Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
It's been a week since I came home from Emily's apartment. A week of anxiety gnawing at my insides. A week of being jolted awake by dreams of a shadowy figure touching my body. A week with no sign of him.
I toss my reading glasses onto my desk and rub my palms over my face. With a heavy sigh, I turn my gaze to the window where the sun dropping low sets the horizon ablaze in orange light. Staring out into the sunset, I let my mind wander.
I should feel relieved that my stalker hasn't made an appearance. The knots of unease in my gut should be unraveling. And yet, I somehow feel less at ease than I did the night he watched me leave Emily's.
What's the matter with me? Why do I feel like this? How can I possibly feel the familiar ache of rejection squeezing my chest based on the actions of someone I don't even want? Someone I definitely shouldn't want.
And yet, whenever I think about this man that I definitely don't want, my body reacts. A flood of warmth pools low in my belly, sending the butterflies I try desperately to ignore fluttering. My nipples harden, brushing uncomfortably against my sweater.
My phone vibrates against the desk, pulling me out of my thoughts. My stomach clenches in anticipation, but immediately releases when Emily's name pops up on the screen. I open the text message to find a photo of a man I've never seen before.
A man, who's maybe forty-years-old with wavy, brown hair swept back from his face to reveal his warm brown eyes.
He has a distinctly masculine face with a straight nose and strong jaw.
A speckling of dark stubble lines his cushiony lips.
His olive skin looks soft and warm next to his hunter-green sport coat.
When my phone starts to ring, the image disappears, replaced by Emily's smiling face surrounded by hearts. I wait a few seconds before picking it up, shifting my hips to the 90s jam I chose as Emily's ringtone.
“Why are you sending me photos of Italian cologne models?” I ask, hoping my tone conveys how far my eyes are rolling back in my head.
Emily scoffs. “He's not a model. He's your date for tomorrow night.”
“I'm sorry. My what?”
“Just hear me out. His name is Max and he's a financial advisor who I recently worked with to get some finance information for a news story. He's really sweet and single. He thinks you're gorgeous and he'll meet you at Deluca’s Bar tomorrow night at seven.”
My face pulls into a scowl and I huff out a sound that's something between a sigh and a growl. “Nope, definitely not happening,” I confidently proclaim.
Emily counters, “You have two choices. Either you go on the date or I'm coming over for a girls’ night.”
“Umm, well…” I stumble over words and noncommittal sounds as I try to navigate the muddy mess in my brain.
I haven't seen or heard anything from my stalker in a week, so there's a chance that he's simply given up and moved on. If not, Emily coming here could put her at risk. My heart clenches at the thought of putting her in danger. I can't take that chance.
Plus, if I go on a date with someone else, the shadowy creep will probably lose interest and be done with me entirely. Surely, I'm not worth the trouble. I know that I'm not.
My father's booming voice resonates inside my mind. It screams, You're nothing, Ava. I never wanted you. No one will ever want you.
I nod my head with a sudden confidence that this will go exactly as I expect.
Exactly as my father would have expected.
My date will be unimpressed and my stalker will disappear.
My life will go back to normal. I'll be alone again.
My mouth goes dry and my heart threatens to jump out of my chest. But this is what needs to happen, isn't it?
“Okay,” I declare in a voice that I hope doesn't shake with the well of emotions threatening to overflow from my eyes. “Tell Max I'll meet him at seven.”
* * *
Cold air whips my hair around my face as I step out of the parking garage next to Deluca’s Bar. I suck in a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that are fluttering in my belly.
I've never liked first dates, but this one feels different. This one feels worse. A feeling of foreboding lingers in the back of my mind. I shake my head and scoff. I'm being crazy. I've been stressed and overwhelmed. That's all this is.
A warm glow seeps out from the large windows of the bar washing the street in soft, orange light. Pausing in front of the door, I wipe my sweaty palms against my dress and try to push the sense of dread out of my mind.
When I push the door open, the sounds of the busy venue swirl around me. Conversations hum, laughter bubbles, glasses clink. My eyes roam around the room, lingering at booths and bar tops until they meet a pair of eyes at the end of the bar.
Max’s chocolate eyes crinkle into small almonds as he smiles.
He sweeps his hand over his brow, pushing his wavy hair behind his ear.
When he stands, my breath catches in my throat.
His perfectly tailored jacket hugs his broad chest and slim waist. Dark jeans cling to his muscular legs. Damn, he looks good.
His eyes widen as I pull my coat off of my shoulders. I can feel those eyes roaming up and down my body. My cheeks warm and I'm suddenly thankful for the short walk it takes me to reach him. I stare at my shoes, avoiding his heated gaze until he's right in front of me.
He greets me with a warm smile. When he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug, I tense. I wait for the hands on my back to lower and grope, but they don't. I loosen my arms and reach them around his back. A chuckle rumbles through his chest when I press my head against him.
He releases me and pulls out a bar stool, motioning me toward it with the wave of his hand. I smile, surprised by the kind gesture. Maybe this date wasn't such a bad idea.
Max sips on a gin and tonic while I order a glass of wine. I turn toward him, expecting him to tell me about his life, his job, his general male prowess. He doesn't.
“Please,” he says in a voice as smooth as silk, “tell me about yourself.”
I hesitate, taken aback by the genuine look in his eyes. A look that says he truly wants to know about me. Nodding with a new sort of confidence, I do something I'm not very used to doing—I talk about myself.
Before I know it, almost two hours have passed along with two more glasses of wine. Unlike many first dates I've had, I haven't found myself itching to get away or making excuses to leave early. We've talked about work, family, friends, and of course, our persistent matchmaker, Emily.
I think I could see myself with someone like Max.
He’s warm, kind, and frankly, normal. My mind wanders, picturing what my life could look like with someone normal, someone without baggage.
Could it last once he found out about mine, though?
Will he throw me away when he discovers how broken I am?
Could I be content to be just a normal woman with a normal man?
I spend my days with my brain and heart thoroughly rooted in books.
On every page, romance, suspense, and danger blend together into something breathtaking.
But that's not real life. Real life is working, cooking dinner, going to the movies, and cleaning the damn bathroom.
It's not some romantic adventure. There's no princes or villains. There's just this.
I take a large gulp of my wine, hoping that the alcohol will calm my busy mind. I have to move forward with normal. Normal is what every woman should want. It's what I should want.
If I decide to be normal, will my stalker let me go?