Chapter 11 #2
“For the record, I have zero interest in people my age because most of the women I have met just don’t get me. You get me.” I shrugged, then added, “There’s an obvious solution for this. We just need to go on another real date.”
“I’m still not listening,” Rose said.
“Okay then, I’ll go use the restroom. That will give you some time to think about what you pretended not to hear.”
“I’ll be thinking about where to hide your body after I’ve finished with you,” Rose said.
I chuckled as I walked toward the restroom, then waited outside the door since it was occupied. That was when I heard two women talking nearby in a nook of the beer garden.
It was Greta Müller with another woman.
“I’m telling you, it was Zara Mazini,” Greta said. “Same face, same mannerisms. Our entire family danced with her at Oktoberfest for hours. You don’t forget someone like that, not even after ten years.”
“Why would she lie about who she was?” the other woman replied.
“I have no idea, but it has been bugging me all evening,” Greta said with genuine uncertainty. “She seemed uncomfortable when I brought it up. There’s no doubt about it.”
“Do you think she’s being held hostage and had to lie?” the woman asked.
Greta shook her head. “Of course not. She was laughing before I approached her, and Chloe was there with her. It has to be something else.” She waved it off. “It doesn’t matter. I need to let it go because the last thing I want is to be up all night thinking about it.”
Greta hadn’t been confused or hesitant when she had appeared at our table. She’d been adamant. The way she’d described Rose—or Zara—had been specific enough that it felt like actual memory to her, not fabrication or false recollection.
Rose had responded with a story about her cousin.
It was plausible, of course. Families had similar-looking relatives all the time.
Something about it bugged me, though, if I was being honest. Other things about Rose didn’t add up.
The flash drive she carried everywhere. The way she tensed when I asked her what she did for a living.
The nervous energy that practically followed her wherever she went.
I stood there for a moment, phone in hand, debating whether I should do a quick search online, just to confirm Greta was confused. Just to see if there actually was a cousin who looked like Rose. My thumb hovered over the search bar. Then I typed: Zara Mazini.
Nothing. No social media. No professional profiles.
I searched news archives, public records databases, and college directories. I even tried an image search, thinking maybe a photo would pull up something.
Absolutely nothing.
Zero digital footprint.
Zara Mazini doesn’t even exist.
I stared at my phone, coming to the most logical conclusion: Greta was confused, just as Rose had suggested.
Maybe she’d had too much to drink at that Oktoberfest so many years ago, and the memories had blended.
But Rose and Chloe had admitted that Zara was her cousin, so she had to exist somewhere.
Did I get the spelling wrong? Or did Zara have a different last name?
Forget about it, let it go.
For a split second, I thought about searching Rose’s name as well, just to confirm that she was indeed real, and that at least one version of this story made sense. I quickly squashed that idea.
I’d spent enough time second-guessing people to know where it led—nowhere good. Suspicion had killed every past relationship faster than any actual problem ever could, just because I refused to simply trust what was right in front of me.
Whatever secrets Rose Thompson was keeping, they didn’t matter more than this—the connection I felt with her, the fact that I genuinely wanted to see where this could go.
I could search for answers anytime. But once I started down that path, once I let paranoia override what was actually happening between us, I would destroy something real before it ever had a chance to begin.
After using the restroom, I emerged and was already planning my next move as I headed back toward the table.
Maybe I’d suggest an evening walk tomorrow after work—something casual, low pressure.
I was genuinely smiling to myself, mentally rehearsing how to phrase the invitation without sounding too eager, then I stopped dead in my tracks before I had even gotten back to Rose.
I stood there, staring at our table.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered to myself.
The table was empty.
And Rose was gone.
Just minutes ago, she had been right there—relaxed, laughing, our connection feeling real and electric. Now, an employee was getting the table ready for an older couple who were eagerly waiting nearby.
Had I scared Rose away with my talk about a date?
The thought hit me like a physical blow.
“Do you know if the woman who was sitting here left?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.
The employee glanced up from wiping down the table and nodded. “Yeah—just a couple of minutes ago. She was in a hurry, that’s for sure.”
“Thanks,” I said, then made my way to the sidewalk outside.
I scanned both directions on the street—toward Hotel Leavenworth, then the other way toward Front Street Park.
There were no signs of her.
Rose had vanished without even a goodbye. She’d waited until the exact moment I couldn’t see her leave, then disappeared completely.
I stood alone on the sidewalk, surrounded by Christmas lights and decorations that now felt harsh and mocking.
Rose could be at the Bavarian Lodge right now, packing her bags, preparing to vanish from Leavenworth—and my life—as abruptly as she’d entered it.
Or she could walk into the library tomorrow morning like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just abandoned me without explanation.
Which version was real? The woman who’d relaxed beside me all evening, laughing until she snorted? Or the one who’d extracted herself the moment my back was turned?
I suspected I knew the answer.
Then I got another big surprise …
Rose emerged from the shadows near the Nutcracker Museum, walking toward me with purpose—not running, but moving with the deliberate intensity that made my heart rate spike. Her gaze was locked with mine as she got closer and closer and closer.
“Sorry—I shouldn’t have run out on you like that,” she said, stopping directly in front of me. “And I forgot to give you this …” Rose grabbed the front of my jacket with both hands and pulled me down to her.
The kiss hit me like a lightning strike.
Her mouth was warm and insistent against mine.
One of her hands moved from my jacket to the back of my neck, her fingers threading through my hair with enough pressure to make my scalp tingle.
The other hand stayed anchored to my chest, keeping me exactly where she wanted me.
There was nothing tentative about this kiss.
No hesitation or polite testing of boundaries.
Rose kissed me like she’d been thinking about it all evening and had finally given herself permission to stop thinking and just act upon that impulse.
My brain, usually so reliable at processing information and forming coherent thoughts, had completely flatlined.
Every synapse was firing in directions that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the feeling of her pressed against me, the way her breath caught when I pulled her closer, the small sound she made when I deepened the kiss.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.
Rose pulled back, her hands releasing my jacket with the same deliberate control she’d used to grab it. She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with something I couldn’t quite name.
Satisfaction? Victory? Regret?
She smoothed down the front of my jacket with both palms, like she was tidying up evidence of what had just happened.
“Okay then,” Rose said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Glad I could get that out of my system. Good night, Sam.”
Good night? Seriously?
She turned and walked toward the Bavarian Lodge, as if she hadn’t just completely dismantled every coherent thought in my head. Like she kissed people senseless on street corners as a hobby.
As she disappeared from my line of sight, I was still processing what had happened.
Whatever Rose Thompson was hiding, whatever truth lay behind those beautiful eyes, her brilliant mind, and that devastating kiss, I was too mesmerized to walk away from it at this point.
I wanted more, and I wanted it as soon as possible.
And that could be a big, big problem.
The kind that starts with “I should be careful” and ends with wondering how someone you’ve known for less than a week can already feel like the missing piece you didn’t know you were looking for.