by Elise Noble
He bent to kiss me on the cheek, holding my upper arms gently. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
We’d been texting back and forth in between his meetings and my clients. Since it was Thursday, which meant the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts was open until nine p.m., we’d decided to go there for a couple of hours followed by dinner at Ristorante il Mare, an Italian place that specialised in fish and seafood, but which also had several decidedly non-vegan desserts on the menu. I may have had a teeny ulterior motive when I selected where to eat—if Matthew enjoyed tonight’s meal, he’d cope with anything Jean-Luc and his team might serve up.
“How was your last client?” Matthew asked. “I didn’t think you’d be out so fast.”
“Just straightforward infills, so they didn’t take long. Better to be early than late.”
“True. What are infills?”
“When a girl has gel nails and they grow out, there’s a gap left behind. Every couple of weeks, the gaps need filling in.”
“What happens if the whole gel thing falls off?”
“They’re strong, so that rarely happens. How was your day?”
“I’m still learning my way around, but I took my first deposition this afternoon. That’s when a witness makes a statement under oath but outside of court.”
I already knew about depositions from hanging out with Oliver, but I nodded anyway as Matthew opened the passenger door for me. So far, this was a vast improvement on Tuesday’s experience with Niles, but if the good vibes continued, how could I broach the subject of Jean-Luc’s competition? I decided to wait until dinner. No point in scaring Matthew off right away.
“Have you always liked going to galleries?” he asked as I showed him around the exhibition of early 20th century European art. “You seem very knowledgeable.”
“Ever since I was a little girl and I got my first set of crayons. I studied art history at the University of Richmond, but it’s a hard field to find a job in unless you want to curate a museum or a gallery. I love looking at other people’s work, but I like to create too. And I’m pretty good at talking to people.” Or so my schoolteachers always said right before they gave me yet another detention. “That’s why owning a nail salon is my perfect job.”
“You own it? I thought you just worked there.”
“No, I own it.”
“That’s a long-term commitment.”
“Yes, but as long as business stays good, it’ll pay dividends later on.”
“What happens when you want a family?”
Well, that was hardly likely to happen anytime soon, was it? I couldn’t even keep a boyfriend for longer than a month.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Hey, here’s Duchamp-Villon’s Maggy. A beautiful piece, but I’ll admit I prefer his Le Cheval.”
“It’s not very well-proportioned.”
Duh, it was art. The sculptor’s vision. His magic. “That’s part of its beauty.”
“Hmm.”
What did “Hmm” mean? The Picasso collection was met with indifference, although Matthew liked the Fabergé exhibition so he wasn’t a complete heathen. I struggled to work him out. On the surface, he was perfectly civil, but there was also a touch of arrogance lurking beneath his smooth facade.
At the restaurant, the waiter showed us to a quiet table in one corner, screened by potted palms that muffled the chatter from the other patrons. A group in the middle—there for Laura’s fortieth, judging by the personalised balloons—sang as a flaming birthday cake came out, the chocolate frosting sagging under the weight of the candles. Normally, I’d have joined in with the singing, but Matthew just gave the group a bemused look as he took a seat opposite me.
So he wasn’t a party animal. That was okay. I’d dated plenty of good-time guys in the past because, with my background, I thought that was all I deserved. But seeing Stef and Roxy so happy, both of whom shared my chequered past, had encouraged me to set my sights higher.
I wanted a man who’d stick around for more than a few weeks, who’d love me for my flaws not in spite of them. Yes, I’d once slept with men for money, and I couldn’t turn the clock back to erase my mistakes.
The question of when to tell a man what I’d done was always a difficult one. If I dropped it into conversation at the beginning, they either ran a mile or assumed I was a slut. If I left it too late, I risked the dreaded “Why didn’t you tell me?” conversation, and they left anyway. Or worse, said they were okay with it when they clearly weren’t.
A little over a year ago, I’d started seeing a guy who actually gave me hope. I’d confessed everything, and he still treated me like a human being. Then one night in bed, a night when I’d given him two orgasms and elicited a confession that it was the best sex he’d ever had, he’d rolled off, grinned, and asked how much he owed me. Of course, he’d laughed like it was all a big joke, but I still felt as though I’d taken a knife to the chest. Was that how my love life was destined to be? Always plagued by reminders of a time I’d rather forget?
Perhaps that was one reason I liked Jean-Luc so much. I’d been to his apartment plenty of times, and one evening over too much wine, I’d told him about my time with Rubies, about my many regrets and my hopes for the future. He’d just given me a hug and said, “The past is the past. It’s tomorrow you need to focus on.”
But he’d shown no signs of wanting to be involved in that tomorrow as anything more than a friend. Yet. I had to stay positive.
Matthew brought me back to the present with a question. “Red or white?”
Decisions, decisions. I liked both, and I could never pick. If I were out with the girls, I’d go for rosé, but I didn’t think Matthew would appreciate pink wine. White went well with seafood, but a softer red like Pinot Noir was also acceptable. Did I mention I’d once dated a sommelier?
“Whatever you’re having,” I finally said. There, that was easier.
“A bottle of Chablis, then.”
That turned out to be the easiest question of the night. I’d barely taken a bite of my shrimp salad when Matthew decided to delve into the only thing I hated discussing more than my career history.
“Tell me about your family, Imogen.”
Oh, hell no. Even Jean-Luc didn’t know about them. “I’d rather not.”
“You don’t get on? Come on, you must have some good memories. What about your father?”
“My father’s dead.”
To me, at any rate. Saying he was six feet under sure beat admitting he was serving life for armed robbery. My brother should’ve been locked up too, except he’d skipped bail ten years ago when I was seventeen, and I hadn’t seen him since. And my mother? I’d never forgive her for not protecting me from them.
“I’m sorry to hear that. And your mother?”
I pushed my food around my plate, my appetite having deserted me. “Who knows?”
“You don’t know whether she’s dead or alive?”
“Would you mind if we talked about something else?”
Matthew shrugged and popped a dough ball into his mouth. “Of course. Earlier, we briefly touched on your employment status. What are your future plans for the salon? Sale? Expansion? Or do you just want to paint nails for the rest of your life?”
He managed to make the job I enjoyed so much sound like a bad thing. “I’ll probably paint nails.”
“But if you moved into a management role and opened more salons, you’d make more money.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
His quiet snort said he didn’t agree, and the date only went downhill from there. What were my grades like at school? Had I made retirement plans yet? How did I feel about public versus private education? Since I never wanted to see him again, I just made stuff up as his questions got more and more ridiculous.
Why didn’t I walk out? Because I’d already ordered dessert, and nothing got between me and Ristorante il Mare’s espresso Martini tiramisu. That stuff was heaven on a plate, even worth putting up
with an arrogant ass for twenty more minutes.
“So, Imogen. What’s your favourite dish to cook for a boyfriend?” Matthew asked as the waiter set my dessert on the table in front of me. “You do cook, don’t you?”
“Of course I cook.” As long as microwaving counted. “Have you ever tried honey-roasted pig trotters? My great grandma passed the recipe down through the generations—it’s kind of a family secret, but I bet you’ve never had anything like it. All the jelly oozes out, and I swear it tastes better than it smells. How’s your panna cotta?”
“It’s okay.” Matthew crinkled his nose and put his spoon down. “I’m surprised you have time to make such an unusual dish. How do you fit everything in? Do you have a cleaner?”
Sure, because I was made of money. “No, I have a robot.”
“A…robot? Like a Roomba?”
“Yes, but I also have one on legs that dusts. My cousin’s a robotics engineer in Japan, and he sent me a prototype to test out. Once he upgrades the software, it’ll wash the windows too.”
“Impressive. I’d like to see that. And I suppose you could learn to cook a wider variety of dishes.” He nodded to himself, seemingly weighing up my suitability as his future mate. “How many men have you kissed?”
I choked on a mouthful of tiramisu as he looked on, impassive. That utter prick. This was basically a job interview for a position I didn’t want. Still, I managed to conjure up a sickly smile as I forked in my last mouthful of dessert.
“Are we talking just this month?”
“What? No, I meant ever.”
“Oh, I have no idea. I gave up counting after the first fifty. None of them ticked all my boxes, you know?”
He pushed his plate away and motioned to the waitress. “Check, please! Imogen, how do you want to split this? Straight down the middle?”
Nice try. He’d eaten the lobster while I ordered pumpkin ravioli. “Perfect. Since we’ve already established I’m not so good at math…” I giggled. “Why don’t you work the amounts out while I use the bathroom?”
Fortunately, I’d been to Ristorante il Mare enough times to know there was a fire exit right next to the ladies’ room, and it was never locked. I made good use of it. Matthew and his inner misogynist could take care of the check while I went home and rued my terrible luck with members of the opposite sex.
CHAPTER 4 - IMOGEN
“I’M SO, SO sorry,” Stef said. “Matthew seemed perfectly normal when I spoke to him.”
I cradled the phone in the crook of my neck as I poured myself a glass of wine. After putting up with the aforementioned idiot all evening, I deserved one. The only alcohol I had in the apartment was half a bottle of flat champagne leftover from Stefanie’s visit last week, which reminded me once again that I needed to go shopping.
“Men like that are good at hiding their true characters.”
A made-to-measure suit, a sixty-dollar haircut, a holier than thou attitude...at least in public. I’d met dozens of Matthews in my former job. Those assholes wanted the recognition and respect of their peers, and having the right woman on their arm was just another part of the act. And by the right woman, I meant a wife who’d pander to their every need and turn a blind eye when they cheated with girls like me.
“I should’ve asked Oliver’s opinion. He’s better at picking out sleazes. He’s still at the office, but when he comes back...”
“I’m not sure I want to try the blind date thing again. Perhaps I should just try the old-fashioned way and look for a guy in a bar?”
“That’s not always safe. What if someone spikes your drink?”
“I’ll drink out of the bottle and keep it with me.”
“I’m still not sure that’s the best way. Too many single men in bars are only after one thing, and that thing isn’t a trip to a cooking contest.”
“Perhaps I could do an exchange?”
I kicked off my pumps as I walked through to the living room, and they landed under the coffee table next to yesterday’s shoes. When I got stressed, I didn’t have the energy to tidy up.
“That’s basically selling yourself again. If you’re going to go down the transactional route, why don’t you just call Octavia and ask if she knows any male escorts?”
“That’s... That’s...actually not a bad idea.” Octavia was our old boss from Rubies. Of course, Rubies had gotten closed down after the police investigation Stefanie got caught up in, but Octavia had already opened up a new agency. Although she only booked women, she had plenty of connections in the industry, and I bet that included men too. The only problem? Escorts like us didn’t come cheap, and I couldn’t go bargain basement if the guy was gonna meet Jean-Luc. Most of my money was currently tied up in Nailed It, which meant maxing out my credit card was the only option. “Perhaps I could try the bar idea first, and if that doesn’t work out, I’ll call Octavia next week.”
Stef tried again. “I’m not sure you’re going to meet Mr. Right in a bar.”
“Hot guys have to hang out somewhere. They don’t stay at home alone on Friday nights.”
“Then how about I come along and be your wing-woman? Or Roxy? Or both of us? I can’t do tomorrow because Oliver’s out and I have to take care of Abby, but I’m free on Saturday evening.”
“I guess I can wait until Saturday.”
“We should go to The Brotherhood of Thieves—you know, the place with the motorcycle in the middle of the bar?”
“Isn’t that a bit rough?”
“Not anymore. It’s more hipsters than bikers now. City boys with pristine leather pants and Harleys they ride twice a year. Oliver took me there last week, and the French fries are to die for. Really crispy.”
Dammit, she knew French fries were my weakness. Better even than chocolate. But after my last two dates, an evening at a hipster hangout-slash-biker bar could hardly be any worse, could it?
“Sure, let’s go there. Why not?”
“That’s the spirit. I’ll organise a car and pick you up at eight.”
With a plan of action in place, I could spend Friday evening relaxing at home instead of heading out on safari to Richmond’s classier nightspots. And when I said relaxing, I meant trying on potential outfits for the trip to Le Parade des Chefs and realising none of the zippers did up anymore. Those damn French fries. I wasn’t much overweight, and men liked curves—I knew that for a fact—but I didn’t have the time or the money to buy new clothes before next week.
So, correction—Friday night would be spent in the gym instead of on the sofa. At least spandex stretched. If I got up early every morning between tomorrow and next Sunday and spent half an hour doing cardio before I went to Nailed It, and lived on smoothies, I’d fit into my favourite dress again. I may not have been able to do much about my height, but that little blue number matched my eyes as well as giving me better cleavage than Marelaine. The sacrifice would be worth it.
Wow… They’d redecorated the whole gym since I last visited three months ago. Okay, eight months ago. January third, to be precise, when my rock-solid New Year’s resolution crumbled at the first mention of cocktails. Back then, the walls had been blue and grey, kind of drab, but now they’d changed to in-your-face purple and mint green. Most of the machines were new too, which would have been a good thing if I’d known how to work any of them. Why wouldn’t the stupid treadmill go faster than a walking pace?
“Do you need help?” the guy next to me asked as he jogged along.
“Uh, how do you make it speed up?”
“Press the red button to cycle through the modes, then the arrows to increase and decrease.”
I wasn’t sure what was more impressive—his taut muscles or the fact that he could have a conversation while running without gasping for breath. I followed his instructions, then grabbed the handrail to keep my balance when I got sidetracked by his ass.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m good. Just tripped.”
This was why I didn’t go to the gym more often�
��it was dangerous. The year before last, I’d ended up twisting an ankle, which meant I couldn’t wear pumps for six weeks.
“You should clip on the safety cut-out strap. That way, the belt’ll stop if you fall off.”
He reached over and passed it to me. Yes, I was the only person using the safety strap, because everybody else managed to run in a straight line.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Shall I give you a hand with connecting your headphones to the TV?”
“I didn’t even realise that was possible.”
Before I could blink, he’d reached over, tapped away at my console, and then I was back in the eighties with cheesy electropop blaring in my ears. I quickly turned down the volume before I got deafened.
“Okay?” my new friend asked.
I nodded.
“I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“It’s been a little while since I’ve come.”
At least, a little while since I’d come without using either my fingers or a vibrator. Could my luck finally be changing? Had gym karma blessed me with a solution to my man-related problem? This guy was polite and helpful, his ring finger was bare, and since he was working out on a Friday night, I had a faint hope he was between girlfriends too.
“I spend too much time here. The endorphin rush gets addictive, you know?”
Not as addictive as chocolate chip cookies, but I agreed anyway. “I’m not sure I can run long enough for the endorphins to start.”
“Just build up slowly. Better to do that than pull a muscle. Do you want me to give you a rundown on how the machines work?”
“Would you mind?”
“Give me ten minutes to finish my program, and I’ll show you around. I’m Drew, by the way.”
“Imogen.”
He held out a hand, and I nearly fell off the treadmill again as I reached out to shake it. Luckily, he held me upright as he grinned.
“Good to meet you. Hopefully, we’ll see a lot more of each other.”
