Chapter 3
Carissa
Smoothing down the dress I borrowed from Miranda, which fits me like a glove, maybe a bit too tight, I enter Bugatti’s. My date hasn’t arrived yet, so I’m seated at the bar to wait.
Nerves crackle through me. I haven’t been on a date in years. Between no time and no money, I don’t have a lot to offer a potential partner. Not to mention my father’s sickness. I’m undesirable material. A poison in the dating pond. Therefore I do my best to ignore it and the opposite sex.
What was I thinking when I agreed to this? I must have had a moment of insanity. Or weakness. Maybe a mix of both?
All evening, I kept picking up my phone to tell Miranda to cancel this blind date, but then I’d set it back down.
In stops and starts, I got dressed, did my hair and makeup.
All the while torn between going through with this to ease a fraction of the boredom that is my life, and playing it safe by staying home and shutting out the world.
Obviously, escaping my boredom won out. But I’m a realistic person. Nothing will come of this date. It’s a one time, hopefully not too painful, night out with a stranger.
Father assured me that he managed to borrow the money from a less sinister sort of man and pay back this Casella guy. We—I—still have to come up with fifty grand, but can pay it off over the course of several years.
Which means the financial hole that I thought I’d filled in just opened up again. Wider and deeper than ever, threatening to swallow us whole.
More long hours at work. I’ll have to work every holiday and any extra shifts I can get. If I get sick at all in the next three years, we’ll be doomed.
No sick days.
No vacation days.
No time off.
I swallow past the sudden thickness in my throat. I can do this. I’ll get us out of this hole and everything will be okay.
How long are you going to lie to yourself, Carissa? Things will never change.
When the bartender asks me if I’d like a drink, I order water. I can’t afford anything else. And if my date’s a no-show, I can’t risk being left holding the bill.
The fact that I’m dependent on this stranger for my food and drink tonight, sours my stomach. I hate being indebted to others. Maybe that’s another reason why I don’t go on dates. The guy pays with money, then I’m supposed to repay him with my body.
No thank you.
If I wanted to use my body as currency, I’d be in a totally different line of work. One that pays a hell of a lot more than cleaning hotel rooms. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I could pay off my father’s debt a lot quicker if I were willing to…
I squelch that idea. No. Absolutely not.
While I admire the confidence of prostitutes, I’m not that bold.
Plus, I’m plump, and no man wants to pay for that.
Being inexperienced also works against me.
No one would pay for a fumbling near-virgin.
I mean, I’ve had sex. Once. In high school.
Then there was that other time… but that wasn’t my choice.
All of a sudden, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Someone’s staring at me, I can feel it.
Glancing over my shoulder, my gaze collides with a pair of eyes so dark they look black. A primal shiver scrapes across my skin. My lips part as I take in the man’s appearance.
He’s certainly a silver fox. Mid-fifties with salt and pepper hair. But nothing beyond those grey streaks pinpoint this man as older. He’s lean and fit, with broad shoulders and a muscular chest. Dark, swarthy, and undeniably handsome.
Holy crap. If he is Marcus, then Miranda wasn’t exaggerating one bit.
As I stare at him, he boldly gazes back. He must be Marcus, why else would he take such a keen interest in me?
Sliding from the barstool, I make my way toward him in heels that have another fifteen minutes before my feet will be screaming.
I never wear them, which is part of the problem, but they’re the only pair I own.
Unfortunately, you can’t show up to a place like Bugatti’s in a pair of sneakers and expect to be allowed in.
As I approach him, he stands, unfolding to his full, formidable height. He’s even more gorgeous up close. My pulse stutters as I realize he’s way out of my league.
This man’s so good looking that it hurts. While I’m… me.
“Marcus?” I hesitantly ask.
He takes my hand, bringing it to his lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Carissa.”
I might just faint as his soft lips brush against the back of my hand. Warmth envelopes me and I sway.
“Please, sit down.” He eases a chair out from the table, waiting for me to sit. Old school manners. I have to admit I like it.
Anxiously, I drop into the offered seat. He settles across from me and immediately waves over the waiter. Damn, service in this place is excellent.
“Chianti?” Marcus offers. I hesitate and he eyes me. “Or something stronger?”
I nod. “Can I get a martini, please?” While I don’t normally drink, I’m in desperate need of liquid courage right now.
The server nods. “What brand of vodka do you prefer?” he asks, as his gaze briefly dips to my cleavage. Ew, dude. My date is right in front of you.
I frown, thinking. Do I even know any brands of vodka besides Smirnoff?
“She’ll have Grey Goose. Two olives. Make it dirty,” Marcus orders. “And another bourbon for me.”
Our server dips his head, then goes to fill our drinks order.
Another bourbon? “Were you waiting here long? I thought I was on time.” I fidget under the table. Why did the hostess tell me he hadn’t arrived yet?
“You were perfectly on time.” His rich, deep voice smoothes away some of my anxiety.
“That’s good.” I swallow hard. “Miranda said you’re friends with her fiancé’s father. How long have you two known each other?”
Marcus’s intense gaze pierces mine. “I’m not interested in talking about Miranda, or her fiancé’s father tonight. Tell me about yourself, Carissa.” He slowly trails his thumb across his lower lip, and the gesture’s so sexy I suppress a whimper. “I want to know all about you.”
Is this man for real?