Chapter Eighteen
I try to keep my hand steady as I apply my eyeliner. Lauren is busy riffling through my closet. It’s Saturday night, and in less than thirty minutes, I’ll be in the throes of my date with Lachlan. Those lively brown eyes and that accent will definitely distract me from my crush on Ryan. Or whatever it is I have for him that I’m too afraid to fully admit.
“What kind of vibe are you going for?” she calls over the clatter of hangers scraping across the closet rod.
“No clue. Just me, I guess.”
“You should sexy it up a bit. Add a little badass kickboxer chick to your buttoned-up lawyer look.”
“So you’re thinking a cute skirt with my boxing gloves?”
“Precisely.” She lays my navy wrap dress across my bed. “This is perfect. You can wear the nude heels I borrowed last weekend with it.”
“Actually, I think I’ll wear it with my boots. They’re more badass.” I smile as I slip off my robe and slide the dress over my head. Once I have the belt tied, I step into my brown suede stiletto boots, lace the leather cords up the front, and stand so she can critique my outfit.
She circles me like a tailor with a sharp eye. “Those boots, Katie. Wow. And your dress is amazing. You’re going to have a wonderful time. Will you sneak off to the bathroom to let me know how it’s going?”
“You got it. Wish me luck.”
Cone-shaped topiaries dotted with twinkling white lights flank the front doors of Cacciotti’s, and the smell of rosemary wafts out to greet me. Here we go.
I walk into the restaurant and spot Lachlan immediately. He’s hard to miss in the wine-colored jeans he wears. He’s paired them expertly with a V-neck cashmere sweater over a white collared shirt. The hostess’s cheeks redden as she laughs at something he said. He turns as though suddenly aware of my presence, and his face lights up. I feel like I’m basking in sunshine. The hostess turns her gaze to me, and I know she feels it, too. For the first time in ages, I’m the one the handsome guy is excited to see.
“You look positively smashing, Katie.” He takes my hand and leans in close to kiss both cheeks. “Shall we proceed to the table?”
We follow the hostess through the restaurant, passing tables covered with crisp linens and bud vases filled with tiny roses. The reviewers weren’t exaggerating when they called it the best date place in town.
The hostess stops at a booth tucked into an alcove in the back of the restaurant. I wonder if Lachlan slipped her a twenty to score this table. It’ll be so much easier to talk away from the buzz of voices up front. As soon as I slide into the leather booth, my nerves march in. I really should have considered a shot of vodka before coming here. I’m certain Lachlan can see ugly red splotches blooming across my chest.
“I’ve been waiting all week for this. I’m so pleased to have you as my dinner date.” His eyes match the sincerity in his tone, and my nerves begin to scurry aside. “Would you like to begin with a glass of wine?” he asks, perusing the list.
“Sure.”
He smiles. “The Argiano Brunello di Montalcino sounds lovely. It has, and I quote, ‘a rounded and voluptuous body, and interesting, silky tannins.’ What do you think?”
I hold back a laugh. “It sounds lovely.” And not unlike the vintner’s idea of his perfect woman. I pause, searching for something else to say. My mind goes blank, so I focus on the menu, reading full descriptions of Quattro Formaggi and Pappardelle Genovese. Both seem wonderful. I feel Lachlan watching me, so I glance up. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
I take a breath. “So how’s your journal? Have you written in it yet?”
“Ah, Katie.” He slides the menus to the side of the table and leans forward. “I’ve written about a disastrous trip to Disneyland. People say it’s the happiest place on Earth. The happiest place on Earth, my arse. I needed a haircut by the time I arrived at the front of the line for Space Mountain.”
“Oh no! The key is going on an off day. Weekdays are typically better than weekends, though.”
“Well, the day we went might as well have been a national holiday. I could’ve spent my time in a far more entertaining way than looking at the back of little children’s heads capped with mouse ears. I’ll have to make up for it tonight, won’t I?” He folds his hands casually beneath his chin. “I’m certain tonight will be journal worthy. In fact, will you stand up? I need one more look at those boots. I had only the briefest glimpse of them.”
If it weren’t for his charming accent and that jaunty smile, his request might’ve sounded creepy. Part of me feels entirely too self-conscious, but nonetheless, I scoot out of the booth and stand.
“Give me a twirl, will you?”
A laugh spurts out of me. “You’re too much.” I spin, offering a hint of a curtsy when I’m done.
“Bravo, Katie. You’re lovely.” I start to take my seat, but he taps the spot next to him. “Please. Sit next to me.” He sweeps a sorrowful look across the table. “As lovely as it is back here with all this privacy, the table is positively massive, wouldn’t you agree? I nearly have to shout to be heard across it.”
That’s a hefty exaggeration but sweet—adorably sweet—and I scoot in next to him.
The server arrives, greeting us with a red-lipped smile. “May I get you something to drink? Some red wine, perhaps?” Her thick Italian accent makes her words sound like they’re slathered in honey.
Lachlan orders a bottle of the Brunello, which seems like a lot for just the two of us, but I suppose we can enjoy it over a leisurely dinner. He takes my hand as the server leaves.
“You have such lovely hands. American women put their British sisters to shame when it comes to grooming.” He trails a finger along my skin. “Your nails are short, but that glossy red polish is stunning. The average British woman doesn’t look after her hands.” He inspects mine like a child discovering a seashell for the first time and frowns. “It’s as though they spend their days climbing trees or tending horses.”
I laugh. “That’s not true. Look at Victoria Beckham and Princess Kate.”
He smirks. “I’m not speaking of the elite. I’m speaking of women I’d meet in a pub.”
Another server arrives with our wine, and Lachlan expertly swirls his glass and inhales deeply. “Bold nose,” he says before taking a sip, his attention on the waiting server. “Ah. A pleasant, round mouthfeel. Silk on my tongue. Please, fill my date’s glass.”
As she pours, he watches her expectantly, like he’s counting the seconds until she smiles at his charm. She finally does as she ties a white napkin around the neck of the bottle. “Enjoy.”
Lachlan’s eyes land back on me. He lifts his glass by the stem and holds it to mine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
We sip our wine, and he places a hand on my thigh, just above the knee. I shudder from the sudden contact. “Didn’t mean to startle you, love.”
God, I’m out of practice. It’s not like he was grabbing me. “So what do you do back home? I don’t even know where you live in England? Is it London?”
He glances at his hand on my leg. “Yes. I live in London. As for my job, I’m in finance. Perfectly dull to discuss. People want to make money, but they don’t care about the details. Am I right?” His eyes meet mine, unnerving me. I’m not going to lie: he’s hot.
He crawls his fingers down my thigh and back up again. “You have tantalizing legs. Has anyone mentioned that to you?”
Uh, no. Except for the creepy dude at the UPS store who called them sexy when I had to drop off a package for my mother after one of my high school cross-country meets. Totally inappropriate. Blech. I hadn’t thought of that in ages. But he’s not that guy. It’s fine.
He holds up a hand. “That was too forward, wasn’t it? I haven’t any idea what’s come over me.” He pauses, a helpless look seeping into his eyes. “Or, perhaps, I have.” His gaze intensifies, and he looks contrite. “You make me feel like a schoolboy again. Here I am, dining with a gorgeous American woman. I don’t know what else to say. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“And you flatter me.” Phew. At least he recognizes he sounded smarmy.
“I’m simply being honest.” He places a hand over his heart. “I’ll restrain myself.” He eyes my legs again. “At least, I’ll do my very best to try.” A humble grin covers his face. “You know what I want to do? I want to skip the garlicky fare. I plan on kissing you before the night is over, and I don’t want you reporting to your friends that the English bloke had garlic breath. I’ve had quite a late lunch, so I haven’t much of an appetite. What I’d love is to go dancing with you. How about it?” He pauses. “Unless you’re hungry, of course, and then I insist we order one of everything.”
I’m starving. I had a light lunch today in anticipation of our dinner. But something in the way he said he’ll kiss me later makes every other thought fade. “I’m fine. Do you have somewhere in mind?”
His eyes light up. “As a matter of fact, I do. Some blokes I know are going to a club down the road a bit. Point Eleven, I believe.”
Point Eleven. I know the place. Strobe lights, flowing cocktails, and bodies pressed up against each other. It’s more of an atmosphere to meet people, not one for a date. “It’s a fun place,” I start, “but pretty loud.”
He nods. “Let’s have a go at it. We’ll polish off the last of this bottle and head down.”
So much for savoring good wine. Thirty minutes later, we’re snaking our way to the front of the line at Point Eleven amid snide remarks and not-so-subtle shoves from the people we pass. Lachlan’s friends saved us spots, but I hate cutting lines. A cocktail waitress saunters outside holding a tray high above her head. “Dollar shots for the ladies,” she says, her dark ponytail blowing.
Lachlan raises a finger. “Over here!” She weaves toward us in her garnet bustier and short skirt, causing his pals to rib one another.
I turn to Lachlan. “Are you doing a shot?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely. You and me, love.”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
The cocktail waitress reaches us, and Lachlan already has a twenty out, waving it over his head. “Shots for the whole lot of us,” he shouts. I guess he didn’t hear me.
“They’re four bucks for guys,” she says in an unaffected tone as she lowers her tray.
He whips out another twenty and lays it on the tray. “Ladies first. Come on, Katie! Shoot it!” His friends begin chanting Shoot it! Shoot it! and I wish they would stop. I wish Lachlan would take my hand and whisper, “Let’s get out of here,” and we’d dash through the night to the quaint bar that serves mulled wine and find seats by a crackling fire. I don’t want to be here with a bunch of his friends, like I’m the token babe for the night.
Lachlan hands me the shot, the playful grin bright on his face. It means nothing and everything. Hanging onto the hope that our date will get back on track, I throw back the shot. It burns my throat, and if I didn’t have an audience, I’d spit it out. Jägermeister is disgusting.
Lachlan grabs a shot glass in each hand from the tray. I start to protest, but he throws both down his throat, one after the other. He doesn’t even flinch. A heavyset guy wearing dark sunglasses and a black-striped suit lifts the velvet rope, and we walk in to the flash of strobe lights and the blare of house music. Lachlan takes my hand, leading me through the club. He yells over the noise, saying he’ll fetch us more drinks, and I’m left standing with a guy whose name I don’t know while the others scatter. We attempt to make small talk, but after shouting what at each other, we give up. Just as I’m about to hit the bathroom for a reprieve, Lachlan returns with beers. He hands one to me and motions to the far side of the club. “Let’s head over there. We’ll meet the guys in the VIP section.” I’m not thirsty, but I slug down my beer. Someone orders more shots—lemon drops this time. They make me dizzy, but the lemony taste cools me. It’s really hot in here. And kind of spinny. It’s all these stupid lights. Or the wine and the beer and the shots. My stomach churns. Lachlan has to be hammered by now. He’s had more drinks in one night than I’ve had in an entire spring break.
Taking my hand, he leads me to the dance floor. He pulls me close, slow dancing in the midst of people slamming and jumping. He speaks right into my ear, making it tickle, and I can’t make out the words. In my mind, he’s finally saying it’s time to leave so we can get to know each other. He was so sweet in the bookstore. And now he’s… What? Just another drunk guy at a club? I pull back, mouthing, “I can’t hear you.”
And he leans in again, cupping his hands around my ear. “I said, ‘Dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.’ It’s a quote from Robert Frost.”
“Charming,” I shout, my voice full of sarcasm that I’m certain he won’t hear.
He presses close and bounces us with the beat, making me feel like I’m something with a shake well before use label. Before it can register, his mad bobbing ceases, and he puts his hands on my face, kissing me. He tugs at my lip with his teeth before crushing his mouth to my ear, whispering roughly, “I want to rip that dress off and fuck you with your boots on. You’ve got me so horny I could screw a lamppost.”
His words hit me like a tsunami. Like I’m flat on the beach, gasping for air. I could be anyone in a pretty dress and sexy boots. He’s so drunk he’d probably hit on a wax figure. I yank from his grasp, and consider slapping him, but he’d probably twist it around, and I’d be arrested for assault. “I think you should go find that lamppost,” I shout. And then I run, shoving past the sweaty bodies and flailing arms of intoxicated dancers.
Cold air bites at me as I blast through the door. I have no idea where I’m going—I just want to get as far away from Lachlan as possible. I’m sure he won’t follow me. He’s probably already pressed up against a hot cocktail waitress. Or maybe he’s found a willing lamppost.
And then it happens. He appears from nowhere, grabbing my arm from behind. I yank downward, pulling my arm away from his grasp. “Get your hands off me!” I throw a back-elbow strike, hoping to God it’s effective.
He blocks my hit so effortlessly that I start to topple in my stupid stiletto boots. Before I can process what’s happening, his hands are on both my arms, steadying me.
He spins me roughly, forcing me to face him.
It’s not Lachlan.
My mind works to understand how it’s possible, because I thought…
“You okay, Katie?”
“Ryan.” I touch a hand to his chest, as though making sure he’s real and not a hologram. “Thank God. I thought you were someone else. Sorry I almost hit you.” I steal a glance up the street.
He turns his head, following my gaze. “Who were you running from?”
“No one. It’s fine.” I press my hands to my face, cooling it. “I just hate all men right now,” I whisper.
“That doesn’t sound fine.” His voice is quiet, soothing. “You want to tell me what happened?”
I shrug, barely able to meet his eyes. “My date said…” My voice drifts, and I can’t bring myself to repeat his words.
“Your date said what?” His tone is measured.
“That he wanted to rip my dress off and fuck me with my boots on.”
He looks past me again, his eyes alert. And the way he throws his shoulders back makes him look like he suddenly grew inches taller. “Where is he? You want me to have a few words with him?”
“No! He’ll probably say something crude, and you’ll end up kicking him in the face and breaking his arm. Then you’d get arrested, and I’d see you on the late news as I’m trying to shove my boots down the paper shredder because I’m too scared to start a small fire.”
A smile cracks the tightness of his jaw as he looks at me. “What?” He laughs the word out, making it sound like it has three syllables. “How much did you drink tonight?”
“Only a little wine. Well, some.” I pause, calculating exactly what I had. “Then there was the shot. God, that was gross. I hate Jägermeister. Bars should really stop serving it.”
Ryan’s eyes jolt past me. “Is that him?” His jaw is stone, and I turn slowly, following his gaze.
Lachlan blows through the line of people waiting outside Point Eleven. His eyes dart around as though he’s looking for a lost dog. I half expect him to whistle. “Yeah. That’s my charming date. He’s cute, isn’t he?” Sarcasm drips from my tongue as Lachlan spots me, waving his arm above his head as he teeters toward us.
Ryan’s eyes have a scary gleam as he steps past me toward Lachlan. “Can I talk to you.” It’s a demand, not a question.
Lachlan raises his hands, like this is just a little game of cops and robbers. “Hey, love. Just wanted to make sure you got along safely. Bye now.”
Cowardly little jerk. I try to think of a really smacking insult, but all my favorite words are locked up somewhere in my brain. I squint, hoping to conjure one up when I hear a scuffling sound. Ryan has Lachlan by the neck of his nice sweater. His mouth is close to his ear. Gruff words float in the air, and I cringe at each one. I almost feel sorry for Lachlan. Almost.
Ryan releases him with a shove and turns back to me, holding out a hand. “Come with me.” I take his hand and follow him into the restaurant I realize we’re standing in front of. It’s called Langosta, which is a little deceiving because it’s not a seafood place, although now that I think about it, I suppose they do have lobster tacos on the menu. I always get the empanadas with the chipotle sauce. Ryan arranges me like a marionette on the bench in front of the hostess desk. My head feels like it’s blurring and zinging in its own psychedelic light show. I press a hand to it, willing it to go dark. He taps my shoulder, getting my attention. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
I focus on the menus tucked into the hostess stand and wonder if I can order something to go. Maybe the hostess can sneak me a tortilla. Just as I’m about to ask her and make a hasty exit, Ryan returns. “Okay. We’re set. I just had to tell my friends I’m out.”
“No! Stay. I’ll grab a cab. I’m totally fine.” My tongue feels like it’s been injected with novocaine, making it hard to talk. God, I hope I’m not having an allergic reaction to one of the drinks.
He takes my arm and leads me out the door. “I know, but I needed an excuse to leave. We’ll grab a cab together if that’s cool with you.”
“Sure.” We walk down the street, and Ryan keeps his hand on my arm as though I’m going to fall on my face. To be honest, the sidewalks have gotten pretty jagged. The city really should do something about it. Someone could get hurt, and then they’ll have a big lawsuit on their hands. I gaze at the pavement, but it seems perfectly smooth. That’s weird. It must be the stupid boots. I should destroy them.
We reach the line of cabs, and he opens a door, letting me slide in first. “What’s your address?” he asks as he buckles my seat belt for me.
I slump against the vinyl, my head back, and listen as Ryan repeats my address for the driver. We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I try to get my brain to stop zinging like a pinball.
“I thought it would be fun to date again, but it’s not,” I say quietly. “I’m done with the whole thing. I wish I could meet someone nice. Maybe someone like you.”
He turns to face me, staring with that intense gaze of his. I wonder if he realizes he does that. His eyes look blue tonight. I thought they were green. Maybe it’s the reflection of his shirt. It’s hard to tell in the dim light. Oh geez. He’s still looking at me, and I’m so drunkity drunk. Did he ask me a question? Shoot. I can’t remember.
He looks at me for a second longer, and I stare back, eyes wide, waiting for him to say something. He finally does. “That’s really nice. I’m going to remember that. You won’t, but I will.” He says the last words in a whisper, as if I’m not meant to hear.
I wrestle with my mind, telling it to focus. What is he going to remember? Or am I supposed to remember something? Damn, my mind is fuzzy. I turn to him, measuring my words so they come out even. “Thanks for helping me. I guess I am a little drunk. Sorry.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t worry about it.” He pauses and leans forward to tell the driver to turn left. He sits back and says, “Hey, you want to go for a run in the morning?”
“Uh, sure. Maybe.”
He takes my phone from me. “I’m setting your alarm so you won’t forget. Meet me at ten at the pier. I want to make sure you’re alive and kicking tomorrow.”
We pull to a stop in front of my apartment just as Lauren’s boyfriend’s car pulls away. She pauses on the stairs, shading her eyes from the porch light. “Katie?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Hi.” Ryan steps out behind me, and I turn to him. “Thanks.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear. “You’re welcome. Get some sleep, okay?” I nod, and he looks up to Lauren. “Are you her roommate?”
“Yeah…”
“Will you make her some toast? I’m thinking a little bland food and a lot of water will do her well.”
She looks from me to Ryan. Even in the muted light, I can see she’s angry. “Who the hell are you, and what did you do to her?”
“I’m the one who got her home safely. You can ask her about the rest of her night. Maybe you should wait until tomorrow, though.” He runs a hand down my back before sliding into the cab.
Lauren takes my arm, and we plod up the stairs. Once inside, she says, “Are you okay? Who’s that guy?”
“Whoa. Too many questions. You’re making my head spin. The guy is my trainer.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No! I think he saved me.” I stumble to the kitchen and manage to get a glass of water before staggering to the sofa.
She plants herself in front of me, looking more like a concerned sitcom parent than regular Lauren. “You’re scaring me. Start from the beginning.”
“It’s a long story.” I pull off my boots and shove them under the coffee table, out of sight. “I need some toast. Do you want any?” I start to stand, but Lauren holds up a hand.
“Stay where you are. I’ll make it, and you talk.”
I struggle to piece the evening together, telling Lauren about tending horses, Disneyland, and lampposts.
As I nibble warm buttered toast, I tell her about Ryan and Langosta and the taxi.
“Thank goodness you ran into him, right?”
I nod, but tears sting my eyes. “You know what the sad thing is? I was finally getting past my crush on him.”
“And now he does this, and compared to the other guy, he seems perfect?”
“Yes.”
“I get it. Just remember, no one’s perfect.” She moves my plate to the coffee table and drapes an arm around my shoulder. “And don’t beat yourself up for falling for someone. We can’t control our feelings. The best we can do is manage our response to them.”
“Manage our response. Mine needs work, doesn’t it?”
“You’re fine. Things will seem better in the morning, once you’re not stuck under the cloud of alcohol. You should get some sleep.” She stands and reaches a hand to me.
I wobble to my feet. “Thanks, Lauren. You’re a good friend.”
“You’re welcome. You know I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I take my plate and make it to the kitchen without spilling any crumbs. At least I got something right tonight.