Chapter 1 #2
“Great. Now look out the window until I tell you it’s all clear.” That’s all the warning I give before stripping off my dress.
“Woah! What the hell are you doing?” he yelps as I lift my hips, skimming the cranberry knit fabric up over my thighs. He’s turned a deep crimson, eyes plastered to the ceiling.
“Changing. I warned you.” In one swift motion, I fling the dress over my head and to the floor.
“It’s not like I’m naked.” Without my dress I’m still in a shapewear bodysuit and my fleece-lined leggings.
Call me high maintenance, but I’d prefer not to freeze my ass off.
“And you’re the one who got into my taxi.
This is less than I see on the L train most days. ”
Bending over, I pull out a vintage tweed Balmain dress, sticking with the same leather, knee-high Stuart Weitzman boots.
It’s one of three combinations I have for the five dates I have today, and I’m thankful that this next stop is known for its small portions so I won’t explode.
The dress is old—from my mother’s closet—and can now be considered rare instead of last season.
It’s a relic from a time when such luxuries were standard finds from mid-week shopping trips.
Those types of things change when the SEC and FBI swoop in one day and change everything.
But it’s been six years since finding out my dad wasn’t the person Mom or I thought he was, and there’s no use in dwelling on it.
I’m just one more girl with daddy issues, big whoop.
Still, I’ve never been able to shake my affinity for high-end clothes, it’s just that, now, I appreciate them more and have to buy them second-hand.
“I’m sorry if I’m not desensitized to pretty New Yorkers suddenly stripping next to me,” he mumbles.
Poor guy. I might kill him with the mere suggestion of nudity.
“Ahh, you think I’m pretty? Not a New Yorker, though; I’m from Texas.
” I grunt a little as I work the unforgiving fabric over the modest swell of my chest and down my waist. I damaged my corduroy pants last week doing a similar quick change and would love to not need a repeat.
“I promise you, this is not the worst thing that’s happened in this backseat. ”
Our driver gives us a grunt of affirmation.
“You can look now,” I say, adjusting the skirt to where it hits mid-thigh, “but you need to pay the price of taking advantage of my cab haling abilities.”
“Wait, w-what?” he stammers, looking at me, still red. Actually, redder, if possible. This can’t be healthy. He should probably get his blood pressure checked.
“Do you get laid often?”
He goes non-verbal, opening and closing his mouth, but nothing comes out. Sue me for having some fun after having to play it all prim and proper all day. And it’s not like I’ll see this guy again.
“I’m not offering. It’s just you’re having a very strong reaction to the sight of my shoulders. Honestly, you’re attractive. Got that tall, nerdy, and bashful thing going for you.” I scoot toward him. “All I was going to do was ask if you could zip me up. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” he says in a gust of relief. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a second, and when he attempts to pull it up, it’s apparent that he’s trying to touch me as little as possible.
“You have to hold the top bit together.”
He does, fingers feather-light where they brush against the nape of my neck, ruffling the ends of my blunt cut blonde bob.
Then with a tug, he secures me in, just as we pull to a stop.
Shoving my discarded clothes into my bag and tossing my coat over my shoulders, I head out and toward Pivoine, with its floor to ceiling windows and lush interior shrouded by a wall of plants.
When I reach for the door, a hand darts forward, blocking my way and grasping the brushed brass handle.
I look up. There, next to me, is the scandalized man from the cab.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I don’t realize I’ve said it outloud until Andrew, my final date for the day, asks, “I’m sorry, is everything okay?”
“Yes. I just need to head to the washroom.” I give him a smile then nod toward his sister and her fiancé on the other side of the table. “So sorry to stall such a great conversation; I’ll be right back,” I say, already pushing out of my seat.
This is the easiest meal of the night, especially since I’m supposed to play the part of a woman he’s already broken up with. Andrew just didn’t want to disrupt the holidays and the plans he already had before the breakup. That’s where I came in.
But Andrew and his personal drama aren’t on my mind since Cab Guy has just walked in, being led past us by a hostess.
This is the third time—well fourth, if I’m including the time I ran into him after I met with Porter, but that was pre-cab—he’s shown up after me and each time he managed to look more disheveled.
I nearly run into the hostess trying to return to her station with how quickly I round the corner. There I discover a row of small secluded candle-lit booths. Cab Guy is in the one furthest down the line.
“Are you following me?” I demand as I slide in across from him.
His knee jumps, colliding with the underside of the table, causing the wax in the candle centerpiece to slosh and drip over the sides. “What the fuck? How do I know you’re not following me?”
“You took my taxi and I was here first. Did you put a tracking tag in my bag?”
“Yes. I followed you to a restaurant where you have to get reservations months in advance, waltzed right in, and got a seat,” he deadpans, cocking his head.
True. I booked all the spots I’ve gone to tonight over the summer, knowing I’d have the perfect client for each when the time came.
“Okay, then why are you here?”
“Probably the same reason you are. I mean, I haven’t gone on dates with four men tonight, but I am following Spitfire’s ‘Feast in The City’ list because I’m doing this year’s write-up.”
The majority of the restaurants on the list are the same each year, and someone would have to go and eat at each of them to give consistent reviews.
Still, for some reason, I’m hesitant to believe him. “Aren’t you supposed to have a notebook or something?” The only thing on the table are the candles and the menu.
“In my bag? It’s best to not broadcast to a restaurant you’re reviewing them. Special treatment can lead to a biased review.”
Okay, yeah, that checks out, and maybe I deserve the perplexed look he’s giving me.
I fold my arms over my chest and lean back into the firm upholstery. “I’m impressed that you can form coherent sentences, since you were practically monosyllabic a few hours ago.”
“Believe it or not, I’m fairly composed when someone doesn’t suddenly rip their clothes off next to me.” Still, the barest hint of pink blooms on his cheeks.
“Great.” I slap the table. “If that’s everything, I have someone I need to get back to.”
Before I can go, Cab Guy leans forward placing an elbow on the table and rests his head on one hand as he looks at me through long lashes. “Just curious, is this your last date of the night, or should I expect to run into you again?”
“Well, I’m not a cheater, just so you know.” I’d have to actually be in a relationship to be one, and I’ve had approximately zero since my junior year of college.
“Just dating four men?” Something about him shifts as he asks the questions—his gaze sharpens, eyes roving over me, inspecting, searching for a scrap of information. Yup, totally see him as a journalist now, picking people apart for the sake of an article.
“I liked you more when you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”
“I was trying to be respectful, but now that you have all your clothes on.” He shrugs, gaze lazily trailing from my face to the dip of my dress that reveals the smallest bit of cleavage. “It’s hard to turn away.”
Annoyance zips up my spine. Is he flirting with me? Where do men find the audacity? “Five, and it’s just for the night. It’s not a sex thing, and wouldn’t be wrong if it was. I’m just a holiday date and I’m great at it, by the way,” I snap. “So don’t think I’m going to add you as number six.”
“Sounds fake,” he challenges.
I don’t have time for this. My bathroom excuse will only go so far. “Here. If you’re a writer, you have a pen, right?”
He blinks once and then pulls out a pen and paper from a worn black leather messenger bag, sliding them across the table to me.
I scribble my website on the crumbled page. “If you don’t believe me, check this out.”
Without waiting for his response, I head back to Andrew.
If I’m going to talk to a man, he better be paying me for my time.