Chapter 3 The Meet-Cute
the meet-cute [trope]
the magical moment when two future lovers collide, often as if they’ve never used basic motor skills before; followed by flirty banter, dramatic eye contact, and at least one ridiculously timed rainstorm
“Are you going to run away again?” Rafael’s voice is low and smooth, and the corners of his full lips are lifted in a hint of a smirk, as though he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.
A sweaty, sticky, nervous effect.
“E-excuse me?”
“You were staring at me. When I caught you, you gasped and ran away.” My cheeks heat as the subtle scent of something warm lingers around him. “About ten minutes ago. Remember?”
Fuck me, this is mortifying.
“I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh, okay.” His brows draw together in mock concern. “Then what’s with the running?”
“I’m not running, I’m… looking for my friend.”
“Hmm.” He points behind me. “She’s over there.”
I turn around, finding Paige in the crowd. Does he know who I am? Or did he see us talking when we came in?
“The only reason you didn’t find me staring back at you is that I was saying hi to an old friend.”
Startled, I turn back, his face much closer than it was before.
He looks the same as when I saw him last but also completely different.
Older, more manly. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he stands, like he owns the space without trying to.
Maybe hardened by time and experience, but also lighter, as if instead of being miserable, he spent the last five years thriving.
He’s definitely looking at me differently from how he used to. “Wh-what?”
“I’ve hardly taken my eyes off you since you got here.”
God, his lashes are even longer than I remembered. “What?”
Wait, I already said that.
He chuckles, the deep sound rattling all the way to my stomach. “I’m flirting with you. I’m implying you’re so beautiful that I noticed you the second you entered The Oak.”
Is he? Why? He didn’t think I was beautiful five years ago, and I haven’t changed much. My hair’s still neither curly nor straight, brown but not the vibrant sexy kind, and my skin is plagued with freckles all over. If anything, now I have stuff like cellulite, which I didn’t have back then.
“Do you like dancing?” he asks, giving me some reprieve by taking a step back.
Dancing? Me? I shake my head.
“Then can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t drink.”
He hums, eyes drifting away for a moment. “So what do you do at parties?”
“I, uh… make sure the walls stay upright.”
One corner of his lips twists, as if it sounds terrible. Makes sense, because Rafael Gray has always been the soul of the party. “It looks like they’re standing just fine by themselves. Want to sit somewhere?”
Okay, what is this dress made of?
His brows rise. “You don’t talk a lot, do you?”
“Sorry.” I watch the amusement play out on his features and realize I should add something. “I have to go.”
Before he can say more, I walk.
“Wait, wait,” he says, blocking me as I try to sidestep him. “Okay, let me be completely honest.” He discreetly nudges his head back. “See those two guys over there? Back of the room?”
Behind him, two men are watching us. Dave Mitchell and Lucas Barrett, maybe? My lips twist. “Yeah.”
“We have a bet going on. They said I couldn’t get your number.”
I look back at him, mouth hanging open. So that’s why he’s talking to me.
It’s not the dress, not that he knows who I am—it’s because those two idiots bet him he couldn’t hook up with me.
Because his friends, who haven’t changed a bit since high school, are making a joke out of me.
God, this somehow just became more mortifying. “Goodbye.”
When I try to step around him again, he raises his hand with an awkward chuckle. “Whoa—okay. You don’t like them, do you? I hear you, but how about you take my phone, type in your name and number, and help me keep my two hundred bucks?”
Two hundred bucks? I glance at his phone. “And why would I do that?”
“A random act of kindness?”
“Kindness? Toward a man who’s placing bets on me?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. I’m not a dancer, but I might just start now. That’s right, Rafael. I’m no longer the younger next-door kid who’s had a crush on you since she knew what having a crush meant. I’m no longer under your spell.
And you’re still the same douchebag.
“I’ll see you,” I say before walking past him.
“We have something in common, you know,” he calls.
With a groan, I turn to him. I highly doubt party animal, girl magnet Rafael Gray and I share a single thing. “Really? Like what?”
“I hate those guys, too.”
“Is that so?” I ask. “Then why are you here with them?”
“Because I just got back into town, ran into them, and they made a scene about not being notified I was back.” He waves a hand around. “They dragged me to this party.”
My irritation wavers as Paige swoops in like a whirlwind, flitting from table to table to adjust napkin holders and making sure everything’s perfect. When she spots me, she gives me a double thumbs-up like I’ve won some kind of personal growth award. I turn back to Rafael.
“Okay,” I say. “How about this: I give you a fake number, and we leave this place together.”
His brows rise. “And where do we go?”
“Nowhere,” I spit out, like the thought alone is insulting. “I go home, and you… well, you do whatever, but you can’t come back here.”
He leans in, eyes trained on me. “And why would you want to do that?”
“Because there’s an excellent book waiting for me at home.” And Paige can’t possibly argue about me leaving if I’m with him.
A slow smirk spreads over his lips. “Counterproposal. You give me your real number, and we leave this place.” He pauses, then adds, “But we actually do something.”
“Something?”
“Together.”
So I’d be swapping one awkward night with a hundred strangers for an awkward night with Rafael Gray?
Hell no. Once upon a time, that was my dream, but I know better now.
Rafael is just an arrogant prick who doesn’t even realize I exist, even though we lived next door to each other most of our lives.
Why does he want my number? So he can add it to his infinite roster and never use it?
“I don’t think so.”
He stops me again as we do our little step-forward-step-backward dance, bringing a hand to his chest like I just harpooned it. “Oh, come on. Spending time with me can’t possibly be worse than a party you don’t want to be at.”
And yet somehow I know it is.
“You don’t even have to smile. You can keep frowning at me the whole night.” When I hesitate, he gestures at my face. “You look pretty when you’re offended.”
“I’m not offended.”
“Then I guess you’re just pretty.”
I glare, though I can’t help the warmth bursting in my stomach. That was so cheesy it almost worked. But if I’m to partake in this charade, I’m not walking away without a cut.
“Fake number. And I get half the money,” I say.
His brows shoot up over his mask. “You want me to pay you for your time?”
“I’m helping you win two hundred bucks.”
“Last offer.” He squares his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his chest and showing a sliver of golden skin. “Fake number, and we spend the money tonight. Two hundred dollars, no holding back. Together.”
One night with a full budget? Oh, I know exactly how I’d blow it: dinner at La Belle Vue, a place with breadbaskets that come with their own little dipping oils; then the Soothing Spot on Maple Avenue for a massage that’s half relaxation, half torture.
And after that? Definitely a double scoop at Sweet Cream Dreams.
But I have a feeling his idea of fun is… different.
“Who decides what we do?”
“We take turns.” When my mouth twists, he adds, “You pick first.”
“Dinner at La Belle Vue.”
His dark brown curls swing over his forehead with the light tilt of his head. “You had that ready to go, didn’t you?”
Damn it, I didn’t mean to agree. I got distracted by the thought of the dipping oils.
Before I can take it back, he says, “You got it. La Belle Vue.” He holds his phone out, and I type in a random number, saving the contact as “Maybe After the First Date.”
He glances down at it. “Cute. I’ll be right back—don’t go anywhere.”
He heads off to Dave and Lucas, who, after peeking at his phone, groan, obviously annoyed. Rafael seems a little too pleased for someone who’s scored a fake win, but who am I to argue?
Though it’s about a decade late, I get my birthday wish.
A date with Rafael Gray.
“All right.” I tap the menu for emphasis.
“Let’s start with the truffle arancini. Then the heirloom tomato bruschetta and the lobster ravioli, sauce on the side.
” I glance up at the waiter, who’s throwing a disgruntled look at my masked face.
“And for my main, I’ll take the filet mignon, medium rare, with the black garlic butter on top.
Oh! And can you add a side of those duck fat potatoes? ”
The waiter blinks, clearly taken aback. He recovers and scribbles furiously. “And for you, sir?”
Rafael sets down his menu, and my eyes catch on the tattoos stretched across his knuckles—black letters spelling LUST in sharp strokes.
Between the words, smaller designs creep along his fingers: a tiny dagger, an eye with lashes like rays, and a cracked heart inked just below one knuckle.
Silver rings gleam at nearly every finger—one shaped like a coiled snake, another thick and weathered with tiny skulls etched around the band, and a square-cut black stone that catches the light like obsidian.
Over the edge of his mask, his gray eyes glint with humor. “I think someone’s trying to get rid of me quickly.”
“Nope. Just hungry.” Apparently, my attempt at blowing all our budget at once isn’t as unsuspicious as I thought.
“Really? You’re going to eat all of that?”
I shrug, but he must see right through me, because he turns to the waiter and says, “We’ll share.”
“All right. I’ll be back with your wine soon.”