by Joy Fielding
She was half out of her uncomfortable wooden chair when the front door opened and a man who could only be described as tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous walked in. God, he was good-looking. Maybe even too good-looking, she thought. Even better-looking than Mr. Right Now, although cut from the same type of cloth. The kind of man searching for his own reflection when he stared into your eyes.
He caught her gaze and smiled, quickly crossing over to where she stood. “Waiting for me?” he asked, a shy grin pulling at his lips, the intensity of his gaze sending tingles up and down her spine.
Paige was torn between conflicting impulses. One was to slap the smile right off his too-handsome face, and the other was to grab his arm and hightail it out of the bar before he realized his mistake.
Could she do either? she wondered, sensing movement beside her and turning to see the man she was supposed to be meeting approaching with a drink in his hand.
“Wildflower?” he asked, hesitantly.
“Samson?” she asked in return, feeling the other man already inching away.
“I thought it was you,” Samson said, handing Paige the glass of gin and tonic she’d ordered. “I believe this drink is for you.”
“Thank you,” Paige said. “Do you think we can dispense with the aliases?”
“With pleasure.” He extended his hand. “Sam Benjamin.”
“Paige Hamilton,” Paige said, shaking it.
“Pleased to meet you, Paige.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sam.”
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything. No, that’s not true,” Sam corrected immediately. “I saw you talking to that rather handsome fellow, and I thought I’d better get over here before I lost my chance.”
Paige smiled, relieved that the “rather handsome fellow” had quietly taken his leave. Men that handsome had always made her nervous. Chloe’s husband, Matt, was that handsome, and look what a bastard he was.
Sam Benjamin might not be the stuff of daydreams, but he was certainly presentable, and much more attractive up close than from a distance. His voice was deep and soothing. His smile seemed genuine. Even if his hair could benefit from a slight trim, his teeth were admirably white and straight.
“Should we sit?” he asked, signaling for the waitress as they took their seats at the small, round table. “A Molson’s Golden? Thank you.” He turned his attention back to Paige. “So, what do you do, Paige Hamilton?”
“I’m in advertising. Well, I was,” she qualified. “I got let go a few months ago, so I’m currently…what is it they say…?”
“Unemployed?”
“Between jobs,” she corrected, smiling. “That sounds a little more optimistic. You wouldn’t by any chance be the head of an advertising agency in need of a good strategic planning director, would you?”
“I’m a dentist.”
Paige laughed.
“Something funny about being a dentist?”
“My mother said you had nice teeth.”
“Your mother?”
“She liked your picture. It’s a long story,” she said, answering the quizzical look in his eyes.
“I like long stories.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Another time,” he repeated. “I definitely like the sound of that.”
The waitress approached with his beer.
“Thank you,” he acknowledged, ignoring the tall glass she put on the table to sip directly from the bottle. “Sorry. I always prefer my beer this way.”
“No, I get it,” Paige said. “I like my soft drinks directly from the can. That way you get more fizz. Not so good for the teeth, I guess,” she added. “All that sugar.”
Sam smiled. “We could all use a little sweetness.” A slightly awkward pause. “So, you’re new to online dating?”
“Oh, God. Is it that obvious?”
“No, not at all,” he assured her. “Well, maybe a little…”
“You’re right. I am new to this. Well, relatively new. A couple of months.”
“Newly single or just curious?” he asked.
“A bit of both, I guess,” Paige said, continuing without prompting. “I was with someone for three years. Till he decided he’d rather be with someone else. My cousin, actually.” She monitored Sam’s face closely for his reaction, saw his right eyebrow lift only slightly.
“My wife left me for her personal trainer.”
“Oh,” Paige said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s been almost two years. She’s happy. And aside from the initial blow to my ego, I’m happier, too. And the kids are good, which in the end is all that matters.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Two six-year-old boys. Dustin and Caleb. Identical twins.”
“My father was an identical twin,” Paige said, feeling an immediate kinship.
“Was?”
“He died two years ago.”
“And his brother?”
“Going on eighty.” Paige tried, and failed, to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “There’s this big birthday party for him a week from this Saturday.”
“That must be hard for you.”
“It kind of pisses me off,” she admitted, taking a long swallow of her gin and tonic. “Which I guess makes me not the nicest person in the world.”
“I don’t know about that,” Sam said. “After my mother died—and she died pretty young, sixty-two—I couldn’t even look at old people without wishing them all sorts of horrible deaths. How did you manage to survive when my mother never got that chance? I’d be thinking. My sister caught me staring at this old woman in an elevator once and she said the look on my face was one of pure evil.”
Paige chuckled, taking another sip of her drink and returning it to the table with more force than she’d intended. What the hell, she decided, throwing caution to the wind and looking Sam directly in the eye. He might not be anyone’s idea of a revenge date, but…“On that note,” she began. “That birthday party I was telling you about…”
Sam reached across the table to take her hand. “Yes,” he said. “I’d love to go.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
He spots her the minute he steps through the door.
She is sitting by herself at a table in a corner of the crowded room, trying not to be conspicuous, and when she half-rises from her chair, he thinks she might be the one he came here to meet, the woman he knows as Lulubelle. He walks toward her, realizing even before he reaches her side that it isn’t her.
She’s a pretty girl. Not beautiful, at least by his standards, although she might be considered beautiful by others with less exacting tastes, less developed sensibilities. But there is something compelling about her, something that tempts him to veer from his original game plan and abandon Lulubelle. Something in her eyes, he realizes. A spark that tells him she is smarter than most of the women he meets, that she would make a nice change of pace, a more worthy adversary. Winning her trust without the normal weeks of online foreplay would be a true test of his prowess, his ability to seduce.
And besides, a little spontaneity never hurt anyone.
Except, of course, in this case, it will. It will hurt a lot.
“Waiting for me?” he asks, careful to keep the question on the charming side of arrogant.
She sways toward him.
But before she can answer, an unwelcome voice intrudes. “Wildflower?” the interloper asks.
“Samson?” She turns away from him as if he no longer exists.
The fake names confirm they’ve met through a dating site, undoubtedly one of the many he’s on. It should be relatively easy to find her profile, he thinks as he begins drifting from her side.
“Do you think we can dispense with the aliases?” he hears Wildflower ask.
“Sam B
enjamin,” the man responds, a name as nondescript as the man himself.
“Paige Hamilton,” comes the reply.
Paige Hamilton, he repeats silently, approaching the far end of the bar and making a mental note to check for her presence on Facebook and Instagram. He looks back in her direction, waiting for her to notice his absence, annoyed—even angered—that she seems totally captivated by this extraordinarily ordinary-looking man.
He wonders if her snub is deliberate and considers marching back to her table and throwing her drink in her face, then smashing the glass over her head and watching the blood slowly dribble down her cheeks. That would teach her. But then he catches sight of heavily ringed fingers waving at him from the other end of the long bar, and he is quick to regroup, to return to his original plan. He’s spent weeks cultivating this relationship. It would be a shame to miss out on the payoff.
Paige Hamilton, also known as Wildflower, will have to wait for another day.
His back stiffens and his shoulders straighten as he strides, newly resolute, toward the pretty, but plump, brunette at the end of the bar. He is an arrow sailing toward its target—fast, focused, and deadly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman apologizes as he draws close. Her face goes from pink to red, so that it almost matches the color of the dress her large breasts are spilling from. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Lulubelle?” he asks, his voice dripping warm honey. Her name is accompanied by the same boyish grin he used on Paige Hamilton, the one he spent the better part of the morning perfecting. The grin is one of many in his repertoire. He can call on them at will, but still, it’s important to stay diligent, to not take such things for granted. “Practice makes perfect,” as his mother used to say. Just one of the endless platitudes that fell from her stupid mouth every day. You could hardly blame his father for using his fists to silence her.
“Mr. Right Now?” Lulubelle asks in return, her initial embarrassment disappearing into a wide smile, the kind of smile that says she can’t believe her good fortune. Unlike Wildflower, there is nothing going on behind those big, bovine eyes.
“Call me Eric,” he says, although that isn’t his real name. It’s not even a name he particularly likes. Still, it’s one he hasn’t used before, and it’s important to keep things fresh. While he is meticulous in certain aspects of his planning, he likes to keep other things somewhat looser. It keeps him on his toes, gives the whole charade a certain frisson. So he never picks out a name in advance, choosing to wait for whatever name drops from his lips unbidden. He’s learned to enjoy tiny surprises such as these.
The women—unlike Wildflower—rarely surprise him.
“I’m Lulu,” she says. “Well, it’s really Louise. But no one ever calls me that.”
“You didn’t recognize me,” he says, waiting for the compliment he knows will follow.
“Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” she obliges him by saying.
“Ditto,” he says, lowering his chin while lifting his eyes, a move meant to suggest both shyness and sincerity. It’s a lie, of course. The picture Lulu posted next to her profile—loves Drake and all things Star Wars—was clearly taken several years and twenty pounds ago.
“Well, I’ve put on a little weight since that picture was taken,” she admits, acknowledging the obvious.
“I like women with a little meat on their bones,” he assures her. Another lie. He isn’t happy about her extra weight. It speaks to a lazy mind, a lack of willpower. He prefers his women slim and in good shape, like Wildflower. But Lulu will be punished for her dishonesty soon enough. He leans toward her, catching a whiff of her perfume. Miss Dior, he recognizes. Not bad, though he prefers anything Chanel. “What are you drinking?”
“White wine spritzer?” she asks, as if she isn’t sure.
Something else he hates, this habit of turning a statement into a question. Either she’s drinking a white wine spritzer or she isn’t. Where’s the ambiguity? Such habits point to a lack of confidence. And confidence in a woman is something he’s always admired.
It makes watching such confidence dissolve that much more fun.
He orders a wine spritzer for her and a glass of expensive Shiraz for himself, then clinks his glass against hers. Once again, he steals a glance in Wildflower’s direction, hoping to find her eyes searching the room for his, eager to reconnect. But instead he sees that she is still fully engaged with Mr. Sam Nobody and seems to have forgotten all about him. He stiffens, deciding that he will have to remind her.
“Eric?” a voice asks.
It takes several seconds to realize the voice is Lulu’s. “Hmm? What?”
“I said, what are we toasting?”
“How about the start of a lovely evening?” he responds, recovering quickly.
“I’ll drink to that.” She takes a sip. “So, Eric,” she begins. “Your profile says you’re an entrepreneur?”
“That I am.”
“You mean like on Shark Tank?”
“Exactly like on Shark Tank,” he concurs, silently thanking the TV show for popularizing the idea of entrepreneurship, making it seem less vague, less in need of explanation.
“So, like, people come to you with their ideas and you invest money…?”
He tries not to blanch at her repeated use of the word “like.” Another lazy habit he intends to cure her of later. “Yeah. That’s about it. You wouldn’t believe some of the crazy ideas people come up with.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, this one guy came to me with his plan to manufacture a line of scuba equipment for dogs.”
Lulu laughs. “Really? That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I told him.” He takes a sip of his drink. “He actually has a patent for it.”
She looks appropriately fascinated, which fuels his disgust. A fucking patent for canine scuba equipment! Is she really that stupid?
“So, like, where did you make your money? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Don’t mind at all,” he says, having anticipated the question. It’s the one they can all be counted on to ask. Women are so transparent. Money and good looks—that’s all it takes to have them eating out of your hand. He laughs to himself—that part will come later. “I had a small business that I sold to a big company for an obscene amount of money, invested that money well and made even more, and presto, an entrepreneur is born.”
“Wow,” she says.
The word bangs against the side of his brain like an unpleasant echo, and he takes a deep breath, suppressing the urge to throttle Lulu to death in front of all these people. “How about we discuss it over dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And I know a great place where we can go and really get to know each other. Plus, the chef is a great friend of mine.”
“Really? What place is that?”
“My place,” he says with his most charming smile yet, the one that generally overwhelms even the worst skeptics.
“Your place?” A quiver of hesitancy registers on her face.
He feigns embarrassment. “At the risk of sounding a little presumptuous…”
Lulu cocks her head to one side, emphasizing her double chin, and waits for him to continue.
“I actually went out this afternoon and bought a couple of steaks. Not that I was taking anything for granted. Just that I was so smitten with your photo. And you’ve turned out even better than I’d hoped…” He almost gags. “We can go somewhere else, if you’d prefer. Somewhere more public.”
Another second’s hesitation. “No, that’s all right,” she says finally, the offer to go elsewhere banishing her reservations. He breathes an imperceptible sigh of relief. “I’d hate to see a couple of good steaks go to waste.”
“Great.” He downs the last of his
drink and deposits it firmly on the bar, then waits for Lulu to finish hers.
She swallows the last of it, then hands the glass to him with a smile, before reaching into her counterfeit Louis Vuitton bag—he prides himself on always recognizing a fake—and removing her cellphone.
“What are you doing?” he asks, blocking his face with his hand as she raises the phone to snap his picture.
“Sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she demurs. “But a girl can’t be too careful these days. We did just meet. If I’m going to go anywhere with you, especially your apartment, then I need to take a few precautions. And I’ll need to see some ID.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I know it sounds silly, but it’s something I always do. I take a picture, get your address, email it to my friends so they know where I am…”
“And if I refuse?” he asks playfully, hoping his charm will outweigh her demands.
Lulu manages a weak smile. “Why would you refuse?”
“I guess I’m just not used to my integrity being questioned.” His anger resurfaces. He is actually offended by her request.
“Well,” she says, returning her phone to her fake leather bag, “suppose you think it over while I use the little girls’ room.”
Before he can say anything, she is walking away, her every step announcing that she is the one in control. He’d like to follow her inside the little girls’ room, drag her big ass into the nearest stall, and force her stupid head inside the toilet bowl. How dare she question him! Someone who looks like her, who might generously register a six on a scale of ten, who could never hope to attract the legitimate interest of a man as handsome as he is—she has the nerve to ask for his identification! No, not ask—demand! “You’ve gotta be kidding,” he mutters, looking around the room, as if seeking confirmation from the other patrons.
He sees Paige Hamilton, aka Wildflower, still engrossed in conversation with Mr. Average. Is it possible she’s forgotten him so soon? He smiles, picturing her hands securely tied behind her back and her lovely neck in a noose.