Chapter Five
Harlow
Not A Date
All I can think about as I slog through work the next day is my pending date with Mateo.
Which is not a date. It’s repayment. Overly flattering, verging on chauvinistic, non-financial repayment of services rendered. Not. A. Date.
One of my colleagues slips into the elevator with me as I’m attempting to make my escape, and I try not to cringe.
He is easily one of my least favorite people out of the bunch, as he helpfully reminds me every time he opens his mouth.
“Hey, Harley,” he promptly says, “doing anything fun tonight?” He’s facing me, but his stare is lodged beneath my chin as though it’s stuck on flypaper.
I reach around myself to wrap my free hand around my purse strap and at least somewhat obscure his line of sight. “I’ve asked you not to call me that.” As a matter of fact, I am doing something fun tonight. But it is none of his business.
I inwardly facepalm.
Not a date, Harlow. Business transaction.
The male leaning too close to me shrugs without concern. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
I let myself narrow my eyes at him as the elevator reaches the ground floor.
“I have to justify not wanting to be nicknamed after a motorcycle or a morally questionable, objectively psychotic fictional character? My name is not Harley, or Harl, or Har. It is Harlow. And my personal plans are my own business, thank you. Goodnight.” I stride from the metal box before the adrenaline rush of my own words can plunge me into a panic.
Probably I should have handled that with more grace and less ‘raging bitch.’ I do still have to work with the man.
I bite back that sigh of ceaseless agitation and pause at the intersection, debating a quick detour. But Mateo specified seven, so I have less than two hours to freshen up for our non-date. I should definitely head straight home.
I nearly bump into my grumbling landlord on the way into the building, and in my haste to avoid the collision, the back heel of my foot slips off the top step.
I don’t wear obnoxious stilettos, but even a small heel can and will snap, it turns out—because mine does when it finally comes down again, and in doing so, my ankle twists.
I manage to catch myself on the banister, panting for breath as though I’ve just run a mile.
“Jesus Christ, Harlow,” my landlord exclaims, still standing in the doorway, “you scared the shit outta me!”
I gape at him. “I—I scared you?” My voice comes out a little shrill. I move to step away from the banister, briefly forgetting my imbalanced footwear, and my ankle sings a song of displeasure up my leg.
“Watch where you’re going,” he continues as though he hasn’t noticed anything wrong. He proceeds to shuffle past me, down the steps, and around the corner to his private entrance.
I find myself wanting to scream. There’s no one around as far as I can see, and for a singular moment, I debate lifting my head toward the setting sun and letting loose the pain and frustration and disappointment that have welled up inside me. But I don’t. I hold back. Again.
Instead, I pick up the fragment of my heel, kick off both my shoes, and carefully make my way inside.
It’s a good thing I showered and shaved before work because I am officially using what time I have left to ice this ankle.
With any luck, an hour or so of rest will be enough to make the worst of the pain pass, and I won’t have to beg Mateo to settle for ordering in.
****
By seven o’clock, my ankle is so cold from the ice I’ve left on it that it’s grown numb.
I’ve already managed to change from my plain, no—personality workwear to a modest but date-adjacent—acceptable dress that actually does flash just the tiniest bit of skin below my neck.
I opt for flats, for my ankle’s sake, and hope that what I think looks like a bit of swelling isn’t so terribly obvious.
I am not going to snub Mateo’s questionable kindness with some stupid, klutzy sob story. I don’t know where he wants to take me, and I pray he doesn’t want to walk too far, but I do owe him. So I’ll endure.
Within reason, of course.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I try to pretend my heart doesn’t skip a beat when I see his name on the screen.
Mateo: I’m outside.
I let him know I’m coming down, drag in one more preparatory breath, and haul myself up again.
By the time I reach the bottom, the numbness from the ice has faded.
But I have some experience in schooling my expression, so I don’t let the building discomfort show as I push out the main door and find Mateo waiting on the landing.
He’s standing in nearly the same spot I had been before my tumble. It’s almost laughable. Or perhaps I shouldn’t have taken pain medicine on an empty stomach.
Mateo smiles at me, his brown eyes twinkling under the building’s artificial lighting. “Hungry?” His gaze drops over me, but the motion is quick. His eyes don’t linger anywhere that makes me want to retreat from him.
Except I realize I forgot the other thing.
The thing about how I turn into a mess of raging hormones the moment I get close to him.
As soon as we’re alone on the landing, close enough I can almost smell him, I’m fighting the urge to reach out and touch him.
And I don’t think I’d have run away—or wanted to—if his gaze had lingered.
My breathing is shaky for all the wrong reasons, and again, I have to tell myself this is not a date. That it’s some kind of verging-on-chauvinistic form of repayment from a man who can’t simply accept money from a woman.
Is there such a thing as a half-date? I don’t know what to think.
So, I smile back. “Famished.”