Chapter Two
Annie
“Wow, that’s fascinating,” I deadpan at Daniel S., 28, software engineer.
He does not take the hint.
“Right? And then he’s screaming at the TV about being out of the crease, as if the goalie isn’t allowed any freedom. Can you believe some people?”
“Shocking.”
If Daniel’s lack of attention is any indication, he’d be an awful lay. I’ve been rolling my eyes and checking the clock behind the bar for at least ten minutes. I’d hoped to get my drink and beg off, but Daniel S., 28, software engineer is hell-bent on making me repay his drink with my time.
“There’s a Blue Fins game next weekend. Maybe we could go?” he suggests, and his slimy gaze slides to my boobs. “It’s refreshing to find a woman who loves hockey as much as I do. Do you want to get out of here?”
How transactional of you, Daniel.
Why do guys always try to make it some kind of exchange? All I wanted was a drink, maybe a dance, definitely not more dates—especially when I know for a fact Violet put “one night stand” as the parameter for partners in every app she downloaded.
“Actually, I’m getting a headache,” I reply.
“Perhaps some night air will clear it. You can sit in my Corvette for a few minutes.”
Spare me. That car is a red flag, not a green one, Daniel. Strike 8,231,590.
“I’m going to find my friend. Thank you for the drink and the conversation.”
“You’re leaving? I thought we were hitting it off. Your profile said you’re looking for a night of fun.”
Deep, meaningful breaths, Annie.
“My friend filled that out, not me.”
“Is your friend here drinking the drink I bought her?”
“I haven’t touched the drink you ordered, mostly because I don’t like straight vodka and you insisted on ordering for me.”
“Then I’ll buy you another.”
It takes every ounce of restraint in my limited reserve not to facepalm. My falsies would never survive a slap that hard.
“Can I be honest, Daniel?”
“Yes, it’s as big as you’re imagining.”
Oh, for the love of . . .
“It’s abundantly clear you’re overcompensating in that area.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me fine, Daniel. I’ll make a deal with you, though. If you can describe even one technique for getting a woman off, then we’ll exit that door and I’ll let you take me home in your Corvette.”
He splutters and coughs, barely making out an, “I, uh . . . ”
“No? No ideas? Have you ever found the clitoris, or is that as foreign to you as social cues?”
Daniel S., 28, software engineer is on his feet so fast, he knocks his barstool into the couple behind him.
“Enjoy your night alone, you frigid bitch.”
“Weak men always go for bitch . We see it as a compliment. You should work on your vocabulary while working on your game.”
To his credit, Daniel throws a five on the bar for a tip and storms off.
Good riddance. I thought he’d never leave me alone.
Another patron takes Daniel’s abandoned stool and makes no attempt to talk to me, thank the heavens. I could go back to Violet now, but I need a break from the constant stream of mediocre men.
“Another?” the grizzled old guy behind the bar asks. He’s been rushing back and forth to patrons since he returned, but he never strays more than a few feet from where I’m sitting. It’s starting to become unnerving, like maybe he knows something I don’t.
I scoot the still-full glass forward. “Nah. Mind if I park for a few minutes?”
He grunts, plants a lowball in front of me, and fills it with water from the soda gun.
“Thanks.”
He grunts again and nods, returning to the guys waving arms over the bar halfway down the length of the room.
“Patience,” a smoky, rumbling voice murmurs to my right. He leans in close, so close that I can feel his warmth on my bare shoulder.
The man next to me is broad-shouldered, with jet black hair and startling green eyes with flecks of gold. His five o’clock shadow partially obscures the uptick the corner of his mouth makes while I examine him.
There’s something unnatural about the way he watches me, and it sends a thrill dancing down my spine.
Hello, handsome.
“What’s that?” I ask when I manage to find my voice. His grin spreads into a mischievous smile. His eyes shine, his focus so heavy that it pins me in place without touching me.
“Patience,” he repeats.
“Patience?”
“Yes,” he says, practically a purr. “The best way to make a woman come is patience. There’s an art to it. Every woman is different and has different needs.”
Jimmy puts a new drink on the surface in front of him. My neighbor slides it over to me, and the smell of tart lemon and sweet syrup used to make the whiskey sour is barely perceptible over eau-de-bar. A single stemless cherry speared on a toothpick rests over the rim. It’s a helluva guess to get right.
“Satisfying a woman requires careful attention,” he adds as he leans closer.
The bar is noisy, but all I hear is him.
“What does she like?” he asks playfully.
My newcomer plucks the toothpick with my cherry from the glass, dips the fruit into my drink, and raises it to his mouth.
“How much pressure to use. Speed. Depth.”
The cherry disappears between full lips, and sharp teeth drag the item from the pick.
“Depth?” I ask.
He grins then sticks the toothpick into his mouth so that it hangs lazily from smiling lips.
“Depth, gorgeous. When you aren’t overcompensating, you need to be thoughtful about depth.”
“You sound like you’ve perfected the art of patience. That can be as much a hindrance as a blessing.”
The fine hairs on my arm and shoulder prickle at his proximity.
“No woman I’ve been with compares to merely talking to you.”
“That’s such a line, but I like it, so I’ll let it slide.”
He growls, the rumbling bass resonating in my chest. “It says something that you don’t like I’ve been with other women but do like that I prefer you. Feeling a bit jealous? Maybe possessive? You should consider that a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“There you are!” Violet interrupts and drops her arm over my shoulder. “Sorry, it took forever to push through the crowd. You should come back to the high top.”
“Actually, I was—” is all I get out before Violet yanks me to my feet and hustles me away. The guy at the bar watches me go with flat brows and sparking eyes.
Oh, he definitely doesn’t like that I’ve left him.
And somehow, I find that kind of fun.
“No riff-raff, Annie,” my supposed best friend says when we get back to the table the bachelorettes saved for us.
“I was only talking to him.”
“Don’t give me that. I saw that look in your eyes. You are going home with someone AI technology deems compatible. If we’re all going to be ruled by our electronic overlords, the least they can do is make sure you aren’t alone.”
“Violet, enough! I’ve met six guys and I’m still striking out. Maybe the technology isn’t foolproof. Daniel was a software engineer, and if he’s any indication, then the technology is weaksauce.”
“One more, then,” she says. “Let me scroll through. You’ve still got a ton of matches.”
Violet flicks around and shuts a few of the apps. “Oh, wait. This is interesting.”
“What?”
“All of the apps have multiple options based on proximity. This one, though, there’s only one match.”
“So?”
“So why does the algo put all its eggs in this one guy’s basket? That has got to be a good sign.”
“Or a sign it’s not a popular app. What’s it called?”
“Kis-Meet.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Me either. I don’t remember downloading it.”
“Well, who’s the all-in match?”
She taps her finger on the screen, and a slow smile spreads across her face.
“You’re never going to believe it.”
“Not if you never tell me who it is.”
“Wickham B., no age. Investment banker.”
“Sounds smug and entitled.”
“You sure about that?” She turns the screen so I can see the one and only profile picture.
The golden-green eyes staring back at me are a perfect match to my stranger.
“I don’t remember him even looking at a phone.”
“Maybe it’s in his pocket. He was pretty busy focusing on you .”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. I watched you the whole time you were at the bar. That guy—Wickham—came in from the back door, sat beside you, and never even removed a wallet, let alone a phone. The bartender gave him a beer, so he has to be some kind of regular.”
“I don’t know how to feel about any of that.”
“You’re supposed to feel flush and horny.”
“So noted.”
Crowd noise fills the momentary pause.
“Well, go on!” Violet says and practically shoves me out of my chair. “Have at least two orgasms!”
The bachelorettes cheer for that.
Wickham B., no age, investment banker hasn’t taken his eyes off me the entire time I’ve been with Vi. I haven’t been watching him exactly, but I can feel his gaze. It’s like there’s a tether connecting us, stretching across the room and cutting through people.
Perhaps it’s the alcohol or the euphoria of a success after so many failures, but excitement bubbles in my belly.
I approach and take the seat beside him again. How it remained empty is a minor miracle.
“So . . . ” I begin.
“Hi,” he replies.
“Wickham?”
His head tilts, his eyebrows knitting together. “Yes. How did you know?”
“It was in the app. We matched.”
“App?”
“Yeah, Kis-Meet.”
“Right, of course.”
He seems unsure, but there’s no time to investigate that before he asks, “What’s your name, gorgeous?”
Annie.
I almost say it and have to catch myself.
“Grace,” I reply instead, but it’s like tar on my tongue. I want to give him my real name and everything that comes with it.
“I like that. Classic. Beautiful. Grace Kelly. Grace Jones.”
“Do you like fashion?”
“I like to keep busy. Current affairs and events keep me fresh.”
“Falling off of trends already? We aren’t that old.”
“How old do you think I am, Grace?”
He doesn’t look that much older than me, but investment banker . I tack on a few years to be safe.
“Thirty-eight?” I ask.
Wickham chuckles, and it has this gravelly, smoky quality to it that makes me shift in my seat.
“Older than 38.”
“How much older?”
“A lot. Add on another 200 years, give or take.”
Shit. I wasn’t picking up any magic vibes. Then again, half the time, I forget Violet and her girlfriend are special.
Explains the thrall, though.
“I don’t appreciate you using your magic on me.”
“No magic, Grace, only connection. And I’m shifter, not warlock. I couldn’t curse or bewitch you if I tried.”
Given his size, he has to be something big. Possibly dangerous. That shouldn’t make me like him more, but it does. I blame the biological imperative of seeking out mates who can protect me. I may be human, but evolution is as evolution does.
“What kind of shifter?” I ask.
“Come home with me and find out.”
I hide my displeasure. It has the itch of a secret, which means his other form is either really good or really bad.
“Tell me about investment banking,” I say to try to prod him into sharing more details.
“It isn’t exciting. I watch the stock market. Care for my accounts. Manage my investments. Mostly, I make sure that what’s mine stays mine and brings more of mine home with it.”
That sounds promising, if a little aggressive.
I kind of like the aggressive part.
“Sounds like you study patience in lots of areas of your life.”
“After 241 years, I have nothing but time to learn. I’d certainly take my time with you.”
“You’re so bold. Does this really work with other women?”
“Other women were merely practice for you.”
Okay sure, buddy. I roll my eyes at him.
“You don’t have to come on so strong. I’ve already decided to go home with you.”
“You have, have you?”
“Yes. Try not to fuck it up at the eleventh hour.”