Page 13 of The Great Dating Fake Off
I stay very still so as not to blow my nonexistent cover while I type my reply.
My exterminators call me Nora.
His shoulders shake a few times. His laugh is just enough that I can hear it over the commotion. At least I amuse him.
I know your name, Nora. And I’m no suitcase expert, but I guess it matters what you’re using it for. Big or small? Hard or soft?
There’s a joke in there that I’m not woman enough to make. So instead, I go for the kill.
I need something charcoal gray I can butcher to hell with stickers. Specifically band bumper stickers, like Death Cab for Cutie and Guster. But I also have a few Celebrations by El stickers that need a home, too.
Sebastian does a double take at the suitcase beside him, showcasing those exact stickers, before searching the room. When he finally turns around, his deep brown eyes flicker with recognition. “Whoa. Hi.”
“Hi. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Same to you.” He rubs his jaw and stares at me in disbelief. “You didn’t email after we talked. About the calendar.”
I lift my brows. “I didn’t?”
“Nope.” His smile is wry. “I chalked it up to you secretly hating the Boys and Girls Club. No biggie.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Check your spam, sir.”
He frowns and pokes at his phone. “Oh.” His expression takes a turn for the chagrined. “My bad. I just assumed you were blowing me off.”
“Nope. I figured I’d give it some time and follow up the old-fashioned way, with a carrier pigeon or singing telegram.”
His laugh crinkles his eyes at the corners. “While there are plenty of pigeons in New York who could probably use the work, our office windows open only an inch.”
“Telegram it is. You’re about to make some hustling theater kid’s day, Sebastian.”
And there’s his smile. I remember it the way you remember a particularly catchy song. His lips are a pleasing shape, his cupid’s bow pronounced. He crosses his arms, the ink on his biceps slightly more visible today in the tight striped shirt he’s wearing. I bury the impulse to push his sleeve to his shoulder and take a peek.
“And here I thought you’d be doing the singing,” he says.
I lift a hand. “Trust me, no one wants that. My high notes would probably break glass.”
“Great.” He gives a solemn nod. “That would pave the way for the pigeons. Solves a lot of our problems.”
How is he funny, too? Did Marvel central casting create this guy?
My heart pounds a little faster. I’m 99 percent sure this guy with his sports-ball physique and easy charm isn’t interested in me, but that one percent is a powerful little beast. That one percent still wonders what he would’ve said to me in the store if we hadn’t been interrupted.
Our gazes tangle for a few seconds too long. Heat slides through my body like a slow avalanche.
Correction: I’m only 50 percent sure he’s not interested, and certain I want him to be.
It’s been a long time since I’ve craved this. I haven’t missed men in a tangible way since before I moved to New York. Since before my trainwreck of a situation with my last ex, if you can even call him that.
I’ve fallen recklessly hard for one man in my life. I was so deep in my unrequited feelings for Chase I could barely come up for air. To me, he was everything. To him, I was an invisible coworker for six months, and then his friend, and finally the mistake he quickly moved on from. I was eventually freed from that whole mess by relocation. It was the only one of my many moves I ever welcomed because it saved me from the depths of my own foolishness.
He isn’t the only guy I’ve been involved with, but he was the one who hurt the most. I had many almosts with men before him, situations that started fine enough but never broke through to an actual relationship. Sex with no feelings, feelings with no sex, false starts that fizzled out after a date or two.
Feelings and sex with Chase did some damage. It left its mark. I’m not eager to experience that again. I don’t let myself get interested. Not deeply. And I won’t until a man matches my interest. The art of “declaring one’s intentions” needs reviving if you ask me.I want a guy to look at me and say I’m getting to know you with purpose. I intend to date you exclusively. Those lines would go straight to my head like good champagne.
I want to be claimed. To be someone’s person. I crave the safety that comes when two people fully belong to each other.
Not that I’ve experienced it.
