Page 24 of A Dark Fall
Did I just say that out loud, in the deli I frequent twice a week? I look around to check no one heard me. It’s fairly noisy though, and thankfully, the clattering of crockery and the noise of the milk steamer seems to have muffled my crudeness.
His expression changes. Playful to serious. He lifts his coffee cup to take a sip, and unlike mine, his hands are steady. They’re also extremely sexy like I remember them being.
“What do I want from you ...?” he repeats with a sigh. He looks thoughtful as he sits back in his chair again. “I want everything from you, Alex. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to make you fall so fucking in love with me that you forget your own name. Can you let me do that, yeah?” His face is serious. Totally and utterly serious.
My breathing stutters to a complete stop. I can’t feel my legs or my face, white-hot heat burning me up from the inside. He stares at me with that serious face for one, two, three beats and then chuckles and runs his hand through his hair.
“Kidding. Too much too soon?” He quirks a brow.
How long passes before I can speak I don’t know, but finally, I find my tongue. “Um, actually, no. It wasn’t too much at all. In fact, I think I might be in love with you already. Let’s get married and have four children? Two boys and two girls?” I sit back in my chair and try to keep my face serious too, like he did a moment ago.
I manage it for about four seconds before a small laugh escapes my mouth. Jake grins a grin that practically sets my womb on fire. He really is gorgeous. Ridiculously so. I feel stupid from it.
“Married? Sure.” He nods. “Kids? Absolutely. But how about you let me take you to dinner first, yeah? You might hate the noises I make when I eat or something.” He leans toward me again, biting his lip adorably.
From this new closer distance, the clean, masculine scent of him floats toward me and up my nose, both citrusy and woodsy. He reaches his hand out to mine, and I think he might take it, but he doesn’t; instead, he draws a shape on the table between our hands. It seems like an eternity since we kissed against the wall in that cold hallway, and I crave contact with him again.
How different things seemed in that hallway two nights ago. Not only another me, but another Jake too. A Jake who sends me roses and asks me out for dinner. A manageable Jake.
As I fiddle with my pearl pendant, I try to remember all the sensible good-girl reasons to stay away from him. But they’re ... gone. I can’t remember why I was against this at all. I’m so attracted to him even though he’s not my type, and he sent me flowers and sought me out twice because he wants me. Shallow and short-sighted reasons to do this with likely the biggest player I’ve ever met, but I can deal with the consequences later. I’m a big girl.
“Okay,” I hear myself say, “I’ll have dinner with you.” When I look up from our hands, mine pale and small next to his large, tanned one, his eyes flash wide.
In a second, though, he’s serious again, nodding as he stands up from the table. “Okay. Saturday. Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up. I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise. Don’t want to shock youtoomuch on our first date.” He smirks.
Our first date.
He leans in to bring his mouth to my cheek, his lips hovering there a moment. When he kisses me, it’s soft and chaste, but it still sets my blood on fire, my pulse throbbing so hard beneath my skin I’m sure he must be able to see it. When he stands up straight, he smiles that smile again. The one that makes me want to point at every other woman in the place and go,“See? Do you see what I’m up against? I don’t stand a bloody chance!”
“I’ll see you Saturday then, Doctor,” he says, the side of his mouth turned up in a smirk. Then he turns on his heel and strides out of the deli without looking back.
It takes me five whole minutes, after my breathing returns to normal and my brain begins to function again, to realize I’ve agreed to go out with him at the same time I’ll be on a date with Sam.
Oh, crap.
I debate my conundrum for the next two days. And by “debate,” I mean, “magnify the situation to be much more than a diary complication about which date I should move,” in true Alex fashion. I extrapolate it, magnify it to the maximum zoom available, and turn it into a major life crossroads. Perhaps it’s a sign to cancel this whole thing with Jake entirely. Or maybe this is my way of being a coward and doing the sensible, expected thing.
Who do I want to be from now on?
On Thursday night, I realize it will have to be Jake I cancel on. Sam has been casting furtive glances in my direction all week, and canceling now would bring awkward repercussions at work, which I always want to avoid. Part of me thinks if the date goes badly, it will be bad at work too. To get over this, I reason if it does go badly, all I need to do is think of it as not being a date at all; it’s a few drinks at the pub with someone from work. I’ve done that with Sam before.
I pour myself a glass of chardonnay and flop down on the couch to compose and recompose my text cancelation to Jake. Then I worry he might call me, so I decide to be an even bigger coward and wait until the morning. That way, if he rings me, I can’t answer because I’ll be at work.
Alex: So sorry to do this at such short notice, but I’ve double-booked myself on Saturday and can’t make it. Can we do dinner another time? A x
I send it, turn off my mobile, and try to forget about it for the rest of the day. And I almost manage it too. Though, when I leave the surgery that night, I’m certain I’ll see him standing outside. I don’t. And when I turn my phone on as I get into the car, there’s no angry text waiting for me either.
There is complete radio silence. It does nothing to settle the ball of anxiety brewing in my stomach.
“So, what did you go for outfit-wise?” Robyn asks, having called for my pre-date pep talk. I can hear her munching on what I assume is a carrot stick down the other end of the line. She’s on her wedding diet, and they’re her replacement for crisps.
“My black skinny Calvin Kleins, black-and-white-striped silk top, and flat red ballet pumps. I’m going for French casual.” I nibble at my nail.
“Sounds perfect. How are you feeling about it now?”
I feel sick, actually. I haven’t heard from Jake, so I have no clue how annoyed he is, whether he’ll ever ask me out again, or whether he’s still even chasing me. Frankly, Sam is the last thing on my mind.
“Fine, I suppose,” I lie. “Sam’s nice. It’ll be nice.”