Chapter 11 Talon
TALON
How to plan a romantic date.
No. That's too generic. It won't work.
Best date ideas.
Still not helpful.
I’m ready to throw this unhelpful phone out the fucking window.
How the hell does a guy plan a date with a girl he's trying to convince to stay with him?
I would tell myself this is unusual, but I'm sure it isn't once I think about it for a minute.
There are probably thousands of men exactly where I am now, trying like hell to convince the woman in their life to stick around and be happy about it.
That they mean exactly what they say when they tell her she means the world to them.
The only difference is, I kill people for a living. Otherwise, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm just like other people. I can't say it's something I ever aspired to or even tried for.
It's Ainsley. Ainsley has changed everything about me.
And now, I need to make her comfortable enough with me that she'll see we are meant to be. It's as simple as that.
Hence my googling what the fuck I’m supposed to do with her.
I don't do dates. Flowers, candlelight, all that sappy bullshit.
At least, I've always thought it was bullshit—a means to an end.
Now I see it's a way of making the other person feel special.
Seen, wanted. By now, she has to know how much I want her, but there needs to be more to this than sex, too. I understand that.
If nothing else, this experience has been an education.
You would think anyone who does as much online research as I do would be better at this.
Finally, it occurs to me to add our ZIP code to my query, which narrows things down and makes the results applicable this time around.
What kind of thing would Ainsley want to do?
Because this has to be about her, not some generic idea of what a date should be. What would make her happy?
"Paintball?" I mutter, shaking my head at some of the responses. "Bowling? Come on, now. Is bowling anybody's idea of a good date?" The mental image of her losing her grip on the ball and sending it flying backwards makes me rule that one out in a hurry.
Forget this. I need to rely on my instinct. It's never steered me wrong before.
Instead of relying on my phone, I set it down, then look around me. What would she like to do?
It's like he hears me, that damn bird. "Klaus is a good boy!
" he squawks. Something with animals, maybe?
The zoo? It's a possibility. I make a note of it, then add, petting zoo?
Are there any of those around here? Granted, they're probably more for children, but who gives a fuck? This is about making her happy.
Books. That's another obvious choice. She loves books. I google local bookstores, focusing on smaller shops, secondhand stores, the sort of places where treasures can be found. I bet she would like digging through the stacks, searching for something exciting.
When I imagine that, when I see her in my head beaming over a treasure she's uncovered, my chest hurts until it's hard to breathe.
I know there is a word for what's happened to me—it's not a word I ever imagined applying to myself.
This doesn't happen to men like me, and yet it did.
The evidence is all around me, like in the way I'm putting actual effort into planning a date to prove to her I mean it when I say she means nothing less than the world to me.
That I will stop at nothing if it means giving her everything she needs.
My heart skips a beat when the bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam billows out.
She's wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe printed with unicorns and rainbows, and it's painfully obvious how nervous she still is.
She won't make eye contact, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched as she scurries into the kitchen like I’m a disease rather than the man who slept next to her last night.
"I want to take you out." It just pours out of me before I know what I'm doing.
And she cringes before glancing my way. "Is that hitman speak? Taking me out?"
Jesus Christ. "No, I didn't mean it that way. I mean it in the traditional sense. A date. I want to take you out on a date."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to. Why is that so hard for you to believe?
" I know the answer, and I wish I didn't have to ask when she flinches again.
I've seen firsthand the many reasons why she wouldn't believe I or anyone else would honestly want her.
Her entire family has made a sport out of crushing her.
It almost makes me wish I could kill Paul all over again. More painfully this time.
And this time, he would know exactly why—that I was doing it for her, because she is worth it.
She's not convinced, though I can tell she wants to be, chewing her lip, shifting from one foot to the other. "I've never actually been on a date. Not counting the wedding." She looks pained when she mentions it. "And I had to pay you for that."
"Neither have I, besides the wedding," I admit. I even try to laugh it off, like it's funny for us to have something in common. "But there's a first time for everything, right?"
"You?" Arching an eyebrow, she looks me up and down with obvious disbelief. "You have never been on a date before?"
"Me," I confirm. What is it going to take to make her understand? And why the hell is it so crucial that I succeed? "I don't know what you think you see when you look at me, but believe me when I tell you, I don't date around. I've never wanted to until now."
"Because I know so much about you?"
"Dammit, Ainsley." She is determined to misunderstand everything I say, and it's starting to get to me.
Her eyes widen a fraction and I know I have to rein myself in before she gets the wrong idea.
"Because I want you. I know you don't believe it, but I meant everything I said last night.
I want you, and I have since you opened the door to me and I took one look at you in that gown.
I know other people in your life have worked overtime at putting you down.
" There's an understatement. They've turned it into an Olympic fucking sport.
"But I am not one of those people. And if it takes the rest of my life, so help me, I will make you believe you're worth so much more. "
Her gaze goes sort of unfocused, lips parting in a sigh. "Okay," she whispers, eyelids fluttering. "Okay. Let's go on a date."
I wish it didn't feel so much like pulling teeth to make her understand me.
Then again, if it didn't, I wouldn't feel this rush of pride and relief, would I? She believes me. She trusts me.
Now, to figure out what the hell people do on a date.
* * *
"I can buy all of these?" Her eyes bulge while she struggles to maintain her hold on the stack of books balanced precariously in her arms. "All of them?"
"Did you think I was joking? Yes," I insist, chuckling at her surprise. "Yes, you can buy all of them, and much more. As many books as you want."
She lets out a high-pitched laugh, but it's the way her eyes gleam that tells me this was the right move. She looks away from me, toward the rows and rows of books she hasn't yet explored. "We could be here all day, you know that, right?"
"I don't have anywhere better to be. Take your time." It's almost unfair, how easy it is to make her happy.
"Tell me I'm not dreaming," she murmurs to herself before going back to her search.
"Here. Let me hold those for you." There are baskets stacked strategically throughout the shop. I grab one of them, then decide on a second one to go with it.
And to my dismay, she looks disappointed. "I should've thought of that. Why don't I ever think of the obvious thing?"
"Try not being so hard on yourself," I suggest, stacking books in the baskets so her arms will be freed.
"You didn't see them. It's not a big deal.
Now go ahead," I order, a little more stern this time.
"You're not leaving this store until I feel like my arms are about to break from carrying all these books around. Got it?"
"All right," she finally agrees. "But only because you said so.
" She's completely full of shit, but that's all right.
She's having fun. And I'm the reason why.
That's another thing that feels unfair. After everything I've done, after all the lives I've ended, it doesn't seem right that I should get to enjoy myself this way.
Watching her delight in her new treasures in a store filled with the smell of old books.
She only thinks this is all about her, when really it's about both of us.
I doubt she would believe it if I tried to explain.
When she's not looking, I set down the baskets and pull out my phone.
The petting zoo was a success—so what if we were the oldest people there who actually showed up to pet animals?
So what if we got a few looks from parents who may or may not have steered their kids away from us?
Ainsley had a blast, which meant I had a blast, too.
I check that item off the list, trying to decide what to do next. We've been out for hours—she's probably hungry by now, and I know I am. "How about a late lunch?" I suggest while she continues digging through the stacks a few rows down.
Her head pops up, blue eyes sparkling. "You know, I wasn't even thinking about food until you mentioned it. Now I'm starving."
"You've been hunting, that's why. You worked up an appetite."
I love it when her cheeks go pink the way they are now. Like for once, somebody's teasing her, not to embarrass her but to make her laugh, too. And she does, and the sound frees something in me. I didn't know it was locked up until now. Hell, I didn't even know it was there.
"Are you sure?" she asks for at least the tenth time while her purchases are being rung up after another half hour of searching. "This is a lot."