9. A Date Without the Hot Guy
9
A Date Without the Hot Guy
You
—The Present—
“So let me get this straight,” Mysterious Hot Book Guy says. He leans in the bathroom doorway, hands braced on the top of the frame as you finish your makeup. It’s nearly time for your date, and you’ve finally told him what’s happening. “You’re going to get in a car with some random man you’ve never met.”
“Yep.”
“And this is what ladies do for fun these days.”
“Sometimes.”
“And why exactly can’t I come with you?”
“Because.” You zip your makeup bag shut, turning toward him. “You don’t take another man with you on a date.”
“You do if it’s dangerous. And if said other man is bound by magic to protect you, even if you are an annoying human.”
“ Thanks .”
“Hey, all humans are annoying. It’s nothing personal.”
“Sure,” you say, ducking under his arm and out into the rest of your tiny apartment. Then you stop, turning back. “Wait. How do you know what a car is, anyway? I thought you’ve been magically locked away since the 1800s.”
Hot Book Guy shrugs, leaning back against the wall beside the kitchen.
“I just do. Words come to me. For instance—” he thumbs behind him. “That there’s a fridge. And I know that thing is a microwave.”
“Wow. Okay, that’s actually a pretty cool skill to have. What else can you do?”
He smirks, taking a step toward you. “ Lots of things, little human.”
Before he can get closer, your phone buzzes.
Normally it’s on silent, but you set it to vibrate so you wouldn’t miss your date’s text when he arrives.
“ He’s early ,” you mutter as you check your notifications. Fortunately, you’re almost ready. “Okay,” you say to Mysterious Hot Guy, whose name you really ought to get sometime soon. “You be good while I’m gone. Try not to eat me out of house and home. And whatever you do, don’t leave the apartment.”
Hot Guy just grunts, folding his arms. Hopefully that was a grunt of agreement.
You leave your phone on the kitchen table beside your purse as you head to the bathroom for a last look in the mirror before you go.
You’ve got your hair done up and you’re wearing a little black dress and matching black heels that make your legs look fabulous—if you do say so yourself.
You’ve spent a long time getting ready for this date.
Hopefully this guy is worth it.
And though you don’t want to admit it, a part of you is excited just to show off in front of Hot Book Guy. Because he is hot. Even if he’s also annoying.
But when you emerge from the bathroom, the apartment is empty.
He’s gone.
Mysterious Hot Book Dude is gone.
“ What the heck …” you mutter, peering into the kitchen. Empty .
You even check inside the closet, in case he’s planning to jump out at you.
But, nope. He’s gone. Completely vanished.
You didn’t hear the door open, so you’re pretty sure he’s still inside the apartment somewhere. But it’s not exactly a big place. How could you not see him?
“Hello?” You call, but there’s no answer.
He must have got bored and went back into his book—the book that you’re definitely not going to be taking with you.
Good.
He can just stay there on the shelf and behave himself until you get home.
Checking your texts a final time, you let your blind date know you’re on the way down and head for the door.
When you get to the street, there’s a sleek, black sports car waiting.
Wow .
Okay, this dude is more loaded than you expected.
Either that, or he’s living in crushing debt. It’s hard to tell with these things.
Maybe it’s a good thing you dressed up a little. Just in case. Not that you’d marry a dude for his money or anything, but hey, maybe he’ll be awesome. Then you can jet off into the sunset and forget all about your low-wage job and live happily ever after as a billionaire’s wife.
Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?
You’ve never actually been picked-up by a stranger for a date before, and you smile nervously at him as you buckle in.
He gives you a long, appraising look up and down. The kind of look that lingers on the low cut of your dress and the high hemline that hiked up even higher during the six flights of stairs down. Oops . You self-consciously try to yank the bottom of the dress back down into place over your thighs.
“Hi,” you say a little more breathily than you’d like. “I’m June.”
He offers you a polite, if forced, smile.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Wintergreen.”
He’s…English!?
Wow, well, his accent is pretty cool. Did you fall into one of the romance novels filling your bookshelf?
He’s not bad looking. Everything about him is perfectly manicured, from his greased-back hair to his tailored suit.
But there’s a slick glint to his gaze that leaves a slimy feeling trailing down your spine as he smiles at you.
You can’t exactly place what is that leaves you feeling ill, but there’s something off about that look.
Something…almost inhuman. Like it’s fake.
Everything about his suit is so perfect, it almost looks artificial. Same with his hair. Not a strand is out of place.
Yeah, that’s the feeling: That everything about him is fake. Not just his appearance.
Wait, what? That’s an odd thing to think about a person.
You shake your head, muttering to yourself as you brush the slimy feeling off. Or—you try to. Goosebumps keep rising up your arms.
Maybe all the weird stuff with the bookshop and the alleyway monster and the magical dude has left you paranoid.
As your date pulls onto the road, you rub the golden cuff on your left wrist. It looks simple enough, just a plain, wide gold band, but you find yourself covering it with your hand as your date glances your way.
Surprisingly—thankfully—the magical thread hasn’t suddenly yanked you back. In fact, you can’t see it at all. So maybe you can go further than you realized without Hot Book Guy.
That’s nice.
You hadn’t thought about it when you left him at home in a hurry, and now you’re grateful it isn’t a problem.
“So, uh, what’s your name?” You ask your date. Yep, you didn’t even get his name before agreeing to this.
It’s also a question you keep meaning to ask Mr. Hot Book Dude.
Wait, why are you thinking of him now? You should be thinking of your date.
Your very rich date.
You try to shove Hot Book Guy out of your mind, but you can’t stop picturing his handsome, shadowy face. He’s got the kind of piercing gaze that stares straight into your soul. Even through your memories.
“Alexander,” your date finally says after a suspiciously long pause.
So long that it takes you a moment to remember you’d asked his name.
Huh .
Weirdly, you glance out your window and notice the street you just passed was also named Alexander.
Strange coincidence.
There’s no reason this guy would have just given you a fake name, right?
A terrible fear shoots through your heart: What if you got in the wrong car?
What if this guy is about to abduct you?
You pull out your phone, considering messaging Corrine to ask what the date’s name is, but he’s glancing your way.
You don’t want to be rude, so you just smile and zip your purse shut.
He frowns, looking back to the road.
He doesn’t seem interested in small talk, and he already seems to know where he’s going, so you just settle quietly into the seat and stare awkwardly out the window.
Hoping you’re not being kidnapped.
Maybe rich billionaire types aren’t all the romance novels crack them up to be.
Or maybe he’s not the rich billionaire type at all. You still can’t shake the feeling that something is off about this, but you can’t place exactly what.
You rub your magical cuff anxiously all the way to the restaurant, where your date hands his keys to a fancy valet parking attendant.
At least he didn’t kidnap you to a creepy cabin in the woods.
Maybe he’s for real, after all.
There’s really no reason for you to be so suspicious of him. So why can’t you shake the bad feeling, even as you head inside?
It’s a good thing you dressed up, because the restaurant is one of those ones that definitely has a dress code. It’s a swanky place at the top of a skyscraper overlooking Diamond Park and the Bridgeborough city lights glimmering against the sunset sky beyond. Wow . The view is actually breathtaking.
Just one wee little problem: You’re massively afraid of heights. You can’t help it. Just looking down from up here gives you vertigo. Your head spins, and the ground feels like it’s going to come up to meet you any second.
You step back from the towering windows, wobbling unsteadily in your stiletto heels—and toppling straight into your date.
Alexander—if that’s really his name—sneers as he grabs your upper arm to steady you. He grabs it so hard, you help in surprise. Ouch . He also happened to grab the place that’s still healing from where that monster sliced you. It’s still there, just a scab barely concealed with makeup.
Double-ouch .
“Watch it,” your date says, as if it’s your fault for falling.
Red flag! cries the little voice of reason in your head, even as you apologize on reflex.
But he doesn’t let go. He just stands there glaring coldly at you, like you’re an insignificant little bug he’d love to squash.
And that’s not all: His hand feels…cold.
A sickly feeling slides down your spine.
A feeling that says this was all a horrible mistake.
Maybe Mysterious Hot Book Guy was right, and you should have brought him with you, after all.
Because what kind of guy sneers at someone like that just for tripping a little in their high heels?
Finally, he lets go of your arm, and you follow a concerned-looking server lady over to a small table overlooking a large balcony. You’re who-knows-how-many stories up, and you can’t fathom why anyone would have built a balcony so high in the sky.
At least you’re not on the balcony. That would be worse. Much worse.
Your server eyes your date with the kind of look that says you’re not the only one who thinks he’s a bit off .
At least there’s that. Sweet, sweet, validation!
Your date barely glances at his menu before giving her his order. There’s no prices on these menus. And they’re made of wood. Seriously. Instead of a piece of paper, it’s a dark mahogany board with the name of each item burned-in.
Fancy . Just like everything else in this place, with its smooth jazz music and low mood lighting.
You decide to order the salad, hoping it’ll be the cheapest thing—just in case your date expects you to pay.
“And would you like anything to drink?” The server asks with a polite smile.
You’re going to ask for just water, please, but before you can, Mr. Slicked-Hair orders a bottle of red wine for both of you.
And it sounds expensive.
You wince.
He better be planning to pay for this.
You fidget nervously with your purse zipper under the table, wondering just where Corrine got this guy.
The server has only just walked away when your phone vibrates.
You reach into your purse to set it back to silent, but before you can, it buzzes again.
And again.
What the? Is it Corrine checking-up on you?
“Excuse me,” you say to your date as you turn away and pull out your phone.
To your shock, it’s not Corrine that’s messaged you.
It’s an unknown contact.
And instead of a phone number, there’s just a garbled string of symbols.
Your heart leaps into your throat. What the heck? Have you been hacked!?
No Name: stupid human
No Name: watch your back. This guy is dangerous
You stare down at your phone, debating about if you should text back.
Does this hacker know about your date?
Are they…watching you right now? You glance over your shoulder, but there’s no one there. No one suspicious, anyway. Just a scattering of probably-rich couples enjoying the ambient jazz in the low chatter of the room.
Maybe you shouldn’t, but you’re too curious to let it go. So you type out a quick message and hit ‘send’.
You: Who is this?
The next message appears nearly instantly, before you’ve even had a chance to glance back at your date.
No Name: It’s me.
You almost laugh. This has to be some sort of prank.
But before you can click off your phone screen, a photo flashes into your messages. And you can’t help but stare.
It’s him . It’s Mysterious Hot Dude.
Somehow he’s hacked into your phone and sent you a photo of himself. And he’s not in your apartment.
He’s not anywhere.
That’s the weird part.
There’s no background to this photo. It’s just Hot Dude lying there in his white t-shirt and black pants, just staring up into the camera.
In space?
There’s nothing but darkness all around him.
Is he messaging you from inside the book?
That’s…not possible, right?
He doesn’t even have a phone to take a picture with! It makes no sense.
Then again, none of this should be possible in the first place.
Your head spins, temples throbbing. Maybe you need a drink after all.
As if on cue, movement flickers at the corner of your eye. It’s the server. She’s back with the bottle of wine and two glasses.
And when you look up, your date is staring at you with an expression so predatory, it makes you shiver.
He looks hungry .
And not for the wine.