“I seriously doubt that, Gabriella. Would you happen to have time to meet me later tonight? Maybe for a drink?” Ugh! There’s that smile again. He’s laying it on thick, and I’m lapping it up like a kitten to milk.
I will myself to play it cool as I mull over his question. “Possibly,” I answer, secretly ecstatic at the thought of having more time with this enigmatic stranger. Yes! Say yes! I scream from within. “Ok, sure. I guess I can do that. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” he breathes, sending my hormones into overdrive.
“Cut the shit. I’m not some giggling schoolgirl and I don’t take kindly to games. So save the googly eyes and phone sex voice.” And with that, I stand and throw my trash into a nearby bin, and stride boldly out of the café. “And I get off at 9:30,” I say over my shoulder as I make my dramatic exit.
Hell yes! I squeal to myself. I literally dig my fingernails into my hand to keep from turning around to read his expression.
At 9:20, I retreat to the stockroom bathroom to primp for my date. I’m way more excited and nervous than I’ll admit to myself. I fish my small makeup pouch from my new tote and commence to applying fresh coats of powder, mascara and lipgloss. I expertly line my eyes, courtesy of Morgan’s tutorial, and finger-comb my waves. Waving goodbye to my co-workers, I take a deep breath before exiting out through the employee entrance.
I step out and see random store workers but no sign of Dorian. Humph, for someone so adamant to get to know me, you would think he’d be on time. I glance at my watch; 9:30 on the dot. I try to stifle my disappointment and resolve to head to my car and go home if he doesn’t show up in a few minutes. I’m not a spoiled princess but I’ll be damned if I wait around outside in the cold for some guy I don’t even know, even if he is ridiculously gorgeous and alluring.
Then it hits me…I didn’t even tell Dorian where to meet me! I was so overwhelmed by his mere presence that once again, I turned into the bumbling village idiot, totally ignorant of conventional civilities and dialogue. Good going, Gabs.
Begrudgingly, I start to fish my keys out of my purse, and panic when I don’t see them. I pat my jacket pockets and come up empty. I peer into my purse again and find them in one of the many pockets. Whew! I sigh with relief and grasp them to my chest. Deciding that I might as well call it a night, I step towards my car and nearly walk right into a broad chest shrouded in a dark leather jacket.
“Gabriella,” he breathes, his smooth voice bathing my name in warm butter.
“You came,” I stammer, struggling to gain my composure under his penetrating gaze. I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “You’re late.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he says confidently.
Arrogant douche. I look down at my watch, prepared to prove his tardiness despite my own oversight, and it reads 9:29. Crap, looks like my battery has died. I shrug off my misstep.
“Ok, then, where to?” I try hard to seem unaffected by my slip and our near collision. The thought of actually touching him excites me more than it should.
“Why don’t you choose? I’m sure you know the area better than I do,” he replies. I can tell he’s trying to seem casual, putting his intensity on the back burner for now. I smirk with triumph.
We walk down to the nearby sports lounge in the mall complex. There are plenty of witnesses here just in case Dorian turns out to be an ax murderer and I just don’t trust myself with him in a quiet, more intimate setting. Psycho or not, I may just let him have his way with me.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks, politely as we settle into a booth.
“Um, just a Coke, please,” I reply.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Is that what you really want? Please, order whatever you like.” He sounds a bit offended as if I’m insinuating that he can’t afford it.
“Well, I’d really like a beer but you know there’s this little thing called a legal drinking age. Just turned 20, remember?” I smirk.
Right on cue, the buxom blonde waitress strolls over to ask us what we’d like to drink. She instantly flinches once Dorian looks up at her to order our round of beer. All she can do is nod in response and retreat to the bar to fetch our beverages. She doesn’t even ask for ID, and I know I look young for my age. She’s obviously flustered, and I chalk it up to his captivating glacial stare and smoldering good looks. But when she returns with the beer, I catch a hint of fear in her stance. She looks down, attempting to avoid eye contact, her small mouth fixed into a tight, rigid line. Her hands wring her small black apron until her knuckles are white. Suspicion nags at the back of my head.