Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Fallon
I should have canceled. I nearly did.
But then my mother heard about Wes setting me up on a date and called me. So glad, so relieved I’m not acting like a hermit for a change. We’ve been so worried.
What the hell was I supposed to say to that?
So, here I am at Mama Elisabetta’s, surrounded by soft lighting and the gentle clinks of tableware, waiting for a blind date with all the enthusiasm of my annual dermatology exam.
To my left, there’s some sort of celebration going on.
Lots of laughter. Lots of wine. Across the restaurant is a couple who can’t stop holding hands.
The girl is starry-eyed. The guy keeps checking his pocket. He’s about to propose.
Which…I don’t need to see.
I’m fiddling with my cuffs. Picking invisible threads and straightening them over and over.
Pulling them down to cover the gold bracelet on my arm, because I’m not in the mood for questions.
After months of rarely leaving either my house or my comfortable uniform of basketball shorts and a time-softened T-shirt, I’m having trouble sitting still in this Michelin-starred restaurant and a Zegna suit.
I waffled about dressing up or down, but in the end, I chose what I knew Marina would have told me to wear.
She always knew best.
Take your elbows off the table, pet. Look dignified.
She’s not here. Still, I sit straighter. Yes, Mistress.
A shriek from the table with the hand-holding couple tells me the young man has definitely proposed. Or a mouse ran under someone’s table. Given the situation, I’m not sure which scenario I’d prefer.
My watch tells me it’s five past eight. That gives me an excuse to leave, right? If I showed up five minutes late to class, my students would disappear faster than you can say “ten-page essay.”
Wes: How’s the date?
Fallon: Nonexistent. He’s late. Going to head out.
Wes: Give it a few more minutes.
Fallon: I know you didn’t like Marina, but you need to stop pushing. I can manage my own love life.
Wes: It’s not that I didn’t like her. You deserve to be loved for who you are, not by someone who’s constantly trying to control and fix you.
I blow out a harsh breath.
Family, right? You can’t change them, and you shouldn’t murder them even when they’re judgmental dicks. We’ve had this conversation before. I’m not going to rehash it over text in an Italian restaurant with uncomfortable chairs.
Fallon: I’m not going to find love from a blind date.
Wes: It’s a start.
Screw this. I drain the rest of my beer and press my hands to the tabletop, ready to stand.
“You Fallon?”
Dammit.
I glance up and stop breathing. A quiet choking sound leaves me.
He’s fucking gorgeous. Lean. Boyish face. Intensely blue eyes.
A little angry.
I’m not sure what I expected, except that this date was set up by my very straight brother, who has no way of knowing what type of man I’m attracted to.
Yet here I am staring at a guy with tousled hair somewhere between rust and auburn, a strong jaw covered in thick stubble, and firm lips curved upward in smile that’s less welcoming and more superior.
His skin is pale, his cheeks are a bit ruddy, and there’s a weird vibe surrounding him that’s almost dangerous.
It’s the tension in his body, I think. The sharpness in his gaze.
The scrapes on his knuckles. There’s a little bit of arrogance, like a pissed-off prince showing up at a meeting he believes is beneath him.
That should probably be a reason to say thanks but no thanks and leave.
Instead, I’m standing so I can get closer.
Which is when I realize he’s about half a foot shorter than me. Honestly, he’s the perfect height to rest my chin on if I were going to.
I’m not. But if.
“H-hi there. You must be…” Think. Think. Did Wes even tell me, or did I ignore him because I didn’t think it mattered?
The guy makes a sound—I can’t tell whether it’s annoyed or amused—and then sticks out his hand. “PJ. Nice to meet you.”
Is it, though? It’s been a painfully long while since I’ve been on a date, but I could swear his blue eyes scan me up and down less like flirting and more like he’s sizing me up.
Maybe I’m misinterpreting. I already hate this. Saying my safe word probably won’t work this time.
You could leave, you know.
Curiosity keeps me rooted to my spot. I’m caught in his energy field, stupidly leaning into his fuck-marry-kill vibes and wondering if I can handle whatever he’ll choose.
He pulls out a seat across from me and leans forward with a foxlike smile. “I’m gonna level with you, Fallon. I almost didn’t come tonight,” he says.
A relieved breath whooshes out of me, my whole body relaxing at his admission. I lean forward to acknowledge that I had the same feeling, but my hand hits my empty beer bottle, and the sound of it clattering across our small table does the talking for me.
He catches it before it rolls into his lap. His eyes are lit up even though his lips are pressed together. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or melt underneath the table.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You can laugh. I’m clumsy when I’m nervous.”
Keep your hands still, pet.
I could swear I see his eyes narrow, but the expression is there and gone so fast I must have imagined it. Maybe I should consider Wes’s suggestion after all. This won’t be a love connection, but the guy is hot, and I could do worse for… Dammit, I almost said getting back on the horse.
What a stupid saying.
“Well, Fallon, how about you tell me what’s good here?”
“Oh, uh…” Nervous all over again, I glance down at the menu.
“I’m going to be honest in a way that’ll probably make us both uncomfortable.
” It’s the only way I know how to be these days.
“This was my wife’s favorite place. She knew the menu backward and forward.
The only thing I’ve ever ordered here is the pasta with red sauce and a side salad. I’m pretty boring like that.”
“Not boring. Simple. Simple can be good. But if this is a place you came with your ex—”
“Late.”
“Excuse me?”
I’m grateful when PJ waves off an approaching waiter who’s got a pen and notepad out to take our order.
“Late wife.” I lower my voice, feeling suddenly too loud and too vulnerable for a public place, even one as quiet and intimate as Mama Elisabetta’s. “My wife passed away. A little over a year ago. That hotel collapse in Miami.”
“I see.” He bobs his head in understanding.
Aaand, this is the moment when things will get uncomfortable. Avoiding the head tilts and all the sympathetic looks is what’s kept me home this past year. Everyone’s sorry for my loss. I know.
I’m braced for condolences, not expecting it when PJ slams his menu shut and jumps to his feet. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
There’s that knowing grin again. It’s the smile of someone who has a secret. I could swear he knows I have one too.
“You don’t want to eat here?”
PJ’s eyes narrow again. “You don’t want to eat here.
” He grabs my hand and, with a rough tug, pulls me out of my chair.
His grip is confident. Surprisingly firm.
“I mean, am I wrong? The place that reminds you of your wife who died? Feels like the sort of situation that’ll help your therapist upgrade his pool house. ”
My heart’s beating a little faster. I’m strangely hesitant to pull my hand from his, but I do, dropping some cash on the table to cover my beer. Too much, knowing my brother has already given the restaurant a deposit, but I know what servers make and I can afford to leave a healthy tip.
“You’re right,” I say as I follow him out. “This was Wes’s idea. I never would have picked this place.”
“Wes?” PJ stops at the door, and I wind up running into the back of him.
My hands brace on his hips. I was right.
My chin rests perfectly on the top of his head.
He’s solid and warm, and he smells amazing.
Something like coconut, but it’s subtle too.
The sort of scent you can’t appreciate unless your nose is practically brushing a person’s skin.
It takes me longer than it should to pull away.
Maybe it has been too long since I’ve touched someone.
“Sorry about that. Uh. My brother. Who set us up?”
“Right, right.” He’s distracted, navigating around people outside the restaurant door and scanning up and down the street.
“Hey, let’s head downtown. They’ve got all those food trucks on Friday and Saturday nights.
Maybe some Midnight Cookies for dessert.
Love that place. The walk’s not bad from here.
” He grabs my hand again, pulling me out the door.
I pause for a step, feeling like I should say something. Maybe let go of this near-stranger’s hand. Except his grip is so reassuring. He’s got long fingers. Callused palms. These are hands that do manual labor.
What would that rough skin feel like against mine? I’m stunned enough by the thought that I almost walk into another customer as we leave.
I can’t deny liking the way he takes charge of the situation. Wes would call it rude or controlling, but I often find decisions stressful. When Marina was alive, she decided what we did and how we did it. She cared. I didn’t.
I’d forgotten how tiring it can get, having to choose so often. I’ve been a little…rudderless, since she died.
I don’t need a rudder with this guy. He’s making it so easy for me.
PJ grabbing my hand and rattling off food options while I follow along keeps my thoughts from spinning, keeps me from wondering if things are going well, if I’m saying the right things, if I’m pleasing him.
Because I’ll care. I will. Even if I get to the end of the night and we have nothing in common and I don’t want to see him again?
I’ll still lie awake reviewing every misstep, every possible social blunder, or any moment when I may have scratched an itch on my nose, but it possibly looked like I was doing something else.
My brain can be relentless.
“…about a year ago, to help revitalize downtown. You’ve never been here?”
I shake my head. In recent years, I’ve hardly been anywhere other than work and home.
We arrive at an area filled with people and the scent of food, illuminated by a symphony of string lights.
“Tell me what you want, Fallon.”
There’s an unexpected tightening in my gut, though I don’t think he meant it the way my body’s interpreting it.
“Not sure I’m too hungry.” Eating is a chore these days. More decisions to make. “Maybe you could suggest something?”
The scents of cooking food surround us, savory spices mingling with sweet notes, and even the richness of chocolate and coffee. My stomach lets out a sudden growl that could be heard at the beach.
PJ’s smile turns almost predatory. “Someone’s a filthy liar.”
Maybe he didn’t mean for that to sound dirty? Still, my body is pumping an uncomfortable mix of anxiety and arousal through my bloodstream.
And guilt. Let’s not forget the guilt. It’s practically dripping down my spine.
Trying to clear my throat winds up in a strange half cough. “I may not have eaten lunch. Sometimes I forget.”
“Someone needs a keeper.” His expression makes me feel like a baby giraffe when a lion’s about to pounce. Maybe it’s paranoia? Or wishful thinking.
Because I had a keeper who pulled the rug out from under my life and then died.
PJ’s eyes get sharper. Brighter. “We’ll start you off easy. You’re a simple food guy, so you’ll probably like this waffle plac—”
“Shit.” A glimpse of someone I definitely do not want to see has me spinning the other way without thinking. I come face-to-face with PJ, who had been sort of behind me and to the side, guiding my attention by pointing.
“Sorry,” I murmur. Our bodies are close. I’m practically clinging to him, and I don’t know why. “My wife’s best friend is over there. She humiliated the shit out of me at Marina’s funeral. If I go over there, I’ll do something I’ll regret.”
Or I won’t regret it. I’m pretty sure that would be worse.
“Hey. Take a breath.” PJ’s hand squeezes my arm, his expression softening in a way I don’t expect.
Breathing is tricky, though. I’m gulping air, my chest pushing against his. My pulse is like a runaway train. PJ’s outstretched arm comes around me in a way that feels protective, steady, and safe. His touch shouldn’t feel that way, but it does.
The crowd noises fade with the thunder of the blood in my ears. There’s a hint of lightheadedness again, but instead of pulling away I curl my fingers into his suit jacket. I use him as an anchor.
Then I do the last thing even I expect.
I lick my lips. And then I push them against his.