by Bella Jewel
“I’m Greg.”
Greg.
Don’t be judgmental, Hartley. That’s a fine name. At least he didn’t lie about that. He’s probably a really nice man, even if his smooth, masculine, sexy voice does not match him. At all. How does that happen? How can his voice scream sex god and be so completely off? God. What am I doing? I’m being a terrible person. I haven’t even had a conversation with the man.
Perhaps he could make a good friend.
Yes. A good friend. There. I feel better now.
Kind of.
“Hi, Greg,” I say, exhaling the breath I was holding in my lungs.
It was starting to hurt.
He smiles sheepishly, showing his straight white teeth. He seems like a nice guy, and my guard drops just a little. He’s probably just nervous like I was, so I should go easy on him. “Look, before we go on, I’m sorry I don’t really fit the description I listed on my profile. It’s just really hard to find a date these days, people judge someone before they even meet them. I know I wasn’t completely honest.”
I’m that person.
Judgy bitch.
I need to give myself a solid talking to. I didn’t even want to go on a date and now that I’m here I am judging this man because he’s caught me off guard. I’ve barely let the man speak and I’ve already dismissed him. That’s unfair.
I smile, even though I’m still a little uncomfortable. But it would be unfair not to at least have a drink with him. It won’t take long, it’s polite—the right thing to do, even. “Do you want to go inside and get a drink?”
He seems to relax a little. “Of course. After you.”
I turn and walk into the bar, letting Greg follow behind. He’s a little too close for comfort, but I don’t say anything. I just sit down on a barstool, and he takes the one directly next to mine. If I study him, really look, I can see that in his younger days, he was probably a nice-looking man. Maybe even enough to match that voice. But age has clearly caught up with him. It seems like he’s spent a lot of time in the sun, which has probably prematurely aged him.
But I’m still thinking he may be closer to fifty. Unfortunately, no matter how great of a guy he may turn out to be, I know it won’t work. I really don’t think I can get over the age difference. I can do friends. Yes, friends. God, I’m going to kill Taylor. Kill her, and then bury her body in a shallow grave. Something completely unclassy.
But, if I’m going to get back into dating, I need to practice being in these types of situations. Besides, I wouldn’t want someone to be rude to me if I wasn’t their type. It’s nerve-racking enough to be on a date, let alone to be rejected. I’m not that cruel. I can make conversation. I can be friendly. At least I’m out of the house, right?
“So what brings a beautiful girl like you to a dating site?” Greg asks me.
“I lost my husband four years ago, and I wanted to get back out there again, I guess.”
To give him credit, Greg doesn’t flinch, freak out, or take a staggering step back at the news that I lost my husband. I’ve not had many men try to talk to me since I lost Raymond, but the few that have seem to lose interest quickly when I mention that I’m a widow. I don’t understand why, but it’s like something in their minds just switches off and they do an instant retreat. Greg’s eyes soften as he says, “I’m sorry to hear that. That must have been very difficult.”
See? He’s a nice guy.
I smile, and relax my shoulders just a touch, trying to take deep breaths and get comfortable. I realize I’m nervous, regardless of my lack of attraction to Greg. “Thank you. What about you, Greg? What brings you into the dating world?”
He shrugs and holds my eyes with his. “I just want to meet someone, get my life together. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living alone. I’d like a family. The universe wasn’t presenting someone to me, so I figured I’d take a step and see what was out there.”
Aw. He’s kind and he seems smart. I don’t know why he would have to lie to get a date. I’m sure there are plenty of lovely women out there in his age range who would like a chance with someone like him.
“That’s a good goal to have.”
This still feels a little awkward. If Greg notices, he certainly doesn’t show it. His posture is relaxed, he’s got an easy smile on his face, and he’s sipping his drink like he’s quite comfortable.
“Yes, I think so too,” he continues. “I’ve been on a few dates, but all the women in my age range just aren’t up to my standard. So I’m finding it really hard to find someone to connect with, you know?”
Silence.
Dead silence.
I blink.
Did he just say not up to his standard?
“Not that I’m picky,” he says quickly, clearly seeing the horrified look I just presented him with. “But I just have a type. It’s hard when you know what you want, but have to twist things around to get it. I don’t want to come across as sleazy. We all have a picture in our mind, don’t you think?”
I blink again.
He’s kidding me, right?
No. I must be reading him wrong. Surely he did not just say those words and mean them. I must be misunderstanding him. Because, if I’m not, it all suddenly makes sense. The lying in his profile. How comfortable he is around me, considering his age. No. I must be wrong.
“And your picture is?” I ask, my voice a little horrified.
He looks sheepish. “I prefer someone younger than myself, pretty is a must, slim in build, funny, stable job. Just the usual things a man looks for. You don’t think that makes me shallow, do you?”
Yes.
Yes I freaking do. I’m horrified. If he had just said he wants a successful woman, no problem. Or a funny woman, totally okay. But a young, skinny, pretty woman … not okay. Never okay. That is bordering on shallow, and I don’t appreciate shallow men. And here I thought I was being superficial when I first saw him. That was nothing compared to him.
Swallowing the insult I want to throw at him, I say through gritted teeth, “There are plenty of lovely, pretty women in your age range though, right?”
His eyes dart to the left, then back to mine. “Yes, but as I said, I prefer the younger ones, at least ten years my junior. I don’t think that makes me a bad person. Please don’t think I’m a horrible man. I just figure we only get one good shot at it, might as well go for what you know you want. I mean, I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone because they weren’t my type and I was just with them to avoid ‘being honest’ with myself.”
He. Did. Not.
I stare blankly at him. I can’t fathom his words. I honestly can’t. I understand having a type, I also understand not going for someone who doesn’t work for you because you don’t want to hurt them—like this situation, for example—but this man is being … he’s just being … an asshole.
“Please don’t think I’m awful,” he says, putting his hands up. “Gosh, I always do this. Put my foot in my mouth. I don’t know why. I just figure, you only get one life, you might as well not settle for less than what you want. I’m not attracted to women my own age, I find them unappealing. It wouldn’t be fair of me to lead them on, when I know they’re not what I want. Nobody should date someone they’re not attracted to.”
Oh my god. He’s making it even worse!
This guy seems to think he’s Christian-freaking-Grey.
“And what you want has to be not only young but also attractive. You don’t think that’s a little … well … above your limit?”
“You’ve taken me wrong,” he says, but I know I haven’t.
I know now why he’s single and on a dating site. He’s picky, and not only is he picky, he thinks he’s entitled to be picky. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are good men out there who don’t have the looks but don’t let it get to them, and do the right thing. This man, he doesn’t have the looks, and yet he still thinks he’s entitled to make women the same age as him who aren’t as hot as he wants them to be—or as
young as he wants them—feel like they’re less.
“No,” I say, collecting my purse. “I think I’ve read you just fine. I’m sorry, I think you’re too old for me, anyway.”
His mouth drops open. “You haven’t even given me a chance.”
I give him a firm look, making sure I hold his eyes when I speak in a low, snippy tone. “You think you’re better than women your own age, and your reasoning is that you prefer younger women, but not only that, they also have to be attractive as well. Why? What makes you think you get such a choice? Let me give you a piece of advice—unless you’re Brad Pitt, you don’t get to be so picky. It’s shallow, and it’s unattractive, and if you want a decent date, perhaps you should try adjusting your ridiculous standards and maybe try being a decent human being.”
His mouth opens, then closes.
I don’t give him the chance to say anything more. I turn and walk out, not even offering him money for the drink. The dick can pay for it himself. I move quickly out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, wave down a cab and climb in, and pulling out my phone the second I’ve given the driver my address. I text Taylor right away.
H: You and I are having words. That man was horrible!
T: Oh dear. Was it that bad? Was he at least good-looking?
H: If you call old and balding good-looking … then yes.
T: OMG. His profile said he was young, with dark hair, I swear!
H: We’re having words about this. Not only was he all those things, he was a shallow jerk, too.
T: I’m sorry. I promise the next one will be better.
I shove my phone back into my purse and huff the entire way home. When the cab arrives at my apartment complex, I pay the driver and climb out, walking through the front doors to the elevator that’ll take me to the second floor, where my apartment is. It isn’t high up, and I could probably use the stairs, but the elevator is always just right there, and I’m not a fan of stairs. Just as I step in and the doors are about to close, a big hand swings in, stopping them in their tracks.
Detective Ace Henderson steps in.
TWO
If I’m being totally honest with myself, Ace is probably one of the most attractive men I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on. Not that I’ve seen him a great deal. He’s usually heading out as I’m heading in, or the other way around. I’ve seen him a couple of times in the communal laundry room, but he’s always reading and is never up for conversation. There were the few times he left his garbage outside the garbage chute, which totally ticked me off, but outside of that, I don’t see him around a good deal. He seems a bit antisocial.
I notice, though, that every time I do see him, he almost always is in a suit, yet he’s perpetually scruffy. His hair is always slightly messy, like he’s just run his fingers through it, and he has that dark stubble on his jaw.
Don’t even get me started on those eyes.
Brown, like liquid chocolate. Framed by the biggest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. They’re set into his head perfectly, surrounded by the most incredible masculine features; and then there’s that massive body, all the olive skin and those fine, fine muscles. He’s the first man I noticed after Ray, even if it was just to enjoy looking at him. I felt guilty at that first flood of lust. It took a while for that guilt to ease.
I swallow.
I’ve never shared an elevator with him. I’ve lived here over a year, and we’ve never ridden up or down together. My eyes slide over to the man as he jabs a thumb at the close button, shutting the doors. It’s just us two. There is that incredibly awkward silence going on, where you don’t know if you should say anything to break the ice or just pretend the other person isn’t in the elevator with you.
“Hi there, neighbor.”
Oh. My. God.
Did I just say that?
I just said that.
I might as well slap a sign on my head. A big LOSER sign.
Ace’s eyes swing to me. Oh those eyes. So incredibly gorgeous. The kind of eyes that turn your legs to jelly, and your panties into a puddle on the floor. They’re intense, and they speak more words than he ever will. Ace stares at me for a long few seconds, then his eyes move back to the door, without even a hello.
Now that’s rude.
“I said hello,” I mumble. “You could at least say hello back.”
Those eyes move to me again. He’s massive up close. I swear standing next to his six-foot frame makes me feel two feet tall. Granted, I’m not tall and tend to be on the petite side, but this man makes me feel even smaller than I actually am. He’s intimidating, a little scary even. Those bulging muscles, obvious even under the gray suit that fits him so well, don’t help. His dark hair is the usual mess, all over the place, like he woke up this morning, got dressed, and walked out of the house without even running a hand through it.
Why am I noticing him so much right now? I mean sure, I’ve always glanced at him and noticed his looks, but I’m really noticing them now. That makes me a little uneasy, and that familiar tinge of guilt squeezes my chest, even though rationally I know there is absolutely no reason for it. There is nothing wrong with noticing other men, or even dating them. I know this.
I do.
“Do I know you?”
His voice is every woman’s wet dream: husky, masculine, and deep. I focus on it for only a second, and then his words penetrate. Do I know you? Is he serious right now? There is only one other apartment on our floor, which belongs to a little old lady, Lena. How in the hell can he not know who I am? I see him just about every day. I’ve said hello to him before. He cannot be serious.
“I live right next door to you.”
He studies me. “I never noticed you.”
He doesn’t say that in the kind, oh-I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-realize way. No. He says it in the oh-you’re-not-noticeable, sorry way. I’ve said hello so many times, and waved right in his pretty, jerky face. He knows it, too. I’m sure of it. Nobody is that stupid. So he’s chosen to be a pig about it, for no good reason. My spine straightens and anger bubbles in my chest. I’ve had just about enough of the male population tonight. First Greg and his shallow personality, and now Ace.
No.
Just no.
“I don’t know what cereal box you got your manners manual out of, buddy,” I snap. “But you’re incredibly rude.”
One dark brow shoots up, just as the elevator dings and the door opens. I storm out first, horrified at the audacity of the man. I take the four steps to the left from the elevator to my door, and pull out my keys. Glancing over at Ace as he stands by his door a few feet down, watching me.
“That’s right, I live right here. I’m the woman who says hello to you, who you so rudely ignore—and then insult. And no,” I mutter, shoving my key in the lock, “I will never be lending you milk.”
I kick the door open, and then pop my head back out. “Or sugar!”
I slam the door. The first thing I do is call Taylor. I’m furious and she needs to know exactly what I think.
“Still upset?” she answers, her tone light.
“I’m not going on another date, Taylor. Absolutely not. I thought you should know that.”
“Aw, come on, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was a liar. It’s a blink date website, I can only filter it down to basics: age, height, hair color, things like that. It’s meant to be a surprise, so I don’t get to see photos. That’s what makes it a mystery … and fun. Some people are liars, I guess, and categorize themselves wrong. But—”
“Exactly. There are probably a thousand other liars out there. No. No more.”
“You promised me three, please, Hart.”
I huff, close my eyes for calm. Men. Maybe I’m better off without them.
“I don’t think I can handle another one like that,” I mutter, rubbing my temple with my pointer finger.
“Well, let’s hope the next ones aren’t liars. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Worst case, they’re not and you have to cope wit
h a few lousy dates. At least you’re getting out there.”
I exhale. I promised three. I’ll give her three.
“Fine, but honestly, I don’t have a good deal of patience left.”
She giggles lightly. “Take a deep breath. It isn’t so bad. Besides aren’t these great stories to have?”
I growl.
She laughs.
“Good night, Taylor. I love you even though I hate you right now.”
“Love you too!”
This night sucks.
THREE
“I cannot believe I’m doing this again,” I mumble to myself as I walk down the sidewalk towards another bar, where I’m meeting yet another man.
I swear, if this one is awful, Taylor is never meddling in my love life again. There will not be a date number three. There is only so much a girl can put up with before shit starts getting old. I draw my creeper line at two. So this one had better be damned good, or that’s it.
I stop at the outside entrance to the bar, where I’m supposed to be meeting this guy, and wait. I glance around, my eyes scanning the groups of people hovering around. It’s a nice place, with modern décor and tables scattered under some big umbrellas outside. I run my hands down the black dress I’m wearing. It’s a V-neck, tighter at the top but loose and flowing from the waist down. Sexy, but not inviting. I pinned my hair up with a few gold clips, and put a light dusting of makeup on.
I have a feeling I may be overdressed for the occasion, judging by the jeans and cute tops most of the other women sitting around are wearing. This just makes me feel even more nervous inside, and because of that, I don’t pay much attention to the throat clearing behind me. Only when I feel a tap on my shoulder do I spin around.
I’m faced with an extremely good-looking man, holding a rose. That’s the first thing I notice. He has sandy brown hair long enough to fall over his forehead, blue eyes, and a tall but lean build. He’s dressed nicely, but casually, in a blink date website gray tee and a pair of dark denim jeans. His eyes scan over me, and he flashes a genuine smile that really lights up his face. He’s handsome, without a doubt.
