Chapter One
One month before the epilogue in A Me and You Thing
IHATE DINING alone.
I feel like there’s a flashing neon sign above me announcing: Yes, folks, she’s dining alone. All by herself. Solo. Unaccompanied.
But I’d rather be out among the living than home alone in the deafening silence.
In need of a little self-pampering, I made a reservation for one at Portland’s sky-high restaurant, Exodus.
Get away. Take flight. Dine amid the clouds.
Their advertising is spot on. The restaurant is located on the twenty-first floor of an architecturally modern high-rise that towers over downtown Portland.
I’d heard it was an amazing dining experience—and I needed something amazing.
Nursing a broken heart is a tricky endeavor.
Try as I might, nothing soothes the ache.
My life consists of working, jogging, eating, and sleeping. Last time I checked, that’s just living. Not being alive.
I’m wearing a white satin blouse with a draped neckline, a silver pearl necklace, black slacks, and my favorite Louboutins. A perfect French tip highlights my nails; my auburn hair is long and straight. At least I feel like I look good. It’s a confidence booster.
My mom taught me to always look put-together. Hair done, make-up on, nails painted, dressed to impress. By eight a.m. every day. I rarely slack off. I used to wear my hair in a professional low bun, but these days I’m wearing it long and loose. I like it that way.
I wish I could be as good on the inside as I look on the outside.
Sitting at my table for one while surrounded by the sharp angles and smooth tiles of the contemporary interior, I should feel cold and uncomfortable.
The soft whispers of the patrons echo off the stark décor, and women’s heels click loudly against the marble floors as they make their way to the ladies’ room to powder their noses.
Yet the elegant room doesn’t feel sterile.
On the contrary, it feels luxurious, warm, and welcoming.
Several recessed electric fireplaces are strategically placed around the area, the main lights are low, and stylish battery-operated candles flicker on the dining tables, looking so real, I was surprised when I realized they were fake.
Muted modern-music-turned-classical plays overhead.
All in all, the atmosphere is highly intimate.
I call it classy-cozy. My overstuffed dining chair has engulfed my body in a way that makes me never want to get up.
It gives new meaning to the lap of luxury.
There’s a small dance floor where couples are romantically mingling together to the music. I avoid looking in that direction.
In spite of sitting in a fancy restaurant, soaking up life energy from those around me, I happen to be absorbed in a book. I need something to do when dining solo. “Embrace the awkward” should be my new mantra.
I abandon my best friend of late—my trusty Kindle—and stare at the stunning view of the city lights at night. The window next to me gives me a bird’s-eye perspective of a peaceful Oregon evening in July.
Except the tranquility I hoped for with this outing feels as though it’s slipping through my fingers, sifting away. Like trying to hold a fistful of sand.
I breathe in and out deeply, catching my reflection in the dark window beside me.
My long red hair and large blue eyes stand out, like I’m slowly disappearing, and they’re the only features I have left.
Besides the worry line marring the spot between my eyebrows.
That deep crevice commands more attention than it should be allowed.
I release a heavy sigh. I’m much too young to feel so defeated. So why do I? I landed myself a six-figure job one week after returning to Portland. I bought myself a modern and stylish townhome shortly thereafter. I’m no longer jobless and homeless.
Just manless and loveless.
I’ve never felt so alone.
It’s been two long months since my life did a one-eighty on the day I left Sawyer and Quinn.
I’m still reeling. I needed to let them move forward with their happily-ever-after without interference.
Even though it still hurts, I suppose I have a semblance of peace.
Everyone is back where they belong, and it feels right.
They’ve moved on. I need to too. Currently I’m in limbo. It’s not exactly a fun place to hang out—more like a wild ride on the struggle bus.
After losing Sawyer, I made the decision to not date for one year. I need a breather, time to heal, time to rebuild. It’s time to learn to be happy with my own company before bringing someone else into the picture. It’s the right decision for my mental health.
I used to be proud of my inner Scarlett. Not so much anymore. I’m trying to change, to be a better person.
Frankly, it’s not easy. Sometimes I wonder if I’m a bad apple waiting on the ground for someone to pick me up and throw my rottenness in the garbage.
After I release a heavy sigh, I take a final bite of the boneless Peking duck with mandarin pancake and close my eyes as my taste buds tingle with joy. My heart might be heavy, but my stomach is singing. I appreciate gourmet food. I just can’t cook it myself because I’m a disaster in the kitchen.
The smell of kumquats, hoisin, scallions, and cucumbers teases my senses and takes me away to another time, another place.
Anywhere but here and now.
“Hey, keep it down, people are trying to enjoy a quiet evening. How can they do that when you’re over here having a party?”
I open my eyes at the intrusion. There’s a tall, exquisitely dressed man standing next to my table, interrupting my pity party for one.
He’s not invited.
Even though he’s joking, his voice is as smooth as silk. A soft rumble, every letter pronounced impeccably.
I stare blankly for too many heart-stopping seconds.
Every part of him is polished and refined.
He clearly makes an effort with his appearance.
From his clean, trimmed nails to his straight white teeth to the tailored clothing that fits him like a glove.
His dark hair is styled in a modern fashion, every strand held in place by whatever mysterious hair products men use.
And he smells divine. Basically, he’s man perfection.
I notice everything about him in just a few short moments. I guess there’s still a little life left inside me, and I’m not heart-dead.
But this girl is not on the market. It’s too soon.
I’m not in the mood for pickup lines either. My blunt nature bites back before I remind myself I’m trying to be a better person. “You should rethink that opener. It’s not working for me.”
His full lips pout, and he blinks a few times, overly long lashes covering his dark eyes. “Really? It took me an hour to come up with it. Give a guy a break. Do you know how much courage it takes to approach a beautiful woman who’s confident enough to dine alone?”
How does every sentence from this man’s mouth sound seductive?
At first I thought he was kidding around, but it’s really the way he speaks.
Like he’s trying to charm me with his deep timbre.
The words effortlessly roll out of his mouth, sounding the same way a man would sound when he’s whispering sweet nothings into a woman’s ear.
Yet the words he’s saying are meant to be humorous. The combination makes me pause.
“Sorry.” I dab my mouth with my napkin. “Still not working.”
“There you have it. I’ve lost my touch.”
This man has major touch. I doubt a woman has ever turned him down. I sure don’t want to. That velvety voice of his is my downfall. But I discourage him anyway. “That’s not all you’ve lost.”
“My mom would agree. I was always losing things as a kid.”
I raise my eyebrows at his quick comeback. I don’t seem to be able to shut this man down. Maybe he senses my interest.
Along with his dark hair, he has dark brown eyes, olive skin, and a smoldering gaze, and he can keep up with my inherent sarcasm without being fazed.
He has my attention just for that alone.
He’s dressed in all black. Black slacks, black button-up dress shirt, and black blazer.
Silver cuff links peek out from the ends of his sleeves, and a silver chain encircles his wrist. He’s classy without looking like he’s desperately trying too hard.
A slight whiff of his divine cologne meets my nostrils, making my stomach tighten.
I love a man who cares about how he smells.
My eyes wander to his face, where I happen upon a sexy half smile, a smile that sort of makes me want to melt.
He knows I just checked him out. Great. His stylish appearance and smooth voice don’t match his quirky comebacks.
Okay, my interest is piqued. But this tree—that would be me—is not barkable. I’m not taking a trip to Rebound City. No thanks.
One year, Bree. You promised yourself.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t notice a man.
“Did I leave you speechless? It’s been known to happen in my dreams, but never in real life. This is a first.”
With that silky voice, I imagine he leaves every woman within hearing distance standing at attention. I sip my water and set my glass down with a slight bang. “I’m never speechless,” I tell him succinctly.
“Touché.”
I grant him a hard stare, then motion to my waiter as he passes.
“Check, please.” I planned on lingering at my table with my Kindle dining companion for at least another hour, but if the man in black thinks I’m leaving, maybe he’ll get the hint that I’m not interested.
Or at least, I don’t want to be interested.
When the waiter pauses, the man in black tells him, “Dessert on the house for the lady, please.” It’s not a command, it’s a calm request uttered with his unique ability to constantly speak as though he’s professing his love during a heated moment.