school,” he says.
I press my lips together while considering whether I want to play along. My small, leather-fringed purse holds my necessities: my phone, a tube of lipstick, some cash, and my debit card. I swing it around and grab the phone, swiftly pulling up Chance Balasu’s profile on MatchAI. “Where did you go to school?”
“Harvard-Westlake. Ask me where else.”
I tuck my chin and peer up at him, one eyebrow arched. “Where else?”
“Treamis. Now ask me where I’m from.”
“Where are you from?”
“Bengaluru in Karnataka, India. Originally from California, but my father moved us to India when I was thirteen to take over my grandpa’s investment company.”
I click off my phone and drop it in my purse. “Well. That checks out.”
“I explained in my bio that I’m using an avatar. It’s in the first paragraph so people won’t miss it. I didn’t want some app storing my biometric data or fueling the deepfakers, so I generated an AI photo. You read my bio, right?”
“I—I must have missed that part.”
“Didn’t you think it was strange that a white guy went to school in India? Or that a guy named Chance was from India?”
“I thought maybe your parents were rich and lived abroad.”
“My parents are rich.”
“That’s nice.”
“It is.”
“Ya’ll comin’?” The ship’s captain waves.
Chance waves back and then refocuses on me. “I’ve never been on a showboat.”
“We’re doing this?”
“Up to you, cranky.”
My jaw unhinges. “Forgive me for being careful in a manly world that is sometimes dangerous for women.”
“No. I get it. But we both filled out background checks and I passed your quiz. So...” He swoops his index fingers toward the boat.
My boss, Christopher, gifted me these tickets along with a coupon for MatchAI during our Christmas in July white elephant exchange. He’s expecting a report on Monday. If I don’t go on this date, I’ll have to lie or tell him that I wasted his tickets. I don’t like either option. The tickets weren’t cheap.
I turn toward the boat and head down the gangway, examining the Carolina Excursion as I cross the water. Traditional red, white and blue showboat colors wrap the exterior of the triple-decker 1800s paddlewheel-style boat. It boasts three ballrooms, abundant dining space, and an open-air top deck.
The captain welcomes us aboard and encourages us to head up to the top deck to enjoy the view of Charleston as we cast off. I veer to the stairs and climb three flights without looking over my shoulder.
The top deck is bright and cheery. White tables and chairs match the white deck and bulkheads. A colorful bar sits on one end. Many passengers have already helped themselves to drinks.
I find an empty spot at the railing and gaze out over the Charleston skyline, never growing tired of the city’s charm. As we follow the shoreline, we’ll glimpse my workplace, the Citizen’s Tower. Built in the early 1900s, it was one of Charleston’s first skyrises, with ten floors and an ornate facade. The boat will skim the shores of Charleston Harbor and then paddle into open waters for the rest of the three-hour cruise.
After working in Indianapolis through five cold and snowy winters, I knew I wanted to find a job somewhere south. I applied to companies all over Georgia, Florida, even Texas, but when I received the offer at JetAero, I knew immediately it was the job for me. I’d already studied Charleston, learned a little of the city’s history, spent hours studying maps and Google Earth to decide where I wanted to live.
The location of JetAero’s Systems Support branch was icing on the cake. I’m not sure why corporate decided to lease the historic office space above Wetlands Restaurant and Stinny’s Bar, but I’m happy they did. Unless it’s inhumanely hot, I stroll along the harbor every day after lunch, enjoying the city’s juxtaposition of old and new.
“We’re moving,” Chance says. He leans against the railing, folding his hands out over the water.
“Yeah,” I say stiffly. I’m still not over the “cranky” comment. Or the fake profile picture. But the view, the sun, and the light breeze are softening me a little.
“I’m sorry I confused you. I tried to make it obvious.” Chance’s cologne wafts in my direction. A woodiness mixed with a hint of cloves.
“I suppose I can understand your security concerns.”
I had my own. I didn’t list my vocation or where I worked in case my date was sketch. My instincts were on point. It’s too early to call, but we’re off to a bad start.
“I would have just skipped the app altogether though,” I add. “Why didn’t you try Match.com?”
“I did. Match, eHarmony, Zoosk, Christian Mingle—“
“You’re Christian?”
“No. EliteSingles. Farmers Only.”
I give Chance the side-eye. “Any others?”
“That’s it for now.”
“Wow. You’re a dating app...aficionado.”
“I need to cast a wide net.”
“Which includes farmers.”
“I’m a cowboy at heart.”
“You. A guy from Bengaluru, India.”
“Why not?”
I glance at him. He’s smirking.
I’m not sure how to respond, so I change the subject. “What will you do if you catch a woman in your wide net?” We’re nearing my office, which I’m not revealing to Chance. It looks even more idyllic from the boat.
He shifts his weight to one foot and props an elbow on the railing. “I don’t know. Hasn’t happened yet.”
“You haven’t found anyone good enough for you?”
“I guess not.”
We don’t have one of those moments, the ones in romance movies where the male and female lead look at each other, the music soars, and their faces say, “You’re the one.”
Nope. Doesn’t happen. At this point I’m seeing Chance less as a date, more as a character study.
“So you’re from Indianapolis,” Chance says.
“How do you know?”
“It was in your profile.”
I frown at the ripples drawn by the boat. “Oh. Yeah. That.”
“How did you end up in Charleston?”
“I grew up in southern Indiana. Bloomington. You probably don’t know it.”
“Not personally.”
“I went to I.U.”
Chance balances his weight on both feet again, his eyes trained on me. “Indiana University.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“It was in your profile.”
Laughter bursts into the air behind us like dozens of wings taking off in flight. I look over my shoulder. A crowd of jovial passengers has formed by the bar. They’re probably already a little buzzed. “I keep forgetting I made so many personal details available on that stupid app.”
Chance furrows his brow at me.
“That’s right. I said stupid.”
He bounces a shoulder, and then shifts his gaze back to the skyline. “I still don’t know why you ended up in Charleston. You didn’t put that in your profile.”
“The cold winters. When I moved to Indianapolis for my first job out of college, I had to commute through them. As a contractor, I was all over the place. On the northwest side for a stint. Out by the airport for six months. Downtown. If it snows during the evening commute, good luck heading north, or south, or west. Anywhere really. It took me three hours to go seven miles once. I finally had enough and wanted to move somewhere warmer.”
“What kind of contractor?”
I freeze. If I tell him I’m in IT, the next obvious question is, “Where do you work?” I don’t want him to know where I spend my days. “Uh...construction. I was a...painter.”
Chance’s puzzled look twists his broad forehead into a map of lines. “You went to college to paint houses?”
Hold up. I didn’t think that through. “Er.” Someone throw me a life preserver. Wait. Let me jump into the water first, then throw it to me. “Yeah. It was an apprenticeship. I learned all the trades. Sort of.” Morgan’s train wreck comment flits through my brain like a pantry moth. “So, yeah. Snow. Boo. We don’t like snow.” I contort my face into my best frown and give two thumbs down.
“You’re a general contractor in Charleston now?”
“Yeah. That’s right.” Time to put the train back on the tracks. If we’re headed for a wreck, I don’t want it to be my fault. “How did you end up in Charleston?”
“My contracting company sent me here.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. IT contracting. Not construction.”
“You’re an IT contractor,” I say flatly. I don’t know why this bothers me. Oh yes, I do. It’s because my ex, Zane, and I kept running into each other at various contracting gigs in Indianapolis. It was the real reason I left. The cold and snow were a very close second. But I mainly needed to get away from Zane’s face.
“I’m glad they moved me,” Chance says, “It was time to conquer a new city.”
One of those drinks sounds nice. But I know better than to drink on an empty stomach. I can only handle a small glass of wine after a hearty meal.
“How does a guy conquer a city in the modern age?” I picture Chance wielding Thor’s hammer while lightning bolts shoot from his heels.
“I get to know all the nice bars, top hangouts. Wherever the cool people gather, that’s where I need to be.”
“Because you’re one of the cool kids.”
He shoves himself off the railing, turns to me, and stuffs his Michelangelo-sculpted hands into his pockets. “What do you think?”
I turn back toward the skyline to hide my sneer. “You should go conquer Hollywood with that ego.”
“I thought about Bollywood or modeling, but they weren’t for me. I wanted to cross the ocean to spread the language of love.”
I straighten. “Wow, I’m hungry. Maybe we should go find a table.”
Chance doesn’t budge.
I squint up at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“That was a joke.”
“Which part?”
He tilts his head and smirks.
“Usually when someone is joking, they follow it with a laugh.”
“I guess I’m unusual.”
“You said it, not me,” I say as I brush past him.