12
LARA
Week 2: Friday Night
My best friend has a lot of good qualities, quite a few useful skills.
Her matchmaking abilities?
Not among her virtues.
I pull my phone out of my purse and check the time again.
7:20.
Either my blind date is twenty minutes late or he’s standing me up.
And I suppose it says a lot about me that I can’t decide which is worse: the prospect of enduring a bad date or no date at all.
My love life’s not exactly what you’d call thriving. My longest relationship was last year, lasted five months, and ended with about as much excitement as it started, which isn’t saying much.
Let’s just say life as an SEC agent doesn’t seem to spark much chemistry on the romantic front. Even when I do manage to put work out of my mind, I think guys smell the workaholic on me.
Best I can tell, guys want the fun party girl or the soft, marriageable girl. I’m neither. I’m not sure I’m even the “hot career woman,” because even she is supposed to know how to relax at the end of the night, and, well . . . it’s not a skill I’ve mastered.
Most of the time I’m okay with that. I’ve learned that at this stage in my life, I can focus on my career or guys, but not both.
See: my dead orchids.
I cringe, still hating that I let Ian’s jab get to me the other day. They’re flowers, for God’s sake. It’s just . . . if I can’t keep a flower alive, how the heck am I supposed to figure out how to make a relationship work long-term?
A server approaches, and bless him for having perfected his nonjudgmental look as I sit alone at a table set for two. “Something from the bar while you wait?”
I smile, grateful that we’re both pretending this isn’t the second time he’s asked. “Yes, please.” Anything. “I’ll take a glass of white wine. Something fresh, not too sweet. Surprise me.”
He nods. “I know just the thing.”
If it’s alcoholic, I’m sure it’ll be fine.
I text Gabby. No sign of your guy. He say anything?
She responds immediately. Shit, really? No, let me text him.
The server drops off my wine, and I smile in thanks as another text message comes through, this one from my mother.
Hey sweetie, up for a phone chat tomorrow? Sorry I’ve been so busy.
No prob, I text back. Been nuts here, too. Would lunchtime work?
Got a working lunch with my team. How about five? I’ll call you.
Sounds great.
Actually, that might be pushing it. Is seven okay?
I take a sip of wine and try not to let it sting that my fiftysomething mother has a busier schedule than me.
Sure.
Perfect. How are things?
Oh gosh, how are things? Let’s review . . .
I’m at the first date I’ve had in months—alone.
I’m the closest I’ve ever been to the FBI, but the case that is supposed to get my foot in the door at Quantico is a nonstarter because I can’t find a single piece of evidence—after nearly two weeks of looking.
And I kill flowers for a hobby.
I text her back. Things are great!
I take a deep breath, feeling a little guilty about the lie but knowing even if I did lay it all out there, my mom wouldn’t know what to do with it. I love my mom—I adore both my parents—but they’re not the type of parents who believe in being their kid’s best friends. Which is fine, it’s just . . .
I wish they would have noticed that nobody wanted to be my best friend. I mean, I have Gabby now, but up until I lucked out with her as a roommate, my friendship life was about as thriving as my romantic life.
People respect me. Most even like me. But it’s all surface level. I’m never the one people call in the middle of the night with guy problems. And as a result, I have no one to call with my guy problems. Not that I’ve had a relationship long enough to even have a guy problem . . .
I scan the room again, looking for the guy Gabby described. Reddish-brown hair, great jaw, glasses. Not super tall but not awkwardly short, either.
I don’t see anyone matching that description.
You know who I do see?
Ian Bradley.
At first I think it’s a dream. Sorry, did I say dream? I meant nightmare.
This isn’t happening to me. I am not sitting alone at a table, clearly getting stood up, while the one person who’d like nothing more than to see me while I’m down sits at the bar sipping a cocktail.
Either this is some sort of hideous coincidence, or . . .
He looks over right then, his gaze colliding with mine with such deliberate purpose that I know immediately this is no chance encounter.
It’s revenge for last week when I followed him.
I close my eyes just for a moment, opening them only when my phone buzzes with another incoming text. It’s Gabby.
So sorry, babe. His boss offered him tickets to the Yankees tonight. He’s a huge baseball fan, forgot all about the date.
Fannnnn-tastic.
I’m texting her back when a shadow appears over my table.
Bracing, I look up, keeping my face composed. “Hello, Mr. Bradley.”
His eyes flick over me, then the table. “Ms. McKenzie. Enjoying your evening?”
“Very much.”
His smirk calls my bluff.
“You here for dinner?” I ask, my voice never wavering in politeness even as the back of my neck’s hot with embarrassment to be caught in a vulnerable moment.
“Nope, just grabbing a drink on my way home.”
“This isn’t exactly near your apartment or office.”
The smirk disappears, and his eyes narrow. “How do you know where my apartment is?”
“I know everything,” I say, seeing no reason to hide the fact that I know just about every possible detail on Ian that’s public record.
“Yeah? How’s that evidence collecting going?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.
I’m not in the mood to play games, so I ignore his question and cut to the chase. “Did you know I’d be here?”
“Kate may have overheard you setting up your date,” he says with a pointed glance at the empty chair.
I sigh. “I knew it. This is revenge for last week.”
“Revenge is a strong word, Ms. McKenzie. Let’s merely call this a lesson.”
“In what, stalking?”
“You want to talk about stalking?” he asks, dropping into the empty chair across from me, his blue gaze intense. “Try going to a casual lunch with your oldest friend, wanting a brief break from the shitstorm that your life’s become, and the very woman causing said shitstorm follows you.”
I feel a little stab of guilt. “It’s not personal, Mr. Bradley.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Does this moment feel personal to you, when you’re the one being followed?”
“Yes, but you—”
“Crashed your date? Infiltrated your life? Does it feel personal, Ms. McKenzie?”
Both of our tempers are simmering, and I take a sip of water to cool my own. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty for doing my job.”
“No, I’m trying to show you that the impact of your job isn’t as clean and impersonal as you pretend.”
“Fine,” I say calmly. “Noted.”
“Are you saying that because you feel bad about intruding on my lunch the other day or because you want me to leave?”
“Both?”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “All right, then. Apology accepted.”
“I don’t know that it was an apology.”
His eyebrows lift.
I sigh. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry I didn’t leave the restaurant after I saw you were there on personal business. Now will you leave?”
He surprises me by grinning. “Nope.” He winks and reaches for my wineglass, lifting it in question. “What are we drinking?”
“We aren’t drinking anything. I’m having a glass of white wine. You were just leaving.”
He glances at his watch and takes a sip of the wine—my wine. “Seven thirty-four. Your date is four minutes late.”
Actually, my date is thirty-four minutes late, and that’s if he were coming, which he’s not.
I don’t say this, obviously. The last thing I need is to be even a tiny bit vulnerable in front of someone who’d love nothing better than to see me humiliated.
“Yes, I’m sure he’ll be here any minute, so if you don’t mind . . . ,” I say, wiggling my fingers in a shooing motion.
Ian sets my wineglass down in front of me.
I try not to sag in relief that he’s leaving, his little demonstration over. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Brad—Wait, what are you doing?” I ask in panic as he picks up the neatly folded napkin and places it on his suited lap.
“Joining you for dinner.”
“But—”
“Your date’s not coming, Ms. McKenzie. Now, have you or have you not been bugging my assistant to get some time on my calendar?”
“Yes, but she’s playing hardball and won’t put me on your calendar until next week. I have some questions I need answers to before then—”
“About J-Conn, sure. And I’ll answer them, but only if you give me something in return.” His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a moment.
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
His smile is slow and cocky as hell. “Famous last words. But that’s actually not what I was angling for. I was thinking a question for a question. For every question I answer, you have to answer one of mine.”
“That’s not how this works, Mr. Bradley.”
He shrugs and starts to set his napkin back on the table. “Good luck getting your subpoena, then, because that’s the only other way—”
“Fine,” I say, a little desperate. “A question for a question.”
He grins and drops the napkin back into his lap. “Perfect. But first things first . . . we’re going to need more drinks.”