Chapter 12
Ella
I’ve changed for what feels like the millionth time and finally stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a simple long-sleeved black dress that wraps around my body and nude heels. I grimace at my reflection and immediately FaceTime Ashton.
As soon as her face fills the screen, Ashton says, “What’s up? Sorry, I’m in a heated argument with ChatGPT about a legal opinion.”
I blink. “That AI thing?”
“Yes,” she says, completely serious.
I roll my eyes and check the clock on the wall. “Okay, I have exactly five minutes before I need to leave. Does this outfit say, ‘oh, how classy’ or does it look like—”
“Like you’re going to a funeral and borrowed your grandma’s shoes?
Yeah, that’s exactly what it looks like.
” She sighs. “Wear a color so you look alive, and so he spots you right away. Your makeup’s on point, and I like the straightened hair.
What about your wide-legged white pants and that cute, tight gold tank.
Tuck it in, grab a blazer, you know the drill.
Very classy, very trendy, not trying too hard, kind of says, I’m ready for more, but I can wear pants too. ”
“Huh?”
“Hurry!”
I snap out of it and hang up on her, then grab the exact outfit she suggested, put it on, grab my keys, purse, and phone, and set off for the date I technically invited myself to.
I chew my lip when I get on the elevator. I mean, if he didn’t want to go, he would have said so. But he actually went with the idea and, dare I say, smiled? Maybe there’s more to him than what I’ve seen. Maybe he has favorite movies, laughs at jokes, and sometimes trips over his own feet.
I’m so nervous that by the time I get to the restaurant, I want nothing more than to order a tequila shot and down it. My stomach flutters a bit when I’m led to a table—the only empty one in the place.
The restaurant is one of my favorite new Italian joints, but I’ve never actually eaten inside. I hate eating by myself or being the only person at the table. Classical music plays in the background, the soft hum of conversation filling the air around me.
I’m glad I thought to get here a bit early. In hindsight, I should have gotten reservations, but that would make it feel so much more like a date—a presumptuous one at that. Then again, normal people make reservations even with coworkers. Okay, I’m officially overthinking it.
“Ma’am, my name’s Peter.” Peter gives off silver fox vibes—either that or mafia vibes, I can’t decide. He’s tall, tan, and has a blinding smile. “I’ll be your server today. Would you like to start with something to drink?”
I check my phone. He’s about five minutes late. “I’ll just have water.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
I beam. “Yes, he should be here soon.”
He returns my smile. “Lovely. I’ll be right back with your water then. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Another five minutes go by. Then another five.
I’ve finished two waters, and suddenly a glass of champagne appears in front of me by way of Peter. “I didn’t order that, though?”
“It’s on the house.” He grins. “That is if you want it. I can always go in back and get you a Sprite or something else.”
My smile is so much weaker than before. He’s officially twenty minutes late. Maybe I misread this whole thing? Oh God, I’m an idiot… I shouldn’t assume the worst.
“No, this is fine. I love champagne.”
“Excellent.”
Another painful fifteen minutes and two empty glasses of champagne later, I put in a to-go order and wait, with each minute that goes by, my stomach sinks even further.
Insecurity wars with irritation as people laugh around me.
Why does it feel like they’re laughing at me when I know they’re in their own worlds?
I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. What was I even thinking?
Peter brings my food over. I hand him my card. “Sorry for taking up a table.”
“It was my pleasure.” Peter grins. “Don’t worry about the table, and I hope you give your date hell.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it wasn’t a date, but if it wasn’t, then why do I feel so embarrassed and hurt?
I grab my takeout and power walk back to the apartment building.
I’m inside my building and at the elevator before I realize it.
I stare straight at the ground while the smell of Italian food fills the small space, serving as yet another reminder that I was stood up by 6B.
The minute I get to my apartment, I take off my cute pants, my shoes, my blazer, and the bra that's been digging into my side all night, then I slip into an oversized white T-shirt.
I finally check my phone. Something is seriously wrong with Ashton’s brain. The sheer number of inappropriate things she’s texted in the last few hours is alarming.
I nearly trip over Dr. Doom coming back into the kitchen for my food but can only stare at the Marco’s to-go bag as tears well in my eyes. Great, now he’s ruined one of my favorite Italian places.
Rather than eating food like a normal adult, I go straight to the freezer for my salted caramel ice cream, grab a spoon, flip off the lid, and dig in.
Yep, straight from the carton. The minute the cold hits my tongue, I’m momentarily satisfied enough to exhale for the first time that night. I eat another bite.
“It’s fine.” I peer over at Dr. Doom. No, I’m talking to my cat, that seems more normal, right?
I let out a groan and put the spoon in my mouth, then put the rest of the ice cream away. With the spoon still in my mouth and ice cream melting on my tongue, I pick up Dr. Doom and walk over to the couch just as a knock sounds at my door.
It’s probably Ashton, riding in like she needs to rescue me from an archcriminal or something.
I didn’t have it in me to text her that I’d been stood up, and I haven’t responded to any of her texts.
I figured I’d let her keep sending me graphic texts, ones that include memes I didn’t even know the iPhone would let me share.
“Ashton,” I say, mouth full of spoon as I open the door. “Trust me, you don’t want to—”
The spoon drops out of my mouth and clatters to the floor. It’s Nathan, and he looks like he just got run over by a truck. His hair’s a mess, still handsome but definitely not as controlled as usual. His brown eyes have no light behind them. That’s the first thing I notice. His stare is intense.
Slowly, he leans down, picks up the spoon, and hands it to me. He smells like whiskey. His light-blue button-down shirt is open at the top, as if he had ripped off his tie. He’s still in what looks like his black work trousers.
I take the spoon from his hand and clutch it in my right.
“Is everything okay?”
“Listen, I just wanted to apologize.”
“For what?” I play stupid.
He gives me a pointed look and doesn’t respond.
“It’s fine,” I whisper.
His head is down, and as he looks up, I see the unshed tears, and in that moment, I realize that this has nothing to do with me.
And all I can think to do is hug him, so that’s what I do.
He hugs me back like a man grabbing onto a life preserver.
When we finally pull back out of the hug, his lips accidentally brush my ear. We freeze just looking at each other in this confusing yet electric moment.
His mouth crashes into mine. Salted caramel and whiskey suddenly assault my senses. The perfect mix. I gasp into his mouth, and he strategically uses my shock to deepen the kiss in a way that has my entire body shaking. God, he’s so warm.
My free hand slides up his chest while my other arm wraps around his neck, pulling him down for more. With a guttural moan, he backs me up into my apartment and slides his hands up my sides until he suddenly stops right before grazing my breasts.
He tears his mouth away from me and stumbles back, leaving me standing in the middle of my apartment with swollen lips. “Sorry. I’m sorry…about everything, just…sorry.”
And just like that, he leaves, shutting my door behind him.
The spoon once again clatters to the floor. What was that? Was he drunk? Hallucinating? I still don’t know what just happened, and then my phone goes off with a text.
My mouth is buzzing. The spoon is still on the floor. And Ashton thinks I’m either having sex or I got kidnapped.
Ashton: You haven’t even responded. Does that mean it’s going good or that it’s going bad? Your location services say you’re at your apartment. Does that mean he’s there too?
When did she get my location? I sigh and text her back quickly.
Me: He was here. He isn’t anymore. He never showed up for the dinner but then came to my apartment. He tasted like whiskey, and now I’m staring at a spoon on the floor.
Ashton: Um, back up. How do you know what he tastes like?
Me: We kissed.
My phone rings immediately.
“Kissed? Start at the beginning, leave nothing out.”
I pause and relive the kiss.
Passionate.
Sad.
Relentless.
Hot.
And I’m still not sure if he even knows my name.