Till Forever

by Elena Matthews

  A win-win?

  Nothing about this is a win-win. I wish I didn’t have to go to these extremes, but I’ll try anything if it means I can get my life back on track.

  “So, what would you like to do on your date?”

  “I don’t care but nothing that involves partying, sex, or anything dangerous. Also, he’d better not be a rapist, murderer, or pedophile.”

  “Now, you’re just taking all the fun out of it,” she deadpans before tapping my nose with the spoon. “I have the perfect date planned. Trust me.”

  Yes, that’s just what I’m worried about because, the last time she told me to trust her, I found myself sitting in a chair with a Magic Mike lookalike thrusting his magic cock in my face at my bachelorette party.

  Son of a bitch.

  I knew this was a bad idea.

  My date is fifteen minutes late, and I’m sitting here, nursing a glass of water, while onlookers keep glancing over at my table with pity in their eyes. To make matters worse, I’m in the same restaurant where I not only had my first date with Tyler, but where he proposed to me, too.

  Talk about a sick joke.

  Perhaps I should have had more to say on where this date was going to take place. I should have known Riley would pull something like this. Nothing can ever be straightforward with her. I should have never let her talk me into this.

  Well, the joke’s on her, as I’m leaving.

  I go to stand when a guy dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt approaches the table.

  “Mia?” He sounds a little out of breath, as if he’s been running.

  I look up, and I blink with a pleasant surprise as I take in the dark, handsome stranger.

  Okay, so maybe the next few hours won’t be so bad.

  “Yeah, I’m Mia.”

  “Hi, I’m Doug. Wow,” he says, seemingly taken aback. “Riley said her friend was pretty, but she didn’t tell me you were smoking hot!” he exclaims while taking a seat in front of me.

  My eyes widen at his so-called compliment, and it feels as if I’ve jumped back five years when guys thought it was cool to grope your ass and tell you how much they would love to screw your lights out.

  It was such a romantic time.

  I then register his name, and I struggle to contain the laugh.

  Doug?

  All I can think about is the cartoon I used to watch religiously as a kid. At least he’s not wearing a green pullover, but if he eats a pork chop for dinner, I won’t be able to control myself.

  I go to speak when he cuts me off as he grabs hold of the menu, “I. Am. Starving.” He accentuates this with a growl. “I could eat the north end of a skunk moving south.”

  Snort.

  What a lovely visual.

  “I don’t think they have skunk on the menu.” I chuckle, finding my joke rather amusing, but the empty stare he gives me tells me my humor isn’t appreciated.

  All I can think is how Tyler would have found my comment funny.

  Tyler.

  My stomach sinks at the mere thought of him, and I feel nauseated with guilt at being here with another man.

  It’s not a real date; you’re just here to test your boundaries.

  It’s a good thing this is not a real date because this guy’s first impression sucks.

  “So…” I begin racking my brain with a topic to talk about. “How do you know my friend Riley?”

  He blinks with confusion, and with his hesitation, I wish I’d asked Riley more about the guy she was setting me up with.

  Jesus, I could do with a drink right about now.

  “Oh, Riley,” he says a second later, recognition in his voice.

  How could he forget her name? He just said it, like, two minutes ago.

  “We go way back,” is all he says before burying his nose in the menu.

  I try to keep the momentum of the conversation going because that’s not even an answer.

  “I’ve never heard her mention you before. I’m just a little curious.”

  He peeps over the menu. “We’re old friends.”

  Translation: They’ve slept together. Perfect.

  I should have known, the only men she knows are the ones she’s slept with. He resumes gazing at his menu, as if he’s reading the world’s best-kept secrets. I pick my phone up from the table, and while he goes over what skunk he wants to eat, I shoot Riley a quick text.

  Me: I’m going to kill you.

  Her reply is almost instant, and it’s as if she was waiting for my text.

  Riley: Why? What could I have possibly done? Have fun.

  I slam my phone down with irritation and take a sip of my water, desperately wishing it were vodka instead. A few minutes later, a waiter approaches.

  “Sir, signora, are you ready to order?” he asks in a thick Italian accent.

  God, yes.

  I’ve looked at the menu so many times while waiting for Doug—snigger—that I know it back to front. I nod, and the waiter looks to me first.

  “Yes, please. I’ll have the—”

  “We will both have the crispy calamari and shrimp and the pan-seared scallops. Also, can we have a bottle of red wine? The best you have, two glasses.”

  I blink. Then, I blink again.

  Did this dude, whom I’ve only known for five minutes, just order for me?

  No. Not just ordered for me, but also ordered something I’m actually fucking allergic to.

  What a dick.

  “Actually,” I begin with gritted teeth, looking from the douche bag in front of me to the waiter, “I’m allergic to shellfish. So, I will have a side salad and the bucatini arrabiata.” And, if you wouldn’t mind spitting in this dickhead’s food, that would be much appreciated. “Also, you only need to bring one glass out for the wine. I’m happy with water.”

  I don’t miss the way Doug frowns at my declaration of no alcohol, and as much as a drink right now sounds perfect, in order to keep this date continuing, I need to have my wits about me. The waiter leaves, and awkward silence surrounds us. I find myself feeling more regretful for even putting on clean underwear tonight, let alone getting dressed.

  A few more seconds pass, and surprisingly, he’s the first one to speak, “So, tell me, Nina—”

  “It’s Mia,” I point out, inwardly rolling my eyes.

  Seriously, who is this guy?

  “Right, yeah. Sorry,” he brushes off, not sounding the least bit sincere.

  Asshole.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an interior designer. I work—”

  “That’s great,” he cuts me off.

  I feel my blood pressure begin to rise, irritation swarming through my veins.

  “I’m an investment banker.”

  The douche bag has a douche-bag job. Go figure.

  “But I do a little modeling on the side.” He gives an arrogant grin.

  If I were single, the arrogance would be a huge turn-off. In fact, it is a huge turn-off.

  Already, even after ten minutes of being in his presence, I’m getting the impression he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

  Really, he’s not.

  “Oh, that’s pretty cool. What kind of modeling?” I ask, not really giving a shit. But, in order to hurry this date along, I need to make it seem like I’m interested. If not, I’ll constantly be checking the time on my phone.

  “Just this and that, but mostly nude stuff.”

  Whoa.

  Of course, he said this as I was taking a sip of my ice water, and I end up choking it down with shock. My eyes water as I cough against the sudden intrusion of the water going down the wrong pipe.

  “I have some pictures if you want to see.”

  He goes to grab his phone from out of his pocket, but I immediately stop him.

  “No!” I huskily exclaim through my coughing fit. “That’s okay. Really.”

  Yes, really. As much as he probably looks like a Greek god under his clothes, I don’t particularly want to
see his dick.

  Oh, dear God. What is happening?

  My coughing subsides, and I take a few more gentle sips to soothe my throat.

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not really appropriate in the restaurant. I’ll show you later.” He winks.

  Later? What the fuck does he think is going to happen later?

  Thankfully, I’m able to hide my look of dread that is no doubt adorning my face as the waiter returns with Doug’s expensive red wine and a bread basket.

  One glass poured later, this disaster of a date continues, and I learn a lot—too much in fact—about Doug. After that question he asked earlier about my job, he never asks me another question. The conversation is steered only in his direction, and after a while, I find I’m not even listening to a single word leaving his mouth. I’m simply counting down the seconds until I can leave the restaurant, go home, and pretend this evening never happened.

  Our food arrives, and I’m thankful to have something else to focus on other than Doug. He still continues talking away—eating with his mouth wide open, might I add, which is another turn-off—and I nod in all the right places, but it’s been a while since I’ve spoken more than three words.

  “This food is amazing. You ever been here before?” he asks on another mouthful of food.

  I go to answer, but it seems his question was a rhetorical one, as he just continues speed-talking.

  “Here, you’ve got to try some of this.”

  He shoves the fork in my face, and I’m terrified to even breathe in its direction just in case I swell up like a blowfish.

  I give out a forced smile and shake my head. “No, thanks. As much as I would love to, I don’t particularly want a trip to the emergency room tonight.”

  It takes him a few seconds to follow before the light switch goes off. “Oh, yeah, you’re allergic to shellfish. Sorry, my bad.” He removes his fork from in front of my face before shoveling it into his mouth and moaning so loudly that he’d give porn stars a run for their money. “Such a shame. It’s so good.”

  Movement in the corner of my eye steals my attention, and I turn to the table next to us to see a man kneeling on one knee, currently proposing to his girlfriend. The breath catches at the back of my throat, and I struggle to contain my emotion as I watch everything unfold in front of my eyes. My mind automatically goes to Tyler, and my world tilts on its axis as I remember, clear as day, the moment he proposed to me. I looked much like the woman does now, shocked but ecstatically happy, and I remember the explosion of love that filled my veins from head to toe when Tyler got down on his knee and asked me the four words that would change my life forever.

  Tears are falling down the woman’s face, and she’s smiling as if she’d won the lottery. “Yes,” she whispers quietly before going in for the kill. “Yes, I will marry you!”

  She leaps off her chair, and in one fluid motion, she throws herself into his arms while he stands. He lifts and spins her around in a circle as their lips lock together. I put down my knife and fork and clap along with everyone else, unable to peel my eyes off of them.

  Suddenly, this date, this meal, this restaurant is all too much, and I quickly come to the realization that I don’t need to go on a date to figure out what I want because there is nothing to figure out.

  Tyler is it for me. There’s no question about it.

  I guess all I needed was a reminder.

  Then, it quickly dawns on me that the woman who was my maid of honor must have set me up. The bad date and the choice of restaurant must have been a farce in order to make me come to my senses.

  I don’t know whether to kiss her or strangle her.

  Probably both.

  Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Riley planned the proposal. Although, with how happy the couple looks, her gazing down at her engagement ring with utter awe while he gazes at her with the same reverence, it has to be a coincidence.

  Some coincidence, huh?

  Forgetting that I’m even with company, I find myself unable to tear my eyes from them, their happiness emanating from them like a ray of light. It’s contagious, to say the least, and I find myself smiling with them.

  They sit back down, and my eyes lock on to something else in the distance. Or I should say someone.

  My stomach drops.

  I don’t know if it’s an illusion, but sitting on the other side of the room, looking directly at me, is Tyler.

  Shit.

  Then, I see the stern expression on his face, looking between me and the douche bag with an air of pure murder in his eyes, and I know it’s not an illusion.

  He’s really here, and I get the feeling that, in approximately twenty seconds, my disastrous evening is going to take a turn for the worse.

  Fuck.

  Tyler

  I stand to greet the man I’ve been anxiously waiting to meet for a long time. Chase Henderson, the center for the Dallas Stars hockey team. He’s one of the best centers Dallas has ever seen, and he has recently announced he will be retiring after the hockey season is over. He’s not usually one for interviews, but with his retirement looming, he’s made an exception for one interview but under one condition—that I’m the one to interview him.

  Yes. Me. I know. Crazy, right?

  I’ve no idea how I’m even on his radar, but it’s enough to blow my mind; that’s for sure.

  It’s safe to say, I’m struggling not to let my inner geek shine, and I will admit, I’m seconds away from shitting myself.

  “Chase Henderson, it’s an honor to meet you,” I say with bravado that surprises me as I hold my hand out to him.

  He eagerly shakes my hand. “Tyler Bailey, the honor is all mine.”

  “Really, or are you shitting me?” I say with a grin.

  He takes the seat opposite me, smiling. “On my grandma’s grave. I read you religiously, dude. I’m genuinely a big fan of your work. Hence, why you’re the only one I want interviewing me.”

  Holy shit.

  I sit back down, laughing. “I know this isn’t a thing to admit, but I’m totally fanboying right now.”

  He shrugs his shoulder. “I seem to have that effect on people, but what can I say? I’m fucking awesome.”

  I give out a hearty chuckle before picking up my glass of water and taking a sip. Chase’s eyes follow my water with disdain.

  “You allergic to beer or something?” he asks as I place my glass back down.

  “Hell no, but since I’m technically on the job, I’ve got to keep the professionalism in place.”

  “Fuck professionalism. You’re having a beer. I won’t have it any other way.”

  He clicks his fingers, and a waiter comes bounding over before I even have a chance to argue. Not that I would because Chase fucking Henderson wants to have a beer with me.

  “Can we have two bottles of Birra Moretti?” he tells the waiter before looking at me. “The best Italian beer I’ve ever tasted. Trust me.”

  “My trust is all in your hands.” I’m usually a Corona man, but when the big guy orders his favorite Italian beer, I’m all for drinking it.

  The waiter is back quicker than I can blink and sets two bottles down along with two ice-cold glasses. Neither of us bothers with the glasses, and we simply drink out of the bottle. He’s right; it’s the best Italian beer I’ve ever tasted.

  “Well?”

  I nod before taking another sip. “I’m converted,” I say honestly because, damn, it’s a good beer.

  “I convert everyone. It’s my thing.” He takes another pull before placing the bottle down on the table. “So, I hope you brought your appetite tonight because the food here is just as good as the beer.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been here quite a few times. I was pretty stoked you picked this place, as this was the restaurant where I proposed to my wife.” My chest clenches at the mere thought of Mia.

  God, I fucking miss her.

  His eyes widen with affection. “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “It’s M
ia.”

  “She as big on sports as you?”

  I’m the one who’s supposed to be interviewing him, and it keeps throwing me off that he seems genuinely interested in me.

  “Not so much, but I love her anyway. My nephew though, he definitely takes after me. Anything that involves a ball or puck he loves.”

  “How old is he?” Chase asks with a fond smile.

  “He’s seven, going on seventeen.” I laugh, remembering the conversation I had with him this morning. Something to do with astronomy and how much dark energy there is. Honestly, most of it went over my head. “He’s super smart, too. He has more brains than I have in my little finger. He’s going to be a doctor or an astronaut when he grows up.”

  “He sounds like a cool kid. He play any sports?”

  I nod before taking another sip of my beer. “He plays soccer in the spring, and he’s on a fall football team for the rookie flag division. Seriously, he’s a kid who can do it all. I’m kind of envious of him.”

  “You think he’d like some signed merch?” Chase asks.

  I almost say, Does a bear shit in the woods?

  Instead, I refrain and say, “God, yes, he would love that.”

  “I’ll hook you up and have some stuff sent to your office during the week.”

  We order food—or I should say a banquet, as Chase couldn’t decide between the chicken parmesan, braised beef contadina, or mushroom ravioli al forno, so he told the waiter to bring out everything on the main menu. Once the waiter disappears again, I decide to get down to business.

  “So, I know interviews are not your thing, so I’m going to keep this as low-key as possible. It’ll be just like you’re out with one of your buds.”

  He nods with approval as he drains the rest of his beer before flagging another waiter nearby and holding two fingers up, indicating two more beers.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk while I’m on the job?” I laugh as I take out my iPhone from my pocket and place it down in the middle of the table.