Page 43 of Snatched

---

I suddenly sit up straighter.

“No. No no no no no. This is not a date,” I tell the universe, my lamp, my plant, my entire building.

“He is beingprofessional.I’m returning his card. We are returning things to each other. This is mutually returning.”

I glance back at the message.

Nice atmosphere.

My face heats so fast I nearly combust.

Who suggests The Darling for a non-date because of the nice atmosphere?

Who casually selects a romantic speakeasy with dim lighting and corner tables and cocktails that arrive with smoke pouring off them?

Not a trainer or coworker.

A friend? I don’t think so.

A man trying—however subtly—to not look desperate.

“Oh my God,” I whisper again, covering my face with both hands.

Is this happening?

Am I spiraling?

Yes.

Absolutely yes.

But also…

Is he for real asking me out?

I scroll back up through his earlier messages.

What are you up to tomorrow night? Friday’s probably a big date night for you I’m assuming?

My lungs tighten, because this is a date.

This feels like a date.

This looks like a date.

And the worst part—the truly unhinged part—I want it to be.

I force myself to breathe.

Okay.Okay.I need to text back. Something breezy. Something cool. Something that doesnotmake this sound like the date I am absolutely terrified it is.

My fingers hover over the screen.

I type:

Elena: It’s a…hang. Drinks are on me this time.

I hit send before I can overthink it.

---