At 3pm the next day, I’m standing in front of my mirror half-dressed, torn between several mediocre options, none quite right. I own a grand total of three dresses–the work dress, the fancy dinner dress, and the club dress. The club dress is wrong, way too short and tight. I feel too much like I’m borderline playing hooker on this website already–I don’t want to add to the illusion.

But the fancy dinner dress is all loose chiffon and high-necked, and the work dress has a decent neckline but it’s a pencil-skirt and a bit formal.

“Ugh,” I tell my closet, and dig into my skirts and tops as well. This is too hard. I don’t know how to “girl” properly, not really. Being raised by a single dad will do that to a lady. Not that I don’t appreciate everything Dad did for me–he was the best parent anyone could ask for, more than enough of both parents for me. But he didn’t exactly have any handy makeup or fashion tips.

Finally, I settle on a tight ruched top that shows just the right amount of cleavage, and a short-but-not-too-short skirt, dark denim, casual and yet a little dressy. It seems right. I hope it is.

I’m in the middle of daubing on a pale pink lipstick, about the extent of my cosmetic abilities, when my phone buzzes. I grab it, expecting Declan, since I downloaded the First Time for Sale phone app to be able to message him easily.

But it’s not Declan messaging this time. It’s Violet, texting me. Violet, who should be at work. I tap the text open and blink at it.

Called off sick today. I can’t tell if it’s a 2-day hangover or just my stomach being pissed about how many nutrients I haven’t fed it lately. Netflix and chill tonight? I’m guessing you’re home alone as per usual Sunday, no? She adds a joking smiley face, but I still roll my eyes. Mostly because 51 other Sundays out of the year, she’d be right.

As a matter of fact, I do have plans tonight, I reply haughtily. I’m meeting a guy.

Mistake.

Almost the moment I hit send–how did she even have enough time to read that message?–my phone starts to vibrate off the table as Violet calls. I sigh and pick up, only to hear my best friend squealing in my ear.

“You don’t sound very sick,” I point out.

She groans. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you had a date today! What the hell is the point of getting drunk and watching reruns if you don’t even let me in on the latest gossip? Where’s he from, how’d you meet, tell me everything?”

“If you let me get a word in edgewise,” I reply, snorting.

“You deserve it for hiding this, okay?”

“I wasn’t…” I trail off, realizing I can’t admit the details of my suddenly eventful love life. The whole time Violet was making my profile, she kept talking about all the creepers on that site. She’d freak out if I told her I talked to someone on it. She’d probably insist on coming on the date–and threaten Declan with death or dismemberment. I know Vi, and while I love her, the girl does not have the best way with her friends’ potential love interests. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hide it. It’s a first date, it’ll probably be crap anyway.”

“Why? Where’s he from? Online? One of those apps? Which one? I’ve tried, like, five. I can give you the rundown on what to expect.”

“It’s not an app,” I protest. “Look, sorry, I just… I have to run, I’m going to be late to meet him.”

“Ugh. Obvious dodge, Joyce!” I can practically see Vi shaking her head right now. But she sighs into the phone in defeat anyway. “Fine, go, don’t miss your date. But the second you get back, I want the full story. Deal?”

“Deal,” I agree, even as I already start to formulate plans. Half-truths I can tell in order to hide where I met Declan. I hate lying to my friends. Violet especially. She tells me everything about her life. But sometimes I need to keep some things to myself. At least until I know how I feel about them. And chances are this will be a disaster anyway, so what’s the harm?

Still, I can’t ignore the lingering feeling of guilt that sticks with me when I hang up the phone and grab my purse from the table. I’ll tell her later, I promise myself. Once I have a ridiculous “Call Me Mommy” story of my own, I can’t help thinking.

God, I hope my first time doesn’t turn out to be as weird or insane as… well, most of Violet’s hookups. I can only pray I’ll be lucky with this one.

So far, I’m looking very lucky. The moment I walk into the Café Rouge, which is definitely more art house than coffee house, I spot him.

Declan looks exactly the same as he did in his photos, which is already more than I expected. In fact–I amend when he turns to meet my gaze, and smiles, a small, private smile, just for me–he’s hotter in person. It’s not just his strong jawline or chiseled cheekbones, or the gray-black stubble on his cheeks, or the thick dark hair on his head. It’s not just those piercing gray eyes, though they definitely help. It’s something about his poise, the way he moves confidently across the coffee shop toward me. Other people notice too–they clear a path without even being asked, sensing an alpha and getting out of the way. Nobody wants to bar him from his goals.

I can see what he means when he says he always wins.

“Declan,” I say, when he reaches my side. Before I can react, he catches my hand and brings my fingers to his lips. Presses a soft kiss to the back of my hand, his beard brushing my fingertips ever so lightly.

“I would say Kitty, but I presume that’s not your real name,” he replies, his voice low enough that only I can hear, even though my ears flush and I cast a quick glance around us to see if anyone else in the coffee shop overheard that odd greeting.

“Joyce,” I tell him, and my cheeks turn red to match my ears as he keeps hold of my hand and gently guides me in front of him in line.

“Joyce,” he repeats, and the way it rolls off his tongue in his deep, sexy baritone makes my knees quiver. “I like that name. Old-fashioned, in a good way.” His eyes graze over my body, taking in the outfit I chose, which suddenly feels ridiculous.

After all, he’s dressed in an honest-to-god suit, his tie done up and his jacket buttoned, a crisp white shirt underneath, pressed to perfection. It only accentuates his charm, makes him look like a business mogul. The kind of person who would stroll in here to buy this art house itself, not just a cup of coffee.

Then again, maybe he is exactly that person, judging by the way he tosses money around.

I raise an eyebrow at him, deciding I need to go on the offensive here. “What about you, Declan? Is that your real name?”

“I don’t use pseudonyms. I prefer to remain myself, whatever the cost.”

“Even if someone you know finds out about your online extracurricular activities?” I ask, smirking as we sidle into the coffee line.

“People will be nosy no matter what you do. All you can do about it is continue to be you and make the rest of the world deal with that. What would you like, Joyce?”

For a moment, I freeze, startled, distracted by the way his eyes are boring into mine. I almost reply “You”, but then I realize we’ve reached the counter and he’s asking about my coffee order. “Um. Black. Double-shot added.”

His smile widens, just a touch. “A woman after my own heart.” He orders two and we step to the side to await the order.

Just then, the entrance to the art house breezes open. A red-faced blond guy, all shoulders and mouth, storms into the shop. “I need to talk to the owner,” he practically shouts as he pushes past us to reach the counter. The girl behind the counter sighs like she’s seen this guy before.

“I already told you–”

“No, it’s ridiculous that they won’t validate my parking. Why else would I even come here? The coffee is disgusting.”

I cast a sideways glance at Declan and share an eye-roll with him. This date could be so much worse–I could be with some jerk like that. To be honest, with the way Declan didn’t seem to care about money, that’s more what I would have expected. I’m so glad he seems different.

I’m busy lost in that train of thought when the guy shoves past us again, the barista having pointed him in the direction of the manager’s office. He’s so intent on his goal that he bumps into a pedestal beside us, on top is a beautiful glass vase in the shape of a cat, tapering into wisps of what looks like smoke. I’d been admiring it before we placed our orders, and now I watch with wide-eyed horror as it starts to teeter on its spot.

The guy doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy racing through the shop, intent on getting a free parking spot for an hour or two. The cat tips toward the edge, and before I can even think about it, I dart forward, catching it with both hands as it falls off the pedestal.

The moment I have it in my hands, though, I know I’ve moved too fast without thinking. I’m off-balance. I roll my shoulder forward, fall hard on my arm, but the sculpture is cradled in my arms, protected from the blow. I groan, and then start to blush, when I open my eyes to find Declan standing over me, his eyes wide.

He reaches down, helps me up, and I stagger to my feet, keeping both hands wrapped around the statue.

“Oh my god, thank you so much for catching that,” the barista is saying, having run around the counter to meet us. “It’s my friend’s; she spent all year perfecting this design. She’d have been heartbroken if it broke without selling.”

“Are you all right?” Declan is asking at the same time, less concerned about the vase than me.

I pass the vase off to the barista, then groan and rub my shoulder. Well. That was definitely not the most graceful thing I’ve ever done in front of a date. “I’m fine,” I assure him, massaging a knot in my arm. “Just a couple bruises–mostly to my ego.”

He’s shaking his head when I look at him again, and glaring after the idiot who bumped the pedestal in the first place. The guy doesn’t even notice, but the way Declan narrows his gaze at the man’s back, I’m surprised he doesn’t burst into flames where he stands. “Why would you do that?” he asks, and for a second, I think Declan is speaking to the guy.

Then I realize he’s asking me. “It was so beautiful,” I say. I glance back at the sculpture, which the barista has set back on its pedestal. The cat’s claws wink in the light of the shop, and its tail twists into graceful curls of purple smoke over its head. “I didn’t want the artist to lose something so lovely, not after all the work they clearly put into it.”

“But you could’ve injured yourself, all for one vase.” He’s guiding me toward a chair, and even though he’s overreacting to how much I’m hurt, I can’t say that I dislike the way he has both arms around me, his hands gentle but warm and strong around my arms. We sit at a table, and he keeps one hand wrapped around my uninjured wrist.

I laugh at his confused expression and shake my head. “Bruises will heal. That’s nothing. But I couldn’t let a work of art be destroyed.”

For a moment, when our eyes next meet, he just gazes into mine deeply. His mouth parts, as though he’s about to say something. He’s surprised by me and moved by what I did. I can see that much. I expect him to ask something else, or to explain why he’s so surprised. Instead, he just shakes his head and turns to fetch our coffees from the bar. By the time he’s back, the momentary vulnerable look in his eyes is gone, replaced by simple care as he hands me my coffee and takes his seat again, studying me as closely as though I’m the glass sculpture and he’s worried I might shatter next.

“So you’re an art lover, I take it,” he says as he sits beside me, coffee in hand. “This is one of my favorite galleries in the city. I love its collection–it’s all local artists, just starting out, but the owner has an eye for unique talent.”

Now that the crisis has passed, I take a moment to gaze around the room and truly appreciate the venue. Within moments, I can see that Declan is right. The walls are adorned with paintings, and sculptures like the one I rescued dot the room, standing in between coffee tables and little nooks where people have brought laptops to hunker down and work. This would be a great spot to get some work done in the evening or early in the morning with a cup of coffee. All the artwork is different, but there’s a running theme through it all–bright colors and bold lines, dramatic but elegant at the same time.

“I don’t know very much about it,” I admit.

“You don’t need to.” His eyes dart from mine to a painting beside us, an abstract one, with forms that look like they might be boats, or houses dotted across a landscape, with little figures racing between. “You just need to know how it makes you feel.” His eyes land back on me, and his mouth curls into a sharp smirk, one that makes my belly tighten and all the blood flow south of my brain. “Think of it like sex. You don’t need to be an expert to enjoy yourself.”

My face flushes with heat, and I cross my legs, worried he can tell how aroused those words make me. The way I am suddenly very aware of his hands on the table, how strong they look, how good they felt wrapped around me after I fell… I dare a glance across his chest, imagining his lean, sculpted muscles under that shirt, and wondering whether he’s as turned on by me as I am by him.

“That’s good,” I comment, but my voice catches in my throat when his foot brushes against my calf. Traces up my leg under the table. “Though I’ll have to take your word for it,” I add, remembering why we’re here. I have to do that–remind myself that this is not a normal date. Because otherwise, it all feels too normal, too easy to forget myself around him. To get lost in those deep gray eyes.

But he doesn’t want to date me. He just wants to deflower me. What does he expect to happen after this date? My belly clenches again, this time with an unpleasant edge to the nerves.

“Are you finished?” he asks, and for a second I think he means with talking. Then I notice him glancing at our cups. It was delicious, but I barely thought about the flavor, inhaling it as a distraction from staring too openly at the sexy man across the table.

“Um, sure,” I stammer.

“Let’s go,” he says, rising and offering me a hand.

I accept his hand, let him pull me to my feet, even as panic starts to set in. Is this it? Does he expect me to just go home with him now and get this over with? I’m not ready for that—I’m still not even sure I want to do this, it was just a joke that spiraled out of control. I’m opening my mouth to tell him exactly that when he draws my arm through his and turns us. Away from the exit. Toward the back of the room, through which I realize there’s a hallway that expands into another space.

“Let’s go see the rest of the gallery,” he says, and I can’t help the faint sigh of relief that escapes me, as I sag against his arm a little.

Okay, so he’s not moving that fast.

Yet.

We take our time in the gallery, which turns out to be deceptively larger than I expected. We wind through corridor after corridor, room after room, finding a different style in each section. Declan talks about some of them, the historical art movements that inspired the pieces, the styles the artists are referencing. He’s right–even though I don’t know anything about art, I can still appreciate the pieces. I know which ones I like, even if I can’t quite explain why. In the last room, I’m drawn to a larger-than-life painting, filling up half the wall, all pastel colors and flowing scenes. It looks like a flower in abstract, or maybe just oil on the surface of water.

“So this is your favorite,” Declan says, after watching me study it for a while. He doesn’t ask; he says it like he knows.

He’s right, though. “How can you tell?” I counter, cocking my head as I grin up at him. He’s taller than me by several inches, but not so tall that I can’t catch his eye.

Then again, it seems like he’s spent more time in here looking at me than any of the paintings. “The way your eyes light up when you look at it. Like you can’t tear your eyes away.” But now, as he says this, my eyes are locked onto his. And now, he’s right, I really can’t tear my gaze away.

My heart beats faster in my chest, and the rest of the world, even the beautiful painting, all seem to blur and fall away. I can’t stop studying his gray eyes, the little flecks of gold around his irises at the very center. The way those eyes study me back, seeing me, in a way I’m not used to being seen.

“Which one is your favorite?” I ask.

He smiles. It’s wolf-sharp, laser-focused, and I remember what he said online. When I set my sights on someone I want, I always win. “My favorite?” he asks, mulling over the words, as though thinking. His eyes sharpen on mine. There’s no space between us, barely half a foot of air. It would be so easy for him to lean forward, close that gap, let his mouth sink into mine. His eyes drop to my lips, studying me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. Do it, I urge him without words. Kiss me.

But he just raises his eyes back to mine and widens that smile. “My favorite view just now isn’t a painting.”

I’m still catching my breath when he breaks eye contact first, turns away. I resist the urge to catch his arm, pull him back, because I want to keep looking at him. I want to know where this is heading. So when he starts to climb a staircase behind one of the gallery walls, I don’t think. I follow him up.

At this point, he has me hooked. I’d follow him anywhere.