Chapter 3
The Walk of Shame
My gaze lifted from the menu, and I peered through my thick lashes at the beautiful man sitting across from me, that I had met only an hour before.
He was tall, like really tall, with the body of an athletic God.
His long, dark hair was slicked back into a bun, and his dark eyes scanned the menu as he stroked his well-groomed black beard, which perfectly framed his strong jawline.
He was the complete opposite of me in every way.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I pulled my cardigan tighter across my chest and found myself studying the salt shaker instead of his face.
Why did I say yes to this?
It was definitely the alcohol.
Men like Matt didn't like girls like me. I caught my reflection in the diner window, my round face distorted. Next to Matt's chiseled features and easy smile, I felt like a dull pebble beside a glittering diamond.
"What are you getting?" he asked without looking up from his menu.
"I think I'll have a coffee."
His eyes lifted, meeting mine. "That's it?" I nodded. "They have the best pancakes."
"Just coffee."
The pretty, petite blonde waitress's smile widened as she approached our table, her eyes fixed on Matt. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she took his order, barely glancing in my direction. To be fair, his gaze only met hers to order. He politely smiled as he handed her the menu.
A warm feeling spread through my chest as Matt's attention returned to me, his eyes meeting mine with genuine interest. I sat up a little straighter, a small smile tugging at my lips.
"So, how long were you married?" He was going straight for the hard questions.
"A year, but we were together for about seven years. What about you? Have you ever been married?"
"Yes, I married my high school sweetheart shortly after graduation. We divorced about ten years ago. I haven't been in a serious relationship since. I've mostly been focused on my career."
"So, what do you do when you're not charming strangers in a bar?"
"Charming?" Matt's grin was pure mischief. "You think I'm charming?"
"Don't let it go to your head. I'm easily impressed after three drinks."
"Only three? I'm losing my touch." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Ever heard of Mataio 'The Mountain' Strickland?"
I squinted at him. "Is that supposed to mean something to me? Because I hate to break it to you, but I'm not exactly up on my… mountain… people?"
He laughed, a deep rumble that made me want to say more ridiculous things just to hear it again. "Professional wrestler. That's me. Been body-slamming my way through life for about a decade."
"You're kidding." I looked him up and down more obviously this time. "Wait, is that why you're built like, well, like you could bench press my car?"
"I could bench press you too, if you're interested."
"That's either very romantic or mildly threatening. I can't decide which." My gaze lifted to the waitress as she set our drinks in front of us. "Wait, hold on. You're telling me I've been sitting here complaining about my problems to someone who literally fights people for a living?"
"I prefer athletic storytelling," Matt smirked.
"Athletic storytelling? Is that what we're calling it?"
"It's choreographed! There's plot development, character arc…"
"Character arcs," I repeated, trying not to laugh. "Do you have a tragic backstory? A nemesis?"
"Actually, yeah. The Devastator threw me off a cage last month. Still working through the emotional trauma."
"Poor baby. Did it hurt your feelings?"
"My feelings and three ribs."
I winced. "Okay, that's actually not funny."
"It's a little funny." Matt leaned forward, genuinely interested. "What about you? What keeps Brooke busy?"
"I run a little café downtown," I said. "So while you're out there getting your face smashed in front of thousands of screaming fans, I'm asking Mrs. Henderson if she wants her usual. We both risk our lives, just in different ways."
"Mrs. Henderson sounds dangerous."
"You have no idea. She once made me remake her latte three times because it wasn't frothy enough. I'm pretty sure she could take you in a fight."
"I don't know, I'm pretty tough."
"Have you ever faced down a seventy-year-old woman who's been denied her proper foam-to-coffee ratio? Because that's real fear, Matt. That's when you know you're truly alive."
"Sounds pretty exciting to me," Matt grinned. "I'd love to see it sometime."
"Yeah, for sure." I thought he meant it until he didn't ask me the name of my café, but to be fair, there was still a lot of time left for him to ask.
I mentally scolded myself.
Do not get your hopes up, Brooke.
Because men who looked like Matt didn't date girls who looked like me. It was all the liquor sloshing around my stomach, filling my veins, and rushing to my brain that made me believe there was a possibility.
We spent the next hour talking, joking, and laughing. Before I knew it, his plate was cleared, my cup was empty, and the restaurant had emptied around us.
Matt glanced at his watch, eyebrows raising. "Wow, is that really the time? I can't remember the last time I was out this late without it involving a wrestling ring."
I stifled a yawn. "Yeah, I should probably head home. Early start tomorrow for the breakfast rush."
He reached for his wallet. "Let me take care of this and walk you to your car."
"Oh, I live nearby." I gestured vaguely. "I usually just walk."
Matt frowned slightly. "At this hour?" I nodded. "I'd feel better if I could walk with you. If that's okay?"
I hesitated, torn between my independent streak and the warmth in his eyes. "You really don't have to…"
"Brooke," he said softly, "It's 2:30 A.M., so humor me, please, and let me walk with you."
"Okay. I'd like that."
The sidewalk stretched ahead of us, each pool of streetlight marking another block closer to goodbye. My mind raced through conversation starters; ask about his next match, mention the weather, anything to keep him talking. But every topic felt forced, desperate.
As we approached my building, I slowed my steps involuntarily, trying to stretch out these last few moments with him. I knew I should just ask him for his number, but all the new insecurities I'd developed left me desperately scared of rejection.
"This is me." The words came out softer than intended. I gestured vaguely toward the building beside us, my home suddenly feeling like an unwelcome intruder. "Thank you for everything."
Matt turned to face me fully, closing the distance between us with a single step. The world narrowed to this moment, this space. I could smell his cologne. My heart thundered in my chest, each beat a seismic event.
"I had a good time tonight." His voice was low and rich.
I swallowed hard, trying to figure out if the intensity in his gaze was real or just a trick of the dim streetlight. Or perhaps a creation of my imagination. "Me too," I managed.
His dark eyes locked with mine, and time seemed to slow. My stomach fluttered, a swarm of butterflies taking flight. This feeling, this moment, had nothing to do with hunger. At least, not for food.
"Well, I guess I'll see you later."
His gaze dropped, and he shifted his weight.
He was going to kiss me.
I closed my eyes and went for it. Puckering my lips, I leaned forward, expecting Matt to meet me halfway.
His "Oh" hung in the air between us, heavy and unexpected. My eyes snapped open, the world coming into sharp focus. The streetlights cast harsh shadows across Matt's face, highlighting the surprise in his eyes.
Seconds stretched into eternity as realization dawned. "Oh my God," I breathed, the words barely audible over the thundering of my heart. "I'm sorry, I…"
"Brooke." His tone was firm.
My cheeks began to burn, the heat spreading down my neck and across my chest, and I suddenly found the pattern on the sidewalk interesting. I wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
"I think I've had too much to drink. I should go." I twisted to bolt for the doors, but his hands wrapped around my shoulders, stopping me.
"Brooke." Matt's voice was gentle but firm. My eyes reluctantly met his. "Look, I…" he started, then paused, running a hand through his hair. "I want to kiss you. God, I've been thinking about it all night. But not like this."
I felt my defenses rising. "Like what, exactly?"
Matt sighed, his eyes searching mine. "Like a rushed goodbye after too many drinks. You deserve better than that. We deserve better."
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look away. "We?"
"Yeah, we." A small smile played on his lips. "Because I'm hoping this isn't just a one-time thing. I want our first kiss to be something you remember for all the right reasons."
I refrained from huffing out a sarcastic laugh.
"I'm serious, Brooke." Matt shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hand halfway reaching towards me before dropping back to his side. His brow furrowed slightly as he spoke. "I want to see you again."
I inhaled deeply, feeling my chest expand. As I released the air, I forced my lips to curve upward, hoping the gesture looked more genuine than it felt.
"Me too." I waited a full minute for him to ask me for my number or the name of my café, and when he didn't, his intentions came out loud and clear.
"Goodnight, Brooke."
My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped my keys twice before getting them into the lock. The metal scraped against metal, loud in the silence.
"Goodnight," I mumbled, not trusting myself to look back.
The lobby was mercifully empty. I jabbed the elevator button, then jabbed it again. Come on, come on. When the doors finally opened, I practically dove inside.
Floor three. Floor four. Floor five.
The hallway stretched endlessly ahead of me, each step echoing off the walls. My apartment door looked exactly the same as always: scratched paint, brass numbers slightly askew. But everything felt different. I felt different. Mortified and changed and…
The door slammed shut behind me with a finality that seemed to echo through my bones.
Three steps in, and the weight of the evening crashed over me. I stumbled, catching myself against the wall.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The cool surface anchored me as memories flashed through my mind.
Matt's smile.
My hopeful lean-in.
His hesitation.
My burning cheeks.
"You're so stupid," I whispered to the empty apartment. My feet carried me down the hallway on autopilot. Bedroom. Bed. Face-plant.
Rolling onto my back, I stared at the ceiling, replaying the night through my head, my cheeks heating when I remembered the attempted kiss.
"What the fuck was I thinking?" I groaned, rolling over to find Karen, my calico cat, perched on my dresser like a furry gargoyle, green eyes glowing in the darkness.
She slow-blinked at me, the cat equivalent of an eye roll.
"Don't give me that look," I muttered. "At least I'm trying to put myself out there."
Karen's tail twitched once. Dismissively.
"Oh, what would you know about dating? Your idea of romance is leaving dead mice in my bed." I sat up, pointing an accusing finger at her. "And for the record, that mouse head on my pillow last Tuesday was not romantic. It was traumatic."
She turned her back to me and began grooming her paw.
"Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment right now? I'm having a crisis here, Karen. A little emotional support would be nice."
Without breaking her grooming rhythm, Karen lifted one leg higher, presenting me with a perfect view of her butthole.
"Message received," I sighed, flopping back onto my pillow. "Even my cat thinks I'm a disaster."