Me: For the record, I still think it’s a bad idea, but you’re right. You wore me down. Maybe we can get together sometime for a few drinks. Your call.
Grant: I knew you’d see my ways. How about tomorrow at six at McGregor’s?
Me: That works.
I stare at the string of texts and feel as if my throat is closing up on me. At the same time, I’m excited and nervous and more than anything, afraid. My interactions with men are fleeting. I don’t use them for their conversation skills. Sure, we go out and have a good time, but on my part, things are superficial. The first time they lie, they’re gone. And if they can make it past that first test, then when they start wanting more . . . when they want to talk about our pasts and have that kumbaya moment where we realize we are meant to be together forever, they stop being of interest to me.
I only live in the now. I only live in tomorrows. I can only cope with the future I make for myself.
But there is something about agreeing to meet for drinks with Grant that is making me nervous.
“You are not chickening out. I will not let you,” Desi says as she applies another coat of mascara to my eyelashes.
“I’m not chickening out. And I don’t need all this makeup. It isn’t as if he hasn’t seen me before without it.”
“Shush. Every woman needs to act like she cares on a first date.” She takes a step back to admire her handy work. “If you don’t act like you care, then you’re not setting the standard of how you expect to be treated.”
“But this isn’t a first date, and I think you’re off your rocker.”
“You are hoping to be frisked and handcuffed at some point, aren’t you?” I just raise my eyebrows at her when she gives me that motherly look. “Then shush and let me finish my masterpiece.”
She busies herself with curling my hair when throwing it into a ponytail would be fancy enough for me. There’s no use arguing with a determined Desi so I let her have her way.
“I may have done something in a knee-jerk reaction.”
“What did you do?” She sets the curling iron down, plants her hands on her hips, and looks at me with warning in her eyes.
“You remember Paulo, don’t you?”
“Hmm, that Latin lover you had fun with for a while.”
“That’s him.” I begin to bite my lip, and she squeezes my cheeks to stop me from messing up my perfectly lined lips.
“Why are we talking about him, and why are you nervous to tell me?”
“Well, I kind of agreed to meet up with him tonight.”
The reaction I expected is immediate: Brow narrowing, lips parting, eyes blinking, nostrils flaring. “Why in the ever-loving hell would you do that?”
I shrug, because now that I’ve admitted it out loud, it does sound ridiculously stupid. If I’m not afraid of meeting up with Grant, then why did I go and give myself an out for this evening should things get too serious? I don’t shrink from her stare even though I want to.
Her eyes narrow as she pins me immobile. “You just showed your cards, Em.” A broad grin slides across those heart-shaped lips of hers.
“My cards?”
“Yep. You wanted an out because you know tonight is going to be epic, and you’re not used to epic. You’re used to good sex with a pretty face but nothing behind it.”
“I beg to—”
“Shush.” She picks up my phone from the table beside me and tosses it onto my lap. “Tell Paolo thanks but no thanks. You’re all Latin-lovered out for the time being and you’re handcuffed to other obligations tonight.”
“Fine.” I huff out a breath as I pick up the phone.
She’s right, but hell if I’ll admit it aloud.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask as I slide into the booth across from Grant. Nerves idle within me, only serving to reinforce Desi’s assumption that I’m already treating Grant differently from how I treat other men.
I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that.
“Hey there.” Grant’s face transforms with the warmest of smiles that makes parts inside me that I wasn’t aware could tingle come alive. We stare at each other for a moment, almost as if there’s a silent acknowledgement that the defensive banter we’re used to has no place here tonight. “You look beautiful.”
Uncomfortable with compliments, I blush. “You clean up pretty nice, too. Although, you can never go wrong with your uniform.”
Did I really just say that?
“So I’ve heard.” A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, referencing back to the first time we ran into each other, but his eyes hold so much more amusement in them.
A waitress comes and takes our drink order. There is ample chatter in the bar but an awkward silence between us. I play with the cardboard coaster, uncertain what step to take in the uncoordinated dance.
“Emerson.”
“Hmm?” I meet his eyes.
“There’s no pressure here. I just wanted to spend some time with you, have a few drinks, and catch up on what you’ve been up to. That’s it.”
Our eyes hold as I struggle with laying down my defensive shield and not running away at the mere mention of catching up. Catching up means talking about the past, and my past is dark as hell. And while he may already know the gist of my dark, it’s hard not to be defensive over something I’ve always protected.
“I’d like that.” I don’t remember telling myself to say the words, but there they are, out in the open, making his grin widen and his shoulders relax some.
“Good. That’s good. Because as stupid as it sounds, I’ve really missed you.”