by Mia Carter
“Ah,” I say. “No, no. It’s just me.”
There’s a reservation for us already—thank you, Jonathan—and we get seated immediately. The host leads us back through the restaurant to a little private alcove, half sectioned off from the rest of the opulent restaurant by deep red velvet drapes. The three remaining walls of the alcove, however, are paneled in dark, old wood and framed in windows. The space itself has just one table with two chairs. It’s intimate. Romantic, I think—that must be what this setup is usually for. This is the place you take a woman when you want to propose, or celebrate a milestone, an anniversary.
I don’t think about that or the implications of what I’ve inadvertently chosen for our meal tonight as I pull out Chloe’s chair for her. She sits down, looking up at me with those playful, intelligent eyes, and thanks me once she is settled. Even though I don’t know her well, I can still sense quite clearly how nervous she is. I don’t want her to feel nervous. I want her to feel safe.
A pair of almost-strangers, ready to have a nice meal.
Our waitress appears, bringing a carafe of mineral water, filling our goblets, and handing us menus bound in embossed leather. She tells us about the specials, and Chloe’s eyes dart occasionally from the waitress’s to mine, almost mirroring my gestures—a quick-study pantomime for someone who’s probably never dined like this before. What had I been thinking?
Dining out is, of course, nice—but at home, I’m much more likely to make a quick meal of something boring and nutritive from my freezer, rather than anything like this. And before that, I think to myself as I study the menu, there were many nights of tinned meat and charity baskets, tuna and white-bread sandwiches.
Food is love. That had been one of my mother’s sayings.
I don’t want to think about the past right now, though. When I look up at Chloe and see her furrowing her brow a little as she reads the menu in her hands, I don’t know how to feel.
“I’m sorry,” she says, after a moment passes.
I look up at her. “For what?”
“I asked you about your family again,” Chloe says gently. “If you had sisters. I didn’t mean to pry about your personal life, I just assumed—”
“It’s really okay,” I say, as kindly and sincerely as I can manage to convey. “I’m not— I don’t have a typical family arrangement, but I’m not going to get upset about it. Or you asking questions.”
“Oh,” she says. I can practically hear the gears turning in her mind, wondering at my phrasing.
“I’m an only child,” I clarify, even though she hasn’t asked. “My mom passed away about ten years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her whole face softens, and I brace myself for that familiar sense of resistance to pity—but it doesn’t come. I’d stopped telling people about it, stopped volunteering it, because of that pity, which had become unbearable. But now, I just feel like she genuinely means it.
“It’s okay,” I say, the menu still in my hands. “What about you, do you have siblings?”
“Yes,” she says. “Two. Sisters. I’m the dreaded middle child, so, tread with caution.”
I laugh at this. “You don’t seem that dangerous to me.”
“Thank you.” She beams at me. “My parents are both professors, although my dad’s retired now and working on his book. He’s been writing that book for as long as I’ve been alive, I think. I’m convinced he likes worrying about it more than showing it to anyone.”
“What do they teach?”
“Dad teaches—taught history, American history, and my mom is a music professor,” Chloe says. “I think they had something in their heads about me following suit, but I’m not cut out to teach people.”
“You’re a talented artist.”
She blushes and ducks back down to ostensibly read the menu—or hide behind it. “Thank you.”
Has nobody complimented her, ever? That can’t possibly be true, but it feels like it. She clears her throat.
“I was out walking today,” she says, “and I’ve figured out that ravintola means restaurant, but I don’t know what the second word means.”
“Spring, I think.”
She nods. Then, almost guiltily, looks back up at me.
“What is it?”
“Logan, I—thank you so much, for the hotel, for everything. These prices, though, I can’t—you don’t have to—”
Her voice trails off, once again shy and uncertain. I look down at the menu.
I hadn’t even looked at the prices. Everything’s in Euros, anyway, but I have a solid sense of what the amounts would convert to.
“It’s a thank-you,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about it. Really.”
She nods, bites her lip, and resolutely returns to studying the menu.
I should decide what I want to eat, but unfortunately for me, Chloe’s bottom lip looks to be the most delicious thing in the restaurant, and she’s not on the menu. I force myself to stop thinking in that way—I don’t want to be that guy.
“I don’t know what half of this is…”
She’s said the words half to herself, but she glances up and catches me watching. Staring. Instantly—despite the fact that I didn’t want to think about the past tonight—the memory of white-bread sandwiches and charity tuna comes to mind. Her parents are professors, and I doubt she’s ever gone hungry, but I have. And I know maybe a little of what that’s like, the discomfort, the fear of being found out as a fraud. An impostor, someone unworthy of eating at a gourmet, expensive restaurant.
“There’s a fixed menu,” I say. “Six courses, Chef’s choice. If you’re having trouble choosing?”
“Sure,” she says, a little quickly, with a nod and a plainly evident look of relief. If I make the suggestion, then maybe she’ll feel a little less like she’s the one demanding this or that.
“Is there anything you don’t like?”
She laughs. “I don’t have any food allergies. I like everything. If you’re sure—?”
“It’s up to you.”
I feel like I could cut the tension between us with a knife. Every fiber of my being is telling me go slow, don’t push. Don’t scare her.
But then the waitress returns. With Chloe’s reassuring nod and soft, hesitant smile, I order for us both.
“Thank you,” she says, when the menus have been taken away from us.
Her hands are twisting in her lap. Wringing the cloth napkin to shreds, most likely. On a deep inhale, though, her chest rises, making that deep-cut neckline just a fraction more precarious.
I’m so grateful for the reappearance of the waitress and two glasses of wine. Maybe this will be helpful in calming Chloe’s obvious nerves.
We both take a sip of the red, full-bodied wine. It’s very good. Chloe swirls it in the glass and sets it back down on the cloth-covered table.
“So,” she says, visibly rallying her courage and straightening her posture. “What exactly does your company do?”
Ah, I think. Work. Work is safe.
“We mostly specialize in penetration testing.”
The giggle this response elicits in her is completely out of left-field.
“What?” I ask.
She blinks at me, a smile growing on her mouth, and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. I apparently have the mind of a twelve-year-old.”
Two milliseconds later, I can feel the smile of understanding widen on my face.
“No, it’s okay.”
“What, um, what does that mean?” We’re both trying to rein the conversation back in, a feat that I already admire in her.
Penetration testing indeed.
“It basically means testing to see if something like a network or a piece of software or even hardware can be broken into.”
She picks up her wineglass. “Like checking the perimeter of a castle to see if a ninja can sneak in?”
“Kind of like that, yeah. I guess that makes us the ninjas, then. Ninjas-for-hire.” I take a drink of my wine a
s well.
“Well, black suits you,” she says. “Very stealthy.”
“Thank you.” It’s a silly compliment, but it does make me smile.
“So you test things to make sure they can’t be broken into,” she says. “And if they can?”
“Then the client gets to find out how, and then we help them figure out how to keep it from happening again, for real. We started off doing software testing, mostly. We did that for a while, and have a few really solid long-term contracts with companies to continue that work. It’s still the backbone of our business. But recently, we’ve been branching out into other types of testing. Hardware testing, wireless network, firmware… Sorry, this is probably a lot.”
Chloe smiles at me and shakes her head. “You could be making it all up and I’d still be impressed. I tried to run updates on my computer once and it started smoking. I don’t think computers like me very much.”
“Maybe it’s just your computer,” I reply. “The one I build for you will be much more stable.”
“There’s a kid, a high-school kid, that lives in the apartment across from me,” she says, still holding her wineglass in her hands like it’s a lifeline. “He comes up sometimes and tries to help.”
“Just call me,” I say. “I’ll get you sorted. I mean it, Chloe. Whatever you want, I’ll help. And your files, too. I’ll make sure it’s all put back.”
“Thanks.”
I take another drink of the wine.
She does, too.
After, when we’re stuffed to the brim with some of the most delicious food I’ve had in a long time, I allow myself to appreciate how much more relaxed Chloe seems. Maybe it’s just the wine and the cozy warmth of the room, or the night outside, but after the second course she actually starts to ease up a bit on the glass and lay her hands softly in her lap, rather than clenching them. Her throat is just a little bit flushed from the warmth and the wine—and, perhaps, from the subtle, unconscious gesture she has, her fingertips ghosting across the dip just between her collarbones, like she’s trying to quiet her voice, comfort herself.
She doesn’t have to, not around me.
I like the things she has to say.
Even when she flushes and thanks me, once more, for the meal when I take the check.
Even when she slips her hand through my proffered elbow, accepting my escort across the esplanade and back to our hotel.
Even when she rides beside me in the glass and gilt elevator, slipping her arm away from mine in what I can only hope is a reluctant gesture.
Hope—why do I hope that?
I don’t understand what my body is doing. Only that her gentle touch, her soft eyes, her sensitive mouth, and all of the skin revealed by her dress have made me feel a strange, static pull. It’s like she’s a magnet, and my body just wants.
“We’re on the same floor,” she says, when we arrive at her room. “Convenient.”
“I’m just down the hall,” I say, standing half turned to face her before her door. “If you need anything.”
Her pupils widen a little, but she doesn’t say anything.
Idiot, I chide myself. What the hell could she need from you?
But it’s like I can’t stop myself.
“I’m glad it was you who found my keys,” I confess. The wine—her skin, her touch—has made me bold. Or, perhaps, reckless. “I’m glad it was you.”
“Me, too.”
“I have the pitch meeting tomorrow,” I say. “I’m definitely going to need a drink, after. Do you want to—?”
“Yes,” she says.
The spell is broken when she takes her own room’s keycard from her purse. She slides it into the slot and the lock beeps, a green light blinking.
“Good night,” she says, and her hand is on the door.
“Good night.”
The moment feels charged, expectant.
But I smile at her and walk away. Back down the hall, to my room—back where it’s safe.
Chapter Seven
Chloe
First things first: I need a cold shower.
I press my back against the hotel door, folding my hands behind me, grateful for its unwavering solidity. Even with my eyes shut and the room darkened, I can still see him. I can smell him—as if the brief touch between my bare arm and his suit-covered one had somehow imbued his cedar-spicy sent into my pores.
It’s not the wine that’s making me feel drunk. It’s him. Just him.
Oh God, what is wrong with me?
In my mind’s eye, I can picture him as he smiles. I can see the way his fingertip traces the rim of his water glass, swiping away a drop of errant moisture there. I do not want to think about the places I’d rather have that finger go, places that could, perhaps, be categorized as equally wet at the sight of him in a suit.
I don’t want to think about it—but I do. I definitely do. It’s just that his hands are so big.
Cold shower. Immediately.
I fumble the keycard into the little holder by the door, clicking it in and seeing the room’s lights come up in response. Clever, a way to keep the lights from carelessly staying on. But I don’t have time to look at the gorgeous interior or appreciate the view of the city at night. I’m too busy tugging on the tie at my waist, pulling it down and casting my dress aside as I kick off my shoes.
Just a few more steps—my skin feels flushed, my heart racing—and I’m inside the gleaming marble bathroom. My left hand goes to the shower to turn it on, and my right hand reaches behind my back to squeeze and disconnect my bra.
His hands wouldn’t have any trouble with my bra, I think. They’re so big, he could surely cup one breast in one hand—
I let out a soft, distressed noise and turn the knob sharply over to cold.
I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust.
Seconds later, I barely muffle my shriek as the icy spray hits my body.
Covered with regret and goose bumps, I flatten against the cold tile wall, swivel the knob to a more reasonable temperature, and catch my breath.
But the point still stands: Logan Weiss is so unbearably hot and so goddamn charming, I feel like I need to file a complaint with God herself. He’s been specially constructed to tempt me, and I hate it.
If he had just been attractive, I could calm my tits. If he’d been an abrupt asshole, it’d make all of this so much easier.
But my tits are most decidedly not calm. My chest is a mess. My bosoms are heaving here. Because he’s nice—and it just isn’t fair.
Logan Weiss is kind and decent and thoughtful. Having extremely naughty thoughts about him feels like I’m desecrating a national monument or something. Like I should talk to a priest, and I’m not even Catholic. My hands have no right to touch him, my body has no right to want him.
But I do want. I ache, and not in the day-after-a-successful-Pilates-class way.
The water heats up, and as I step back under the now more reasonably warm stream, I take a deep breath and push my hands up over my face, swiping the water off of the top of my hair so I can see clearly. Steam gathers on the glass wall, separating me from the rest of the bathroom, and I swipe a quick doodle in it—the onion-dome outline of the brick, copper-roofed orthodox church—before reaching for the tiny bottle of hotel-provided body wash.
When I turn back, two drops of water have run down from the edges of the shape I’ve drawn, making it decidedly naughtier and far less religious. Now, there’s a massive cartoon penis on the glass, and isn’t that wonderful. I let out a groan of exasperation and swipe my whole hand across the moisture, erasing my picture.
As I lather up, I have to face facts: a guy like him would never be inexplicably drawn to a nobody like me. The cold water, which I had hoped would chill my body down, does nothing in comparison to just looking down at myself. Covering the soapy contours of my body, I feel the echo of old hurts and my ever-present self-consciousness, a much more effective deterrent from walking down the pathway of hopeless, pathetic
fantasy than any cold shower.
I am not a catch.
Not for him, not for anyone.
After my shower, I pad out to the main area of my hotel room. I’ve traded my keyed-up nerves for a dull sense of melancholy, but there’s comfort in the devil I know. I can manage those feelings. I’m used to that by now.
It’s nearly midnight, but I’m not tired. My time zones are all messed up, and even though I know I ought to go to sleep, I suspect that if I try, I’ll just lie there in the darkness with my mind racing until I get frustrated. And there’s no point to that.
So I dig something soft and comfortable out of my bag, a pair of soft leggings and a T-shirt, plug my now-dead phone into the charging cable—thank God for the plug converters the hotel had at the front desk, because I’d been in such a flurry to leave, I hadn’t even thought to buy any—and turn on the television while I wait for my phone to wake up.
Volume lowered, I scroll through the ten or so channels with a vague sort of amusement: A news channel in Finnish, then one in Swedish, then one in English. Some kind of children’s show involving people in costumes and assorted puppets dancing in a forest. Then, some kind of historical movie in a grand old house, which I think is supposed to be set in the 1890s but looks like it’s been filmed in the 1990s, with some very distressed young lovers debating something in furious and impassioned Russian.
I wonder what Logan would say if I was watching it with him. But no, I’m safe in my own space, which shocks me, because I’ve watched at least one rom-com before, I know how this trope works. Maybe not the 1980s version, but the modern version works like this: The hotel says, sorry, no more rooms, and there’s only one bed in yours, guess you’ll have to share. Then it ends with sharing a bed. Probably during a snowstorm. Huddling for warmth. And from there…
Stop it, I think. It’s just pointless to crave what you can’t have. And stupid to ask the universe to pull strings so you can get it.
After two more quick passes through every single channel, I turn it back off and pick up my phone.