“Hmm… no that’s not right.”

There’s nobody around to hear my random thoughts, but it feels like an abomination to have the Jane Austen display right next to the horror section. I don’t care what anyone says, Jane Austen and zombies do not mix.

I squat down and start pulling books until a shadow falls over me. When I look up, my only employee- Britt- is hovering over me with cotton candy pink cheeks. She’s all of eighteen. Sweet and cute and she doesn’t really have a clue about books, but she tries hard. What she is good at is social media, and I’m not, so she helps me get the word out about the shop.

She wiggles my cell phone in her hand, and she’s trying to play it cool, but she isn’t playing it cool at all. Her reaction tells me it could only be one person on the other line. Britt is still obsessed with him from the one time she saw him in the shop over a year ago.

Adrian Daire.

Otherwise known to me as just Daire. AKA Satan’s spawn. I should have known he’d be calling today. I blow the errant strands of hair from my face and stand up.

“I didn’t even hear it ring.”

“That’s because you had it on vibrate.” Britt rolls her eyes. “Again.”

I bring the phone to my ear, and Britt watches in fascination before I shoo her off.

“Hello, Daire.”

“Happy Birthday, LB.”

His voice is deep. One hundred percent sin and twice as much trouble. That’s Adrian in a nutshell. He’s the absolute definition of a cold-hearted bastard. Reclusive, blunt, and downright mean. And yet it’s this masterful combination of chemistry that seems to bring even the most well put together women to heel.

“Did you get my bouquet?” he asks.

“I did.”

Every year he sends me the same thing. And every year I am conflicted when I receive the Twizzler bouquets. It’s a nice gesture, but Daire isn’t doing it to be nice. There’s a thin line between hate and tolerance, and it seems to sit squarely between us.

"You've been avoiding me.” The vibrations of his voice ricochet through me like a bullet, tearing another path of destruction through my flimsily crafted Daire-proof armor.

"I haven't been avoiding you."

Lie.

"Don’t bullshit me, Lola.” My name sounds bitter on his lips. “When can you meet me for dinner tonight?”

I absently pick at my nail polish while I glance at the calendar. It's been a month since I’ve seen him. I could easily go another five, and I know Daire could too if he was honest. He tells me that Ryan would have wanted us to stay in touch, but we both know that’s a lie. His guilt is the only driving force behind these meetings, and if I had my way, we’d never cross paths again. But Daire has the personality of a bull, and I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to go along with the pretense rather than deal with his boorish temper.

“I’d rather not come to the shop,” Daire adds. “But I will if that’s what it takes.”

"No, you wouldn't," I argue. "It's on the bad side of town."

“I’m from the bad side of town,” he reminds me.

It isn’t something he’d admit to anyone else, but he doesn’t have to hide his truth from me. I knew Daire before the suits. I knew him before he claimed the title of CEO. And I also know his darkest secrets. It’s a history that can’t be re-written no matter how hard we try. Normally I could suck it up and make it through one forced dinner with him, but I’m worried that he’ll know something’s up this time.

I don't want Daire to know my relationship with Tom failed. He always goaded me about Tom, and I always held my ground, insisting that we were right for each other. I don't need him to be right about this. I don't need him to see me floundering through life. But there's no hiding it from him either.

“Clock’s ticking, LB,” he says. “What’s it going to be?”

"Fine," I groan. "I'll meet you. But it's my turn to pick."

He grunts into the speaker. "No need for that. I can have reservations in an hour."

"My pick," I repeat. “Or nothing at all.”

"Text me the address. I'll meet you at seven."

"Hanging up now," I sing cheerfully.

"Don't be late.”

"Don't be early.”

I hang up. And then text him the address of his favorite pizza place.

Adrian Daire is a walking cliché if I ever saw one. Successful businessman. Eye candy in a suit. An insufferable mastermind who overachieves at everything he does. He is obnoxious, flippant, defensive, and good but not nice.

Simply put, he’s an asshole to a religious degree.

But beneath that veneer of sarcasm, there is much more to Chicago’s esteemed advertising executive. Despite having atmospheric goals, he isn’t one to boast about them. He is eerily quiet sometimes and overly observant all the time. His sense of humor is drier than toast, and you can never really be certain whether he’s jesting or telling the truth when he makes his careless observations. But one thing you can rely on is that when you spend time in his presence, you will always leave feeling like you’ve been hit with a bulldozer.

There’s a certain mystery to Daire, and everyone who’s anyone salivates at the mouth to get a taste of the inner workings of his obscene mind. It’s easy to fall under that spell when you’re only looking at the surface. I know, because once upon a time, I was a victim of his disturbing appeal too.

Over the years, I’ve witnessed him claw his way out of poverty and secure a spot at the top. He holds the keys to his kingdom, and I don’t see him relinquishing that throne anytime soon. I think a part of him loves his success, but a stronger part of him hates the attention it brings too. At least on that much, we can relate. Daire doesn’t want all eyes on him. He’s always been like me in that way, though he’s better at hiding it. The irony is that his brother was the complete opposite.

It doesn't matter how long I've known him, I'll never get used to the way the air punches my lungs when he walks into a room. He makes an impression, whether he wants to or not. Men respect him, and women eye fuck him. He's a wolf in a suit. A three-piece suit, to be exact. A charcoal undershirt and royal purple tie are the only pops of color beneath the black wall of armor he usually dons. He is dark and smoldering and looks utterly ridiculous in this pizza bar where they serve it by the slice, but he sits down across from me anyway.

Beneath the table, he discreetly rests his sleek black cane against the chair. He’s become so uniform in the way he handles it that sometimes I forget it’s even there. Daire is skilled at hiding his pain, but on days when it’s cold or when you really stop to pay attention, you can see it. It only seems fair that within the expensive material of his trousers, there lives a permanent reminder of the pain he has caused.

The day his leg stopped working was the day that his personality changed too. The man across from me now is not the quiet, unassuming boy I once knew. This man owns every situation. If he feels any guilt, he doesn’t show it. He is cold and composed and well put together and the word sorry hasn’t been a part of his vocabulary in a very long time. Daire doesn’t need anyone’s forgiveness because he only thinks about himself, and he does an excellent job of it.

Unlike me.

I'm a hot mess, almost all of the time. Today being a semi-decent day, I spilled chocolate on my dress at lunch and broke my heel on the way here. When I tried to fix it with superglue, I ended up gluing my fingers together instead. Which led to my attempt to pry them apart with a butter knife. And then the subsequent slasher film that took place in the restaurant bathroom followed up with the little mermaid bandages from my purse.

It’s just another ordinary day for me.

"Should I even ask?" Daire nods towards my fingers.

He looks as though I’ve inconvenienced him already. As though I’m too stupid to remember to breathe sometimes. And this is not what I need right now.

"It was a butter knife."

He doesn’t ask for further explanation because he’s come to expect this behavior from me by now. Clumsy, awkward Lola Bell who can never get her shit together.

When the waitress delivers the pizza I ordered us, she takes notice of Daire. I do too when he looks up at her. He’s hard not to notice. His eyes are too pretty, his lashes are too long, and his smile is just unfair. Before the bad blood and forced civility, I wasn’t immune to his looks either.

He’s never had any trouble attracting women, but he’s not one to flaunt them either. I have no doubt that Daire has a warm bed every night, but I can never say for certain. In high school, he had a brief fling with a cheerleader, and to the extent of my knowledge, it’s as close to a serious relationship as he’s ever come.

I’d bet money that every single woman in this place is wondering if he’s available. At six feet two, Daire is a God among men. His eyes are a stormy hazel, and his hair is midnight black, but even that can’t be average. He has a well-placed birthmark that leaves just a scrape of white through the dark. It’s one of those charming freak of nature things that everybody loves.

I’ve always been told that Satan was beautiful.

Daire douses his pizza with peppers and parmesan before tearing into it. "Only you could manage to cut yourself with a butter knife.”

"And only you would wear a suit to pizza."

“I came straight from work, LB. What do you expect?”

I shrug and take a sip from my water. I really don’t know why we do this. I’m nothing more than another item on his to-do list, and he’s a glaring red sharpie scribble in my planner. The silence is uncomfortable, and the conversation is even worse.

“Why have you been avoiding me?" he asks.

"I haven't." My eyes dart to the table, and Daire takes notice.

"Lola."

I decide it's better to make like a Band-Aid. I’ll rip it off and get it over with. "Tom and I broke up.”

I expect him to laugh. Rub it in my face and say I told you so. This is what we do after all. We go to battle and wound with our caustic words. But he isn't laughing. Or providing any feedback at all. He's studying me with his irreverent eyes. And I hate it when he does that.

"I thought you were getting married.” He leans back in his chair, pizza forgotten.

"He didn't have a ladle.”

It’s the only explanation I need to give Daire because he knows my mind. He’s familiar with my quirks and the way that I operate. He understands my flighty nature and my scattered habits, and he probably catalogs them all into reasons why he thinks he needs to check in on me.

"Everyone should have a ladle." His voice is smooth like a good whiskey should be. And I really don’t have a clue how to handle him when he’s not insulting me. It feels too easy. Too familiar. Like another night… in a galaxy far, far away. Maybe he feels sorry for me, but I want him to know it was my decision.

"I was rummaging through his drawers, and that’s when I realized it. He couldn’t even commit to a ladle, and I just couldn't be with a guy like that."

"Hmm..." Daire drums his fingers over the table. "You want to know what I think?"

"No thank you." I take a sip from my glass, and he continues anyway.

"I don't think you needed a ladle, LB. I think you needed a good, hard fucking."

I choke on my water. Daire smirks. And when I've recovered, I mentally kick myself for falling for that one. I came prepared. Daire never liked Tom. He's probably been hoarding commentary just for this occasion. But he surprises me with a serious question.

"So, what now?"

"Well, this doesn't change anything," I tell him, more for his benefit than mine.

I don't want him to think of me as the pathetic girl who couldn't even get her boyfriend to propose to her. It's important to me that Daire knows I'm just fine. I’ve always been very careful to project that image. He doesn’t have access to the hatred that runs deep in my soul. My cloak of civility is the only weapon at my disposal to shield him from what he really wants.

Another excuse to drink.

I shift in my chair and squeeze my fingers together. "I'm still getting married.”

His eyes cut clean through me. "To who?"

"I haven't found him yet," I try to sound confident in my explanation. "But I will. I'm going to give this dating thing a try. Play the field a bit, like you."

"Like me?" he mocks.

"Yes, like you."

"I don't date, Lola. I fuck. There's a difference."

The way he says fuck provokes an unwanted series of images in my overactive imagination. An army of blonde cheerleaders and Daire in his bedroom.

I shake it off.

"Whatever. I’m going to give a few dating apps a try. There was a girl in my yoga class who met the love of her life on Tap Left."

He makes a point to check out the waitress’s boobs when she delivers to the table beside us. "That's a stupid idea.”

"It's a great idea." My composure fractures and disdain seeps into my voice. "And your opinion doesn’t matter. You have no say in how I choose to live my life.”

His face tightens, and my cheeks burn in response. I probably shouldn’t have said that, but it’s par for the course. We take jabs at each other, and Daire always manages to turn me into the worst version of myself. I’d like to pretend that after more than a decade I’m over what happened and I don’t hate looking at his face, but we both know it isn’t true. Daire has some misguided notion that he’s responsible for me now, and at the end of the day, it’s the only reason why he’s here.

We don't talk about the worst day of our lives, except on the anniversary of Ryan’s death. And even then, it’s all bullshit. We get drunk and say nice things because we can’t stand to be honest and admit how raw the wound really is.

Daire’s mood has darkened now, and he's scraping a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s worked up. I watch his hands because they always give him away. Those are the hands that run an empire. They create, and they make deals, and they probably gift pleasure to unsuspecting women who don’t know how much damage they are capable of too. Those hands are the kind that crack bottles and pour. They are the delivery vessel of the poison Daire can’t stop imbibing.

He’s better at hiding it now because it’s been a long time since he’s allowed me to see him in that state. The late night drunken phone calls have stopped too.

When I was younger, I tried in vain to understand the meaning behind it. When he was drunk and sad and full of grief, it was me he chose to call. I’ll never know if it was guilt or something else that drove him to dial my number in his darkest times.

Sometimes I wonder who he’s calling now. But my chest hurts when I think about it, so I don’t like to think about it.

"LB, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into," he says. "The guys on those apps aren't what you’re looking for."

I snort. "And who is, Daire?"

"Someone who has his shit together." He makes an unconscious gesture to himself, and what a joke that is.

“Tom had his shit together, and look how that turned out.”

Daire shrugs. “Tom was a douchebag.”

I can’t argue that one. But so is Daire. And he’s the last person that needs to be giving me dating advice.

There is no better example of opposites than the two of us. In the way we handle our business and our lives. Daire is all about the bottom line, and I'm all about the experience. He doesn't form emotional attachments, and I live for them. He wears impeccably tailored suits, and I wear whatever I grab from my closet, which usually doesn't match. He's well-spoken, and I’m well… not.

He's order, and I am chaos. We don't mix.

And yet here we sit, Daire suggesting I date a guy who has his shit together. He might be successful at what he does, but he certainly doesn’t have his shit together. He’s an addict who says mean things to push people away. And after so many years, I don’t think anyone can stop him from digging himself into an early grave.

He’s selfish and self-destructive. Precisely the type of guy that used to be my bread and butter. I’ve worked hard to overcome my issues, and I know what I need now. It isn’t a project or fixer upper. I don’t need someone to save. I need someone who is emotionally healthy and stable. Both of the pillars that Daire is missing from his foundation.

"I’m full.” I slide my unfinished pizza across the table, and Daire swipes it from my plate.

The space between us is sticky with silence now, and Daire will probably tell me that he needs to leave soon. He’s done his duty for the month. He’s checked in on me, and now he can go. But he doesn’t, even when he finishes his meal.

And I know what I should do. What I need to do. Logic tells me it’s time to thank him for the birthday wishes and leave. Only, there’s something else on my mind. An incredibly stupid thought I’ve been entertaining since we started hashing out my dating life.

I would blame the alcohol if there were any, but there’s not. The only conclusion I can draw is that I’ve gone mad. I can’t stand Daire. In fact, most of the time I downright hate him. But I also know that he’s the best at what he does.

"Daire?"

He glances at his watch, probably because he knows I’m about to ask him for something. "Yes?"

"If you insist on these meetings between us, can we at least make them productive?”

His eyes snap up to mine. "I didn’t realize that these meetings were such a drain on your time.” “That’s not what I mean,” I sigh. “I just… if we’re going to meet, then maybe you can help me out while we’re at it.

He reaches into his wallet and throws some cash on the table for a tip. “Help you how?”

I hate myself for what I’m about to say, but I say it anyway.

“I need you to teach me how to play the game.”

He feigns ignorance. “What game, Lola?”

“The dating game,” I huff. “The how to act like you don’t give a fuck game. The bullshit that guys love. I need to not care so much. Or get attached too soon. Or just generally screw it up the way I always do. I need you to make me marketable.”

His nostrils flare as he observes me with flinty eyes. “What makes you think I can help you with that?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re like that. You don’t care, and you do what you want, and you never have any trouble picking up women. I want to be that way too. But just not with guys like you. I need the ones who actually want to settle down and get married. And I need to learn how to tell the difference because it’s a battlefield out there and you know it.”

He's quiet for a long time, and I’m certain he’s going to say no. This is a drain on his time, and it was senseless of me to even ask. If he agrees, it will only be out of guilt.

"That’s what you want?”

I don’t know why it sounds so ominous when he says it, but it does. Still, I nod. Like Mellie always tells me making changes is hard. Admitting my weaknesses to Daire is hard. I may as well be standing in front of the firing squad. But I’m done with being the girl I was yesterday. I’m done with the Toms of the world, and I’m done spending precious time on fruitless ventures.

Daire sighs, probably wishing he’d never called me today.

“Alright, LB,” he says. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll teach you how to play some games.”