"A little," she affirms. "You’re kind of channeling your inner high school drama queen right now, honestly."
I sigh and close my eyes, and Isaac’s beautiful greens gaze lovingly back at me from behind my eyelids. Except, they’re not his anymore... they’re Terrence’s eyes now. A sudden pang of guilt hits me, as if I’m somehow being unfaithful to Isaac by thinking about Terrence, but I push the feeling away.
Focus on the present, I tell myself. Isaac’s gone and I need to forget him.
Yeah... fat chance of that. I’ve been telling myself that for nine years.
"Irene? Are you still there?" asks Cassie.
"Yeah, sorry—was just thinking."
Cassie starts to say something but then stops and bursts out laughing instead.
"Irene," she gasps between fits of giggling, "Mike’s holding up a sheet of paper that says ‘pay attention to me’ and he’s not wearing pants now. I have to go. Good luck on your date tonight, and seriously—just be yourself, okay?"
She hangs up and leaves me to my thoughts. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out as I lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The wind howls outside and rips leaves from their branches, dashing them against the glass panes of my bedroom window.
I can’t do it. I can’t just be myself, no matter how easy it sounds. Cassie has no idea who I really am—or who I was, at least. She just thinks I'm Irene and has no idea about Nina.
"It can’t be a date," I whisper to myself. "He’s my boss and this can only end badly."
Even if ‘just friends’ means anything but that, I have to make sure it stays that way.
****
"So, where am I taking you tonight?" asks Terrence as I guide him down the stairs.
He’s wearing black slacks with a white button-down shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and his muscular arms are downright drool-worthy. I’ve never been big on beefy guys, but Terrence hits the perfect balance in the middle. I can totally imagine him effortlessly sweeping me off my feet and into his arms, but he’s trim and fit unlike the roided-out muscle creeps that flirt with Cassie all the time at the gym.
"If you’re taking me out, shouldn’t you be deciding?" I ask, winking at him. It’s a wasted gesture, of course, but he looks so handsome that I can’t help it. He’s even combed his hair tonight, and between his good looks and that gorgeous smile, I’m feeling weak-kneed and we haven’t even made it out the front door yet.
"Believe it or not, I don’t get out much these days. The chef gets offended if I miss too many of his dinners."
"Oh, my heart bleeds for you," I tease.
"Hey, it was that lame excuse or admitting I can’t read the menus," he says, grinning as I hand him his coat and then guide him to the door.
"How about Ollie’s?" I suggest. "It’s just off the main highway back in Groton, about half a mile from my old apartment."
"Sure, what’s the specialty?"
"Booze," I answer, and I lock the front door behind us. The limo is waiting for us at the curb—that is to say, about two-hundred feet away across Terrence’s pointlessly huge ytleanswer, aard. "Well, booze and tiny plates of delicious things, really. Tasty appetizers, strange salads, you know. That sort of place."
"You had me at booze, Irene," he says, and then adds uncertainly, "Just to make sure... I’m not overdressed for it, am I?"
I pretend to debate his appearance and take full advantage of the excuse to ogle him for a bit. His well-fitted, white button-down shirt makes his muscular chest and shoulders look absolutely delicious, and I don't know how I missed it before, but my God, he fills in a pair of slacks nicely. He has a butt to die for, and it's a good thing he can't see me right now because I can hardly tear my eyes away from it. It’s so unfair that the sexiest guy I’ve met in years just happens to be my boss.
"Nah, you’re fine. Don’t worry yourself. The limo's a bit much, though," I finally answer, ripping my gaze away from his ass and back up to his face. It doesn't help much, though—his eyes have a strange way of making me feel all wobbly, too.
"Even if the limo's overkill, let’s show up in it anyway just to confuse the hell out of everyone," he says, rubbing his hands together and grinning mischievously. He really doesn’t get out much at all, does he?
Our limousine pulls up out front Ollie’s Restaurant ten minutes later, and as we emerge from the back seat, the crowd out front immediately starts gawking at us. Despite what I told Terrence, we’re both totally overdressed for the restaurant. It’s a good restaurant with a phenomenal bar, but it’s a still a very casual place at its heart. I’d fit in just fine wearing slacks and a blouse, but instead I’m wearing the gorgeous outfit Cassie picked out for Terrence’s presentation. Terrence, meanwhile, wouldn’t have been out of place at all if he’d opted for jeans and a polo shirt instead of his slacks, button-down shirt and sport-jacket.
Everyone’s eyes are on us as I loop my arm through his and guide him to the door, and I’m surprised to catch a smile drifting across my face. I never expected this, but I’m actually enjoying the attention we’re getting. I never liked being the center of attention at work and I outright hated it when I was still in school, but it’s somehow different tonight. Tonight, I feel like I’m on top of the world and like everything’s going my way—I’ve never felt like this before and I bet that’s the difference.
They’re not staring because I’m poor anymore—they’re staring because I just stepped out of a fucking limousine, arm in arm with the sexiest guy in town. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Woodbridge!
Jesus, cool it already, I scold myself. Woodbridge Academy was a long time ago, and I need to get over it.
"Curb in three steps," I warn Terrence, and I grin in satisfaction as he makes it onto the sidewalk with no difficulty. I’ve figured out his stride and am finally getting a feel for this whole assistant thing.
We grab two seats up at the bar, and Terrence takes off his coat and tosses it over his stool while the bartender brings us the drink menu.
"Okay, they have a wine list, a beer section, and a whole page of martinis," I start, but Terrence quickly shakes his head and cuts me off.
"I’m not going to make you read the whole menu to me. Surprise me."
"Seriously?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. "Want to at leaWan">"I’st pick a category?"
"Nope," he answers, flashing me a quick smile. "Pick what you think I’ll like."
"One goat cheese martini over ice, garnished with herring, please," I pretend to tell the bartender, and Terrence stiffens in his chair.
"What, you don’t like herring?" I ask innocently, trying not to laugh.
"Irene, did you really just..."
I can’t hold back my laughter anymore and I start to giggle.
"I hate you," Terrence groans, and he lays his head on the bar and starts laughing.
"Did you think that was real? Come on—a goat cheese martini?" I gasp in between fits of laughter.
"Yeah, I’m a dope. Just rub it in a little more," he says.
When the bartender makes his way back to us, I instead order two of the seasonal special—gingerbread pumpkin martinis—alongside crackers and a cheese platter. There’s no way I’m letting Terrence go home without a little goat cheese after falling for that ridiculous drink order.
"Wow... fantastic drink," he whispers, almost sounding in awe as he sips the martini. "It tastes like a goddamned pumpkin pie."
"Yep. It’s pretty much an alcoholic pie in a cup, pretty much the best thing ever."
"Mind if I order another after this?" he asks, and I quickly catch his hand before he puts his drink down on top of the goat cheese, guiding his glass instead to the safety of his coaster.
"Hey, it’s your money," I answer. "You’re not driving, so order as many as you want."
"Oh, now you've gone and done it," he says with a wide grin. "Start up the tab!"
I order Terrence's second drink when the bartender comes back around, but I also throw on
another for myself as well. It’s good start to a great night. Terrence sighs contentedly and leans his elbows against the bar. He's grinning from ear to ear and looks so happy to be out on the town with me that it's making me smile as well. He may own a mansion and run his own company, but something about his personality is so down-to-earth—so normal—that I feel like I can still connect with him. He's so easy to talk to that I don't know whether the conversation or the alcohol is flowing more freely tonight.
"So tell me," I ask, well into my second martini and starting to feel its effects, "what brings a classy dope like you to a town like Groton?"
He laughs for just a hair too long—the martini is working its magic on him, too—before answering.
"This classy dope," he says, pointing at himself, "goes wherever the hell there’s science to be done."
"You do science?"
"Yep," he slurs, downing the rest of his drink. "But only the best science, and only the type I can steal for my own projects, too."
Man, he gets drunk easily. I’m getting a bit woozy myself, but I’m a full foot shorter than him. He probably has fifty pounds on me, too, and the drinks are hitting him like a truck.
"But anyway," he continues as his voice begins to slur, "Verta hired my company to come redo the design we gave them two years ago for the neural interface. We used to work with them up in Boston, but they moved the pry mheight="1oject down here to Groton."
"And what about that whole stealing thing?" I tease, but he only grins back at me, puts his fingers to his lips and then downs the rest of his martini. God, he's drunk. I roll my eyes at him and then order myself another drink—this time, a spiced apple pie martini. Autumn is truly the best season.
"Can I ask you a dumb question?" I ask, taking a sip of yet another martini. I've long since lost count of my drinks. Terrence nods and munches on a slice of brie as my brain tries its best to jam words together into coherent sentences.
"There's a book on a shelf in your bedroom," I start. "Braille for Beginners or something like that. How do you... I mean, how on earth can you—"
"How can I read the fucking thing to learn it in the first place?" he finishes my question for me.
"Exactly!"
"I can't. The book's complete bullshit and I'd hit the author upside the head with it if I could," he answers, smacking the bar with the palm of his hand to accentuate his reply, and I nearly choke on my drink in a fit of laughter.
"So how the hell are you supposed to learn Braille then?" I ask once my martini has stopped burning my nose.
"There are training programs for people who go blind, believe it or not," he says. "I'd go for up to six months to learn how to live normally again, or..."
He interrupts himself to down the rest of his drink.
"Or what?"
"Or I could just take the easy and unhealthy way out, convince myself that I'm too busy running my company, and just pay people to do the other things for me," he answers with a grin.
Two drinks leads to three, three to four, and with each drink, the conversation between us loosens up a little more. I should've cut myself off two drinks ago, but I’m actually having too good a time to bother stopping. Terrence’s life story—or at least what little of it he can keep straight after his fifth drink—is about what I expected it to be. He grew up in a rich family, paid his way through MIT, and then founded his company with the substantial leftovers after graduating. It’s amazing what doors open up to you when you don’t have to beg leftovers off your high school cafeteria at the end of each day to keep from going hungry.
"So where’s your family now?" I ask, my tongue seeming not quite sure of how to make syllables anymore. "Do they... um... shit, totally lost my train of thought."
I shakily slide the remains of my drink to the bartender and ask for water instead.
"They... we don’t talk much," Terrence answers, and for a second, I almost get the impression that he’s angry. "I don’t get along with them anymore, and we don’t see each other these days."
"Can I ask why?"
I probably shouldn’t have asked that, but at my current blood-alcohol content level, my mouth has long since given up asking my brain for permission to say things.
He shakes his head.
"No, I don’t like to talk about them. They’re a bunch of dicks," he says, practically spitting the last word, and then he braces himself against the bar as he nearly topples out of his chair. I reach out to steady him and take it as a sign to abandon the topic.
"I think you’ve had enough fo ha toppler the night, Terrence."
"Yeah... let’s just sit here until I sober up a bit, and then..." he trails off, staring wide-eyed around the bar as if he’s seeing all sorts of amazing things that are invisible to me, "... and then maybe we can order more cheese!"
I burst out laughing and then wave down the bartender to get Terrence a glass of water. I don’t think we need any more booze—or cheese—tonight.
****
Terrence pays the bill when the room finally stops spinning, and then we stagger arm in arm out the door and into the cold night air. The chauffeur, Alex, is waiting at the curb in the limo, and I drag my wobbly companion to the passenger door and help him in.
"Ahh, what a night," he sighs contentedly, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. "I haven’t had this much fun in years."
"I'm glad you had a good time."
"A good time doesn’t even come close," he says, shooting me a smile that awakens butterflies inside me. "It’s been fantastic, Irene."
The conversation dies abruptly, and I turn away and stare silently out the window. The streetlights zip past in the night as we drive through downtown Groton on our way back to Mystic. Thanks to a nearby naval base, Groton has far more bars than a town its size ought to and they're all packed tonight.
As we pass Christopher’s Pub, I burst out laughing and nudge Terrence to get his attention.
"There’s another bar fight outside Christopher’s. Police cars surround the building with their lights flashing, there’s an ambulance, and even the fire chief’s red pickup is there."
Terrence laughs and bounces excitedly in his seat.
"Awesome! Can you see the fight?"
"Sure can. The police are holding back two drunken sailors, but they’re still struggling and trying to hit each other. Christopher's has fights like this all the time—like, two or three times a week, easily."
"That place is nuts," he tells me. "I hear about fights there two, sometimes three times a week."
"Hey, what was I supposed to do? They were looking at you funny, so of course I started those fights," Terrence teases, sticking out his tongue at me.
"Maybe take me to a classier joint than Christopher’s Pub next time?" I tease right back. "Some date you are, taking me to a dive bar."
He laughs, flashing those perfect white teeth again, and then he pushes a wisp of blond hair away from his forehead. It’s probably that I’m still drunk, but Jesus he’s sexy tonight. The way his hair falls in waves as he runs his fingers through it is just... wow, someone pinch me.
When we finally get back home, I help him out of the limo and loop my arm around his as we head for the door. He feels so warm against the freezing night air and I press closer against him as we make our way down the path. Even though guiding him like this is my job now, it somehow feels so... different, so thrilling, mayb>
The memory flits away just as quickly as it came, and I’m back with Terrence again.
"Has anyone ever told you what your house looks like?" I ask, slowing our pace as we pass the fountain.
"Only Marcus, but he’s not much use for that sort of thing."
"It’s big. You live in a really big house with a roof and windows," I tell him, and I giggle when he groans and hangs his head.
"I hate you."
I smile and lean in closer, my pulse quickening as I begin my tale.
"Your house isn’t really a house, for a start. You live in
a mansion, Terrence. It’s a beautiful, old stone mansion on an emerald-green lawn so large that you could host a football game."
I look over my shoulder at the fountain as we walk, taking in the details as I describe it to him—the giant fish, the irregular pattern of anatomically incorrect fins and scales, the bug-eyed, almost cartoonish look on the fish’s face—and Terrence gapes at me in a mix of embarrassment and delight.
"Jesus, the fountain’s that ugly?" he whispers, and I laugh and carefully pull him in close to my side as he starts to veer off the flagstone path.
"Yep. It’s downright comical," I answer. "Marcus didn’t tell you that part, did he?"
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