Page 48 of A Dark Fall

I rush into the house to feed, kiss, and cuddle Fred before dashing upstairs to shower and change. I have twenty bloody minutes. Twenty minutes to scrub and preen and pick something to wear.

I let the shower run while I throw some potential outfits on my bed. Where is he likely to take me? Dinner, he said. Well, that narrows it down ...

I hate not knowing where I’m going. I could end up totally underdressed, or worse: completely overdressed. Clothes are normally my thing. I always know what to wear; I’mgoodat clothes. Summer dress for a picnic, fitted work dress and blazer for a conference, LBD for a dinner party.

Simply the thought of seeing him makes me buzz with the sort of nervous excitement that makes my head loud and scattered. I was nervous before my first date with Ben who, at the time, was a charming older consultant at the hospital, but at least I knew where he was taking me. Kyoko Japanese & Teriyaki Restaurant. Damask shift dress and wedge heels. I inwardly cringe at the thought of a damask shift dress, but then it was 2009 and things were different.

I’ll have my shower first and then decide what to wear. I can’t stand here debating at the cost of cleansing.

As my post-shower body butter absorbs, I decide on a cream, sleeveless Ralph Lauren dress with a brown leather belt and bag. It’s a warm night, so I’ll wear tan sandals and keep my legs bare. That should work in a restaurant or bar. It won’t work in a kebab shop in Hackney though, should he decide to take me there.

I decide on a nude lace underwear set, which I also got from my favorite boutique in Paris. As I put it on, a shiver runs through me at the thought of him taking it off later. Can I even sleep with him on our first date? I mean, surely since I already have, it doesn’t count in the same way. I keep my makeup neutral with a peach eye shadow and pale lip gloss and finish by drying my too-long hair straight and boring. I leave it down about my shoulders and surprise myself by being ready for 7:10 p.m.

Then I wonder where the hell he is, because he’s late.

I check my phone as I go downstairs, but there’s nothing. He wouldn’t call or text if he was driving, so I assume he’s on his way. Then I remember the contraflow before the cutoff, and I relax.

Ten minutes later, as I finish the glass of Riesling I poured to try and calm my nerves, he still hasn’t arrived. 7:25 p.m. I lift the copy of Vogue from the basket under the coffee table and flick through the pages as my head swirls with the possibility I’m being stood up. Perhaps as payback for Saturday night. Would he do that? God, surely not.

I certainly won’t lower myself to standing at the window watching for him, so I go into the kitchen and pour myself another glass of wine, smaller this time. I take a few huge gulps and feel the effects straight away as it begins to soften the muscles at the back of my neck and lift the weight of irritation. However, then a wave of light-headedness washes over me, and I feel tipsy. Though, this is probably because I haven’t eaten since 12:30 p.m. and my dinner date is late.

I wonder if I should be worried about him. What if something’s happened to him? I’m being paranoid, of course, but what if he’s been in an accident and I’m standing here assuming he’s stood me up?

Before another panicked thought can move through my brain, the doorbell goes. I let out a sigh of relief and glance up at the clock, trying to decide if thirty minutes is ridiculously late or just slightly rude.

I take my time ambling to the front door, stopping by the mirror in the hall to check for obvious signs of a worried-I-was-being-stood-up face. My cheeks are slightly flushed, but that’s surely the anticipation and the wine, and it gives me a healthy, bright appearance.With a deep breath, I reach for the handle, deciding at the last moment to go for playfully annoyed. I can’t have him believe I’ve just been sitting here thinking he wasn’t coming. Of course he was coming. Why wouldn’t he be coming?

When I open the door, his head is down as he stands back, hands in his pockets. When he lifts his head, my heart falters at the sight—at the apologetic and slightly uncertain look in his eye. Of course, he looks ridiculously gorgeous from top to bottom. As his eyes meet mine, the apology vanishes, replaced with something else. Something I’ve seen before. Desire. Lust. I flush warmly from head to toe.

He lets out a breath as he looks me over. Then he whispers hotly, “Fuck.”

Jake’s date outfit makes him look as if he’s just come from a GQ photo shoot. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray wool jacket with the collar turned up slightly, and a lighter-colored gray V-neck T-shirt underneath. Dark jeans and brown suede boots. The white of a small bandage peeks out from the right-hand side of this throat. The overall look is effortlessly stylish yet casual.

So, apparently, clothes are his thing too. As are no clothes.

My inner anger fades instantly and completely as every nerve in my body stands to attention. It looks as though he’s had his hair trimmed too, which is bloody adorable. I stop the simper that threatens just in time because I still need to look annoyed.

“Okay, so you turn up”—I glance at my watch—“almost half an hour late and then swear at me? Interesting dating etiquette.” I nod. I wonder whether to fold my arms for additional effect, but I decide against it.

He grins sexily, and it makes my legs feel weak. “You look ... fucking amazing,” he says, running his hand over his mouth.

I shiver at the compliment but sigh for effect. “Flattery will only get you so far, Lawrence,” I say evenly. “It’s rude to keep your date waiting about. You know that, right?” When I smile, he nods and lets out a small groan before stepping up onto my doorstep.

“I do know that. And I’m so fucking sorry.” His face is inches from mine, and his smell invades my personal space. Though, it doesn’t so much “invade” as it’s welcomed with open arms as I breathe him in. “I’m a fucking idiot,” he says in a low, warm tone before pressing his mouth to mine.

I moan softly at the welcome hot feel of his mouth as he licks into my own. The kiss feels hungry and desperate, and when he pulls me into his body and lets out a deep noise I almost want to drag him inside and tell him to forget all about dinner.

He pulls back first. “Okay, so, as much as I’d love to stay here and do that all fucking night, I want to take you out. Like, on a proper date.” He takes both my hands in his and kisses me again, a peck this time. “You ready? You look ready.”

I catch a breath from somewhere and nod. “I’m ready. Just let me grab my bag. One second.”

He waits at the door for me, and I follow him down the driveway to his car. It’s not the car that was parked outside my house on Saturday night, so it must be new. Or maybe he has two. It’s an Audi this time and still flashy, but not as flashy as the other one. He opens the door for me, and I get in. Inside, it’s dark leather and smells new. He presses a button on the dash to turn the engine on and causes a burst of loud rock music to explode into the car. He moves to turn it down then off, throwing an apologetic look at me.

“You drive with it at that level?” I ask, incredulous. His poor ears.

“It blocks out everything else,” he says with a small shrug.

As we drive through the village, we pass a few of my neighbors, and I’m glad the windows are tinted. Sam at the pub on Saturday and then another man tonight would be tantamount to brazen hussy behavior around here. Small village cons: Lots of old people with conservative views about dating.