Chapter Nine
Kami
I have no one to blame but myself. Had I told the truth, my mother would never have assumed Ian was my boyfriend, Ian wouldn’t have taken over my life, and I wouldn’t now be obligated to come home with him. But no. I had to open my mouth and tell a lie I couldn’t come back from.
There’s no way you could have known.
Maybe so, but dwelling on it isn’t going to help. Now, I need to focus on the task at hand. Ian is so distracting that I’ll need every ounce of strength and control to not let my mind wander back into the dangerous territories it has before.
I sit on the outside patio of a nearby coffee shop, enjoying my packed lunch as I think.
If there’s no getting out of this lie, the only way to go seems to be forward. Meaning—begrudgingly—I need to talk to Ian. Get to know him well enough with the time we have left before Thanksgiving week. Make it look like we’re a couple. No doubt he’d be all over that idea.
“He’s going to love my admission of defeat,” I mutter as I take another bite of my turkey sandwich.
Just then I hear my phone ding. Grabbing the device from my purse, I see it’s a text—from Ian. How ironic that in the moment I realize I have to talk to him, he texts me.
I open the message and read his text.
Care to join me at the Brick tomorrow night at eight? Let’s talk strategy ??
“It’s like he’s reading my mind,” I murmur as I start texting back.
I’ll be there.
I walk into the bar just as it’s eight o’clock the next evening, only to find the place completely empty. Huh, weird. He closed down the place early so we could talk? Interesting.
Not only is the place empty, I notice a single table for two covered in a white tablecloth. A chair on each side. Candles are the centerpiece to white plates and elegant silverware. Is this a chat…or a date?
Out of the corner of my eye I see Ian, in a black dress jacket, shirt, and pants, come into view from behind the bar and holding a bouquet of flowers. This time, stargazer lilies. The vibrancy of the pink flowers is exquisite.
“I’m glad you came.” He smiles.
If he thinks he can distract me with flowers, pretty words, and a nice dinner, he’s sorely mistaken.
I accept the flowers he hands me. As nice of a gesture as it is, I still don’t understand why he’s doing all of this. “Thanks, but…what do you want?”
“You.” He’s straightforward with the word.
That can’t be it.
I scoff. “You do realize I’m not a toy, right?”
“I never said you were.”
“You can’t just worm your way into my life and think I’ll be okay with it. So what do you want?”
“Like I said, I want you.”
I’m confused. There has to be more to it than that. That’s always how it is with guys. When guys say they want a woman, they usually mean physically. But when Ian says that word, it feels so much more personal, more intimate. How can it be the same phrase yet mean something completely different?
I look around the bar again, this time with a more analyzing eye. The ambience is quiet, romantic even. The lights are dimmed just enough to make an intimate setting. The fact that we’re the only two people in this building is appealing yet unsettling.
“We’re not talking, are we?”
“We are. I thought we’d have dinner while we talk.”
I set the bouquet on the bar and cross my arms. “And what do you want in return?”
He turns to me with a firm stare. “Why is everything always a proposition with you?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I know how the world works. You want more than just dinner.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Sweetheart, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been around the wrong kind of guys. And unlike them, I’m more than capable of thinking without my dick from time to time. So before you label me as anything I’m not, hear me out first.”
Guilt creeps in. I’ve made assumptions without him getting the chance to say anything. That night we spent together, he wasn’t like any other guy I’ve met. He was sweet, honest, and thought about me with every kiss, caress, and overwhelming orgasm. But how do I know that wasn’t a fluke? How do I know that’s the kind of guy he is? I don’t know what to think or feel, much less whether to trust what’s right in front of me. Yet despite my reservations, I can’t deny I’ve been judgmental against him.
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually do anything like this.”
“I asked you here because I want to sit down, talk, and get to know you. Because I’m interested in you. All I ask is that you listen before you decide what kind of person I am. Nothing, other than that, will happen unless you want it to.”
He’s direct, firm, yet assuring. It almost feels too good to be true hearing the words he says. But if he just wants to talk, what’s the harm in that?
“I can do that.” I nod to the table. “What’s for dinner?”
He smiles. “Have a seat and find out.”
Ian walks over to the table and pulls out my chair, letting me take a seat before pushing it back under me. I feel my heart doing that fluttery thing again. If I’m not careful, he’s going to make me like being treated like a princess.
Would that be so bad?
“Wait here.” He disappears into the back again.
Noticing a basket with a variety of bread inside, I take a piece and nibble on it as I wait.
Sourdough, yum.
I’m impressed at how much effort he put into this. Maybe he’s not entirely wrong about the guys I’ve surrounded myself with. They’d never do something like this. They’re too impatient and emotionally unavailable.
A couple of moments later, Ian walks back in with the most decadent plates I’ve ever seen. From the asparagus lightly placed on top of the delicately mashed potatoes, to the juicy filet mignon, everything about this dish makes my mouth water.
“You cooked all of this?”
“A hobby of mine that took years and years of practice.”
A man who knows how to cook. I don’t know whether to be impressed or turned on. “You’re better than me. I just know how to make toast, eggs, and the occasional grilled cheese sandwich.”
He laughs. “That was me in my college days.”
I laugh. “What changed to make you a better cook?”
“When my mom got sick ten years ago. My dad did most of the cooking, until he died five years after that. YouTube videos were a big help, let me tell you.”
“That must have been a lot for you to tackle at once. Did you have help?” I picture a run-down Ian spreading himself thin to keep his mother and their livelihood alive.
“My family pitched in whenever they could, but most lived too far out to help on a regular basis, and my youngest brother, Matt, was busy being a husband and father of three under the age of five.”
“So it was mostly you taking care of things?” I sympathize.
“Yeah, but I managed.” He smiles.
If he’d been taking care of his family for this long, chances are he hadn’t had much time to work on himself, much less meet a woman and settle down. “But what about you? What about your life?”
“Don’t be sad for me, Kami.” He takes my hand in his. “I’m okay now. Things are finally good, and I want to make the most of it. Let’s dig in.”
For the next half hour we eat, drink wine, and talk about life. In truth, he’s more interesting than I thought. The way he describes his family makes me wish I could have that.
Then the conversation turns to me.
“What about you?” he asks.
I give a small laugh of awkwardness. “Me? Well, you already know about my sister and mom.”
“True, but what about your dad? Your childhood? Your mom had said something about you being a lot like your dad.”
My dad. When was the last time I talked about my father to anyone, much less to myself? After all, the mere mention of him in front of my mother would cause her to have a meltdown. So much as having a photo of him was too much for her to handle.
I’m keeping this short and brief. “My dad was never really in the picture.”
“Did he pass?” he asks.
He was dead to my mother; does that count? “Something like that.”
My mind goes back to when my dad and I played in the backyard every day after school. From sports to doing chores around the house, we did everything together. He was so constant in my then-short life—until he wasn’t. Since then, my whole family has been…dysfunctional. There was a time when I thought he’d come back. That we’d be a family again if my parents just talked things out. But that thinking quickly changed when I realized neither Dad, nor any other potential father figure that would come along, wanted anything to do with me.
“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“My dad went to work one day and never came back.” I don’t need his pity. “It’s no big deal, honestly.”
As if he somehow understands, he takes his hands in mine. “I’m sorry.”
Why is he sorry about something that happened a long time ago? He wasn’t there. He had nothing to do with it. I shrug and try to divert the conversation. “I think you had it the hardest. Taking care of a cancer patient while keeping a business afloat by yourself is no easy task.”
He takes hold of my hand. “We both went through a lot in different ways, but they were still difficult. Thank you for sharing that piece of you with me. Dessert?”
He cares. He actually cares. But when is the shoe going to drop? This all feels too perfect. Tonight has been fun, and I’ve enjoyed getting to know him, but will it always be like this? How do I know the tables won’t turn on me? He may be willing to hear what I have to say now, but what about tomorrow?
After coming back to the table with two large slices of chocolate cake, he continues, “As your ‘boyfriend’ for the next few weeks, what’s the plan?”
What if it could be the real thing?
I shove that thought down. One night together and a seemingly romantic dinner date can’t determine whether I should commit to him or not. Not when our arrangement is only temporary.
“Since my mom is expecting us to be smitten in love and engaged in the end”—no thanks to him—“we might as well milk it for what it’s worth. How do you want to propose?”
“Depends on how big of a show you want to make.”
Knowing my mom, we’ll need to make this as realistic as possible.
“On Thanksgiving night, when everyone is sitting at the table, you’ll propose. I’ll be crying tears of joy, and everyone can go to bed with smiles on their faces. Easy peasy.” Fixing this now will help me deal with Ian later. One step at a time. One problem at a time.
“I’m assuming you’d want to break up, so to speak, once we get back to Dallas.” He looks almost crestfallen.
Right. Break up. We should do that. But why does that idea sound like crap?
“Yeah, we should wait a week or so before then.” A thought then comes to mind. “Does your family know about me?”
“My mom knows about you, and the only thing that matters to her is if I’m living my life the way I want to. She wants me to be happy.”
“It’s nice that she’s supportive.” The thought of parting ways with Ian is uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel right.