Chapter 5
Chloe
“And the thing is, it’s all electric. I no longer have to deal with gas cans and that nasty smell while I’m mowing the lawn. How cool is that?”
I force a smile and nod along with Greg’s passionate exposition on his new lawnmower.
Twenty-four hours ago, just walking beside Kolya in public overstimulated me. Now, on my date with Greg Hammond at a romantic Italian restaurant, I’m overindulging in wine just to stay present.
With hardwood floors worn from decades of high-volume traffic and white tablecloths always starched to perfection, Amalfi’s is one of my favorite local spots.
The scent of fresh rosemary and garlic suffuses the dimly lit dining space, luring my nose toward the kitchen. But even the promise of incredible pasta can’t salvage the evening.
Physically speaking, Greg’s attractive enough.
He’s fit and has a pleasing face. And maybe he could elevate to handsome if he ever properly looked at me.
Once our server dropped off bread, he fixed his blue eyes on his plate and started rambling about one self-interest after the other, oblivious to my increasingly desperate attempts to change the subject.
The lawnmower discussion is at least mildly more fascinating than his verbal treatise about his 401(k), or how he “rebalanced his international equities” because “the risk exposure was getting a little high.”
I drum my fingers against the stem of my wine glass, desperate to shift the conversation toward something—anything—that isn’t powered by lithium-ion batteries or financial spreadsheets.
“…impressive blade quality and superior construction…” The words are lost between the clink of silverware and low hum of other, presumably more interesting conversations swirling through the dining area.
“I’ve got a whole collection of vintage lawn equipment manuals, by the way.
There’s this 1978 Briggs & Stratton—” His fork scrapes the plate and moves to his mouth, a piece of one of the mozzarella sticks he ordered before I arrived dangling from the tines.
Yes, he’s eating a mozzarella stick with a fork.
I wonder what that says about his skills under the sheets.
Nothing good.
I seize the opportunity as he chews. “I’ve always loved vintage things too. I recently got this gorgeous antique globe bar. Oh, and there’s this record store downtown that has—”
“Record store?” Greg’s eyebrows scrunch together like two caterpillars trying to mate. “Albums? Huh. Do people still do that sort of thing?”
“Apparently so.” I swirl the merlot in my glass, watching the dark red legs cling to the side. At least the wine is good. Probably still not worth the emotional toll of this date.
My gaze wanders to the posters on the walls. The Amalfi Coast. Italian villages. Places I’ve never visited and likely never will.
Greg hunches forward almost conspiratorially. “I’m in three leagues this season.”
I straighten. A team sport? I can work with that. “Oh, a league. How fun. What kind? Softball?”
He snorts. “Fantasy football.” He has the audacity to appear offended by my ignorance while also leaving a smear of marinara on his chin.
“Oh.” The excitement deflates from my chest. I’m vaguely familiar with those.
They involve fabricated teams and points and…
do people throw dice? Or trade cards? For some reason, my mind goes straight to D&D.
At least in that role-playing game, there are dragons.
Knights. Warriors. Adventure, puzzles, and dark mages to vanquish.
Still, I attempt to rally. “Fascinating. Which teams do you like?”
He scoffs. “It’s not about teams, Chloe. It’s about the players and matchups and analytics. I drafted a strong core this year. My tight end is a beast in the red zone.”
All the right words to sound interesting, yet coming from him, they’re so boring.
The server materializes like an angel of salvation. “Are we ready to order?”
“Yes, thank you.” I grant him a disproportionately relieved smile. “I’ll have—”
“Actually,” Greg holds up a hand, “we need a few more minutes.”
The server spares me a sympathetic glance before disappearing back into the restaurant’s controlled chaos. I want to grab his sleeve and beg him to save me. Maybe he could spill sauce or wine on Greg’s pristine button-down shirt and cut this disaster short.
Instead, I inhale a long, slow breath and arrange my lips into what I hope passes for a smile. One brittle enough to crack my face.
I should’ve known better than to get my hopes up.
Hope leads you into situations where you’re stuck sitting across the table from men who monologue about fantasy football with the same kind of vest brought to world peace negotiations.
Hope teases you with the lie that the next date will be better than the last. Hope is overrated.
At the moment, the only thing I hope for is another glass of wine.
Greg launches into a detailed discussion of each player and their stats, including the ones he didn’t pick and why.
I’m stifling another yawn and resisting the urge to adjust my uncomfortable strapless bra when a prickle runs up the back of my neck. I scan the restaurant.
Past the clinking glasses and hushed conversations, I spy a figure standing near the archway that leads to the reception area.
Tall, solid, and entirely too still.
Kolya.
My breath hitches as our eyes meet from across the room.
His unwavering gaze cuts through the restaurant’s ambient noise and Greg’s monologue like a knife through butter.
No smile or frown. Nothing but those eyes slicing through the room and straight into me.
Goosebumps erupt over my arms while a contradictory heat blooms in my chest.
He shouldn’t be here.
He can’t be here.
And yet, he is. Every cell inside me wakes up from the Greg-induced coma. Bye-bye, death by boredom. At least with Kolya, my body experiences things like desire, a sense of danger, and electricity.
I tip back my wine glass. Empty.
I steal a glance at my watch. Only twenty minutes in, and I could’ve sworn I arrived hours ago.
My attention flits back to the entrance.
Kolya prowls into the dining room with the casual grace of someone extremely comfortable in his body. His dark jacket stretches across broad shoulders, his every movement precise and controlled.
My heart plummets into my stomach as the hostess guides him toward our table. This can’t be coincidence. Not when I’ve spent the last day jumping at shadows, checking my classroom supply closet twice before leaving, and replaying that farmers market scene in my head.
He slows as he nears us, bending his head just an inch. “Chloe.”
My name in his mouth sounds different—heavier and more significant—than when anyone else says it. “Kolya.”
With a dip of his chin, he passes our table and follows the hostess deeper into the restaurant.
Greg frowns, momentarily derailed. “Who’s that?”
“A…friend.” How do I explain this guy? The person who helped stack my construction paper…and broke a guy’s arm at a farmers market? The man who provided more excitement in five minutes than eighteen months of dating has?
Greg huffs, clearly annoyed by the interruption.
The hostess leads Kolya to a table across the room. She’s flustered by his presence, too, her hand fluttering near her collarbone as she seats him.
After he speaks and inclines his head, she redirects him to a small table with a clear line of sight to ours.
My heart plunges further. He must’ve sought me out and followed me here.
Greg drones on, but I only process fragments. Something about yardage and fourth downs. My perception has tunneled to Kolya, my body hyperaware of his every action. He orders a drink with a minimal gesture and checks his phone, but occasionally, his gaze lifts and settles on our table.
A flat, calculating stare he means for me to see but aims directly at Greg.
Then his eyes slip to mine.
Greg glances over and notices Kolya. He jerks his head back around. “So, uh, like I was saying…” He falters, losing his train of thought. “The, um, running back situation in Cincinnati is…well, it’s complicated.”
It’s like watching an animal sense an unseen predator.
The exchange of looks continues as the server returns.
As we place our order, Greg starts to unravel. He stutters, asking for the salmon before swapping to steak, then back to salmon. He reaches for his water glass and fumbles, skittering ice cubes across the white tablecloth. A thin sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead.
“Are you feeling okay?” I watch him disintegrate, torn between concern and a dark, thrilling spark of excitement.
“Just warm in here.” He tugs at his collar. “Is it warm? It seems warm.”
He crumbles like a paper bag before my eyes. With each passing moment, his composure frays even more, spooling out of control. Kolya is dismantling this man with nothing but a few pointed glares.
The reasonable side of my brain reacts with horror. The wild, reckless side—the part that reads alpha romances under the covers at night—buzzes with delight.
Greg gulps down his water. “So anyway, my tight end…” He trails off, wild eyes flicking around the restaurant. His Adam’s apple bobs.
A weird mixture of pity and fascination washes through me. “Your tight end?”
“Right. He’s…um…” Beneath his summer tan, his face blanches. “You know what? I just remembered I have an early meeting tomorrow.” He checks his watch. “Like, really early.”
“But we haven’t even gotten our meals yet.” Despite my automatic response, I’m not exactly devastated by the prospect of this date ending.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll call you.” He scrabbles for his wallet, throws down some bills that might cover his drink and appetizer but not his entree or mine, and rises so abruptly, his chair almost tips over. “It was nice meeting you.”
Then he flees the restaurant, leaving me alone at the table with the check, one lonely mozzarella stick, and a half-empty breadbasket.
Slowly, I crane my neck and glower at Kolya.
My chest and neck burn.
Who does he think he is? Terrible or not, that was my date.
I may not be crying over Greg’s sudden vanishing act, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate Kolya’s silent intimidation tactics.
The guy probably always gets what he wants because of his arrogance and good looks.
And also his scary, bone-breaking ways.
Across the restaurant, he meets my angry scowl with an arched eyebrow and a tip of his head, as if to say, Yes, I chased him off. What are you going to do about it?
Jerk.
I throw my napkin down and march over to his table, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor like tiny exclamation points. The restaurant grows quiet, or maybe that’s just the blood rushing through my ears. I don’t know what I’ll say once I reach him, only that I need to confront him.
Like a wolf tracking a deer, his dark eyes never leave mine. But I’m not prey.
Tonight, I’m a woman with a grudge and just enough wine in my system to display some bravery.
Or stupidity.
Possibly a little of both.