by Lauren Rowe
“Come on. You’re the one who insists a woman has to choose between ‘Valentine’s Day bullshit’ and monkey-sex that makes her see God. I didn’t want to be an idiot and think you were serious if you weren’t.”
I sigh. “Oh, Sarah, just forget that stupid application, okay? I sent you those gifts because you deserve to have both Valentine’s Day bullshit and monkey-sex.” I lean forward again. “And because I want to be the man who gives you both.”
She blushes. There’s a long beat. “I think you missed your calling as a greeting card writer,” she finally says. “‘My darling, you deserve Valentine’s Day bullshit and monkey-sex. Happy Valentine’s Day.’” She throws her head back and laughs a full-throated, gravelly laugh. It makes me want to kiss her neck. She beams at me. “Did you come up with the message inside the card you sent me? ‘You are everything I never knew I always wanted.’ I loved it.” She sighs.
“Well, I selected the quote to be printed onto the card, but I didn’t write it. It’s from a movie.”
“What movie?” she asks.
“Fools Rush In.” I take a bite of food.
“That one with Matthew Perry?”
“I like to think of it as that one with Salma Hayek.”
“Oh, yeah, of course you do.” Her eyes blaze. “I can’t imagine how you wound up sitting through that movie.”
“I didn’t mind it at all. I’ve had a thing for Salma Hayek ever since. Good soundtrack, too.”
“But it’s a romantic comedy. Like, hopelessly, unabashedly romantic.”
“I didn’t say it was great cinema. I just said I didn’t mind it.”
“But that movie was all about two mismatched people finding true love against all reason and logic. A movie like that represents everything you abhor.”
I’m quiet for a moment. She thinks I “abhor” true love? I don’t abhor true love. Do I? Is that the gist of what I said in my application? Have I become that big an asshole? Maybe I’m a sociopath, after all.
She shifts in her seat and studies me. “Did a former girlfriend force you to watch that movie? I mean, I guess what I’m really asking is have you ever had a committed relationship, or have you always been like this?”
“Have I always been like what?”
“Emotionally damaged—seemingly incapable of forging any kind of intimate human connection.”
I feel like she just punched me in the gut. My sociopathic, asshole-y gut.
I consider. What’s the honest answer here? “Yes,” I answer, “I’ve always been like this—or, at least since I was seven years old. And yes, despite the way I am, I’ve had several girlfriends—all of whom complained of my ‘emotional unavailability.’ And, yes, it was a former girlfriend—a live-in girlfriend, briefly—who forced me to watch Fools Rush In. But I didn’t mind it.”
“What happened to you when you were seven?”
Shit. Why did I mention that?
She waits. When I don’t respond, she continues. “Okay,” she says softly. “Not a casual dinner topic.” She pauses. “I’m sorry.”
I want to tell her, “Oh, no problem,” and make the tension in my jaw go away, but I can’t. The muscles in my jaw are pulsing.
She barrels right ahead. “So when was your last relationship?” She takes a long sip of her wine.
I sigh. At least it’s better than talking about what happened when I was seven. “It ended a couple years ago. That was the live-in relationship.”
“Why’d it end?”
“Because she said I ‘wouldn’t let her in’—and it was true. Because I never told her even one of the things I’ve already told you. Because I knew if I told her the truth about me, how I really think, how I really talk, how I really am, she wouldn’t sit across the dinner table from me, looking at me the way you are right now. And at least some part of me knew I wanted a woman who’d know everything you know and still sit across the table and look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”
She opens her mouth but doesn’t speak. She blinks slowly at me. Her cheeks are flushed.
“But enough about that. The Internet is very clear we’re not supposed to talk about past relationships on a first date.”
“You read up on what’s appropriate first date conversation?”
“I didn’t want to fuck up dinner like I fucked up our phone call.”
She looks at me sympathetically. “You didn’t fuck up our phone call. That was all me. And, anyway,” she says, “this isn’t a first date. We’re way, way past that, and you know it.”
I can’t hold off anymore. I reach out and touch her hand and then her arm. Her skin is so smooth. Our eyes lock. An electricity courses between us.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” I whisper.
Her eyelids lower to half-mast. Oh, she wants me, too. “How’s that strategy of yours going?” she says. She parts her lips.
“It’s about to be blown to bits.”
She leans forward and whispers to me. “You drive me fucking crazy, too.”
And that does it. She just hurled my strategy right off a cliff. I want to swipe the dishes and cutlery to the floor and take her right here on this table.
Thank God, the waiter comes with a refill on the wine and another appetizer. His presence gives us both a chance to collect ourselves.
“You like seafood?” I ask, suddenly anxious that everything I’ve ordered won’t be to her liking.
“I grew up in Seattle,” she says.
I take that to mean she loves it.
She takes a sip of wine. “This is really good wine, by the way. I’m not really knowledgeable about wine, to be honest, but it seems like a good one.”
“Well, yeah, anything’s better than ‘two-buck-chuck.’”
She laughs. “I like two-buck chuck.”
I shake my head.
“What can I say? I’m a cheap date.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If she only knew everything I’ve shelled out to be sitting here with her right now, she wouldn’t say that. “I’m no wine expert, either,” I assure her, and it’s true. “I just know what I like.” Again, there’s that heat between us. “I ordered seven courses for us. I hope that’s okay. They’ll just keep bringing us food all night long.”
“Wow, thank you. That’s amazing.”
“So you grew up in Seattle?”
She nods. “With my mom. You?”
“Haven’t you researched me?”
Her mouth twists. “For hours and hours.”
“Well, then, you already know the basics. Which means you’ve got a distinct advantage over me. It’s only fair we talk about you for a while.” I take a bite of the new appetizer. Again, the food is delicious.
“You want to know about my ‘passions and hobbies and my beloved Maltese Kiki’?” She takes a long sip of her wine.
“Exactly.”
“Ah, but you see, I happen to know—unlike any other girl who’d otherwise be sitting here right now under any other circumstance—that you don’t give a crap about my precious Kiki—not even about her new rhinestone jacket and tutu—because the only thing you’re thinking about is getting down and dirty in the bathroom.”
I sigh. “You’re misquoting me. I never said I don’t give a crap about your precious Kiki.”
“Well, okay—you didn’t say you don’t give a crap about her, which is good, because she’s the apple of my eye—what you said is that when you ask a woman about herself you’re actually thinking the whole time that you just want to get down and dirty in the bathroom. Of course, you didn’t use the words ‘get down and dirty’—you used your all-time favorite word—but this is the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to in my whole life and I’m trying to act like a fancy lady.”
I rub my eyes. “Oh my God, this is so fucked up,” I mutter.
She nods and picks up her wine goblet. “Hey, your words, not mine.” She takes a dainty sip.
To my surprise, I laugh. Not too many people can make me
laugh—especially not at myself. I lean back in my chair. “Actually, I want to know all about you—even about your Maltese Kiki, if you happen to have one. Surprising, but true.”
“Let’s not go overboard. No one wants to hear about anyone’s Maltese named Kiki.”
I laugh again. God, I want to take that green dress off her and touch every square inch of her.
“So let me see if I understand this situation correctly. You want to know about my hopes and dreams and passions (and my imaginary Maltese Kiki), and you emphatically don’t want to get down and dirty with me in the bathroom?” Her eyes are suddenly on fire as she picks up her wine glass again.
Oh, wow, my dick is at full attention. I can’t formulate a verbal response. My heart’s clanging in my chest. I bite my lip. Oh shit, suddenly, that’s all I want to do right now—fuck her in the bathroom. But that’s exactly what I absolutely cannot do if we’re going to get off on the right foot here.
When I don’t speak, she grins. “Oh, yes. Your brilliant strategy.” She leans forward. “Well guess what? I don’t want strategic Jonas. I want honest Jonas.” She licks her lips. “I like My Brutally Honest Mr. Faraday.” She smiles slyly. “A lot.”
I’m so turned on right now, I can’t think straight. I lean forward, too. I whisper, “Yes, I want to fuck you—more than anything. But not tonight. And not in the fucking bathroom. Because fucking you in the bathroom would be no different than what we did on the phone yesterday—and I promised myself I’m not going to do that to you again no matter what. When I finally do fuck you, Sarah—and, believe me, fucking you is the highest priority in my entire life right now—I’m going to do it right so that we both experience something we’ve never felt before.” My erection strains inside my pants. “We’re going to wait and do it nice and slow and right—and it’ll be worth the wait, I promise.” My brain is quite certain of this entire speech, even if my hard-on begs to differ.
Her eyes are flickering, and I can’t tell if that’s because of the candlelight, or because of something heating up inside her. “So that’s your strategy? A slow burn? Making me wait? Making it worth the wait?”
My nostrils are flaring. “In a nutshell.” I can’t read her expression. “What are you thinking right now?” I ask.
She takes a bite of food, and then a long sip of wine, making me wait. “Two things. First, that I really, really like it when you’re honest.” She grins.
I smile.
“And second, that your precious strategy is about to get blown to bits.”
Chapter 14
Sarah
Oh, he’s yummy, all right. Just yummalicous. Of course, he’s gorgeous—but I already knew that. What I didn’t know is that he’d smell so good, too. Or that he’d rent out a fancy restaurant just for me and send a limo to pick me up, too. I don’t consider myself a materialistic girl, but come on—who wouldn’t swoon just a little bit at all this Pretty Woman treatment?
But the thing that’s getting to me right now above everything else is the way he’s looking at me like he’s going to devour me in one bite like a great white shark snacking on a sea lion. I don’t think a man has ever looked at me quite like this before—and, if so, certainly not a man I find this irresistibly attractive. His eyes are mesmerizing to me—full of exactly the kind of soul and depth and even sadness I thought I glimpsed in his photos. Now that I see him in person, I know there’s something behind those eyes—and I can’t wait to find out what it is. When he said that thing about him being incapable of human connection ever since he was seven—oh my God—the look on his face, it was like he was seven years old right then. He looked so small in that moment, so lost, I wanted to reach over the table and take his face in my hands.
Coming here tonight, I was nervous. Nervous I wouldn’t live up to all the hype. Nervous he’d regret all the effort he’s taken to find me. Nervous the chemistry I’d felt in emails and on the phone somehow wouldn’t translate in person. Well, damn, I was nervous for nothing. Our chemistry is through the roof. It’s taking all my effort to sit in my chair like a civilized person, rather than leaping onto him like a cheetah on an impala. It’s all I can do not to pull the tablecloth off the table and jump his bones right here, right now. I don’t know what it is about him, but I feel like someone else around him—but in a good way. Not so inhibited. Not so worried about what anyone else might think. Like I want to take a risk—something I usually avoid at all costs.
What if I got up from my seat and sat myself down on his lap right now and helped myself to those incredible lips of his? Would he be able to stick with his strategy then? I’m dying to find out. In fact, the minute he revealed his stupid strategy, the only thing I wanted to do was force him off it. I guess he’s not the only one who loves a good challenge. What if I went over to him, lifted up my dress, pushed my G-string aside and slammed his hardness into me, deep inside me, right here at the table? I can’t stop imagining myself doing just that as I sit here sipping my wine and staring across the table at him.
I think it’s distinctly possible I’m going insane. These thoughts are not the things a normal woman imagines while sitting in a nice restaurant, overlooking the Seattle skyline. I’m not some kind of sex addict. I’m not some kind of pervert. I’m a “good girl” kind of girl. Dependable. Responsible. A rule follower. So why does he make me want to be so, so, so, so bad? If only he knew what I was thinking. I wonder how he’d feel about his stupid strategy then?
The waiter comes to the table and places salads in front of us.
Jonas looks across the table at me mournfully, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking right before the waiter showed up.
“So, how do you like working for The Club?” Jonas asks. He takes a bite of his salad.
I shift in my seat. “I like it a lot. More than I ever thought I would.”
There it is again—that look. It’s like he’s going to swallow me whole.
I clear my throat. “I’ve only been working there three months,” I say. “Your application was the first one I processed all alone, without supervision.”
He meets my direct gaze with a smoldering stare of his own. “I’m your first.” He grins broadly. “I like that.”
My mouth twists into an amused smile. I like that, too.
“How did you start working for The Club?”
Why are we going through the charade of carrying on a normal conversation? We both know what we’d rather be doing right now. And it starts with the letter “f.”
“I answered an ad in a law school forum seeking a student for a work-from-home, part-time research position. It was really vague and kind of mysterious sounding, but the pay was ridiculous, so I applied. I had to undergo all this testing and psychological assessment and jump through weird hoops and sign a non-disclosure agreement before I ever found out the details on the job. But the pay was too good to pass up. After all that, when I finally found out what the job really was, I was floored, but intrigued. Kind of compulsively curious, you might say. And the work turned out to be so fascinating and the paychecks started depositing like clockwork, so . . .”
“Do the applications ever freak you out?” He takes another bite of his food.
“All the time. Including yours.” I smile. “But as it turns out,” I say, leaning forward, “I like getting freaked out.”
The smile that unfurls across his face is wicked.
“I like knowing people’s secrets,” I say.
His eyes are twinkling.
“Well, mostly. Some of it’s totally disgusting, I have to admit. Some of it, you can’t un-see. But it’s like a car crash, you know? You can’t look away. Even the disgusting stuff is fascinating.”
“Tell me some of the disgusting stuff.”
I tell him the worst of the worst and he laughs heartily. Midway through my storytelling, he has to put down his fork and wipe his eyes, he’s laughing so hard.
I love his laugh. Something tells me it’s hard to elicit.
�
�And that’s all in the first three months?” he asks, bringing his napkin to his eyes.
I nod. “I’m only planning to keep the job ‘til the end of the school year. Hopefully, my grades will cooperate with my big plans—the top ten students at the end of the first year get a full-ride scholarship for the rest of the program, so I’m crossing my fingers.” I bite my lip. “I’ve got an unpaid internship this summer, so I’m really gambling on that scholarship.”
“Is your internship at a law firm? I bet you had your pick of jobs—fourth in your class.” He smiles.
“You looked that up?”
“I told you, I’m obsessed with you.”
My nerve endings sizzle and pop for just a moment. I shift in my seat again.
“No, my internship’s with a nonprofit—it’s where I’m gonna work when I graduate.”
“Really? What nonprofit?” He looks genuinely interested.
I’m a bit caught off guard. Why is he interested in this? Isn’t this the part where he yawns and wishes we were having monkey-sex in the bathroom right now? This isn’t how I pictured this night going. I never expected Jonas Faraday to ask me about my hopes and dreams. I thought, maybe even hoped, he’d make it easy to resist him by being self-involved and going on and on about what he planned to do to me.
“It’s an organization that provides aid and free legal services for battered women.” I feel my cheeks involuntarily flush with the fierce emotion I feel about the topic.
He pauses, considering me. “A cause close to your heart, I take it?” he asks softly.
My heart is beating fast. I can’t speak, so I simply nod.
There’s a long pause. Clearly, he expects me to elaborate. But I’m not here to regale Jonas Faraday with the sob story of my childhood. I don’t want to talk about what my dad did to my mom all those years ago that made her run away—to escape, really—and raise me all by herself. I’m not going to talk about how she worked two jobs my whole life, dreaming of a better life for me. No, I’m not here to talk about how brutally he used to beat her while I cowered in the corner, or about how much she’s sacrificed for me, or how strong she is, or how much I admire her, or how important it is for me to make all her sacrifices worth it. I’m not here to tell him all that just so he can file me away in a folder with all the other “girls with daddy issues” he’s banged. I might not know what I’m here to do, but it’s certainly not to talk about any of that.
