Gabriella
At seven thirty, I walk into Atomic and pause just inside the door.
I’m shaking like a leaf that’s about to be eaten by a ginormous caterpillar. I can’t believe I let Colette talk me into this. I don’t need a man! Men are outdated. I don’t want to go steady, and I don’t want to get married. If I ever want a child, I’ll visit the local fertility clinic, request the sperm of a rocket scientist, and never have to think about pleasing a guy ever again. And as for sex, I’m a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to fulfil her. I have a vibrator for that.
So, what am I doing here?
I glance around the bar, trying not to look like someone on a blind date who might have been stood up. It’s only now that I realize I’m not expecting him to be here. My nerves stem more from the fact that it’s going to be embarrassing turning around and walking out the door alone.
But, to my surprise, he’s already here.
He’s leaning on the bar, talking to the barman, but as my gaze falls on him, he sees me too, and he straightens and holds up a hand. Holy Jesus. He turned up. He really wants to have a drink with me.
I try to recite the list of herbs, but not a single one comes to mind.
My heart rat-a-tats on my ribs, and I feel queasy as I thread through the tables toward the bar. I should have had something to eat before I came out, but I was too nervous. I’d better not drink too much—it’s going to go straight to my head.
He watches me walk across the room, smiling. I stop before him and look up into his dark brown eyes. I should have worn heels, not my Converses, because he’s quite a bit taller than me. I’m going to get a crick in my neck.
“Hello,” I say. My voice comes out a squeak. I’ve only ever seen him in a suit, but he’s changed into jeans and a dark gray T-shirt beneath a black jacket. His hair is all ruffled, and he has a five o’clock shadow. He now looks like a bad boy, exactly the kind my mother warned me against.
“Hi.” There’s real warmth in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“You didn’t think I’d come?” I give a short laugh.
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to smile, and then he gestures at his glass, which holds what looks like Coke. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, um, a white wine, please?”
“Chardonnay, Pinot Gris, Sauvignon?” the barman asks. “Or a sparkling?”
“Sparkling, please.” I watch him walk to the fridge and extract the bottle, conscious that Harrison’s still watching me.
The full realization hits me then. He came. He wants a drink with me. And, if all goes well, no doubt he’s hoping that it will lead to something more.
He wants to have sex with me. With me!
A giggle rises inside me like the bubbles forming in my glass, and I press my fingers to my mouth as his eyebrows lift. “Sorry. It’s nerves.”
He chuckles. “Are you hungry? I’m starving and I haven’t eaten yet. I thought I might order a bowl of wedges or something.”
Relieved, I nod, and he orders, pushes my wallet away and pays the barman, and then indicates an empty table over by the window. The sun has set, and there’s a candle on the table, spilling orange light across the surface. There’s also a tiny vase with a couple of pink flowers. It looks oddly romantic, and I wonder whether Harrison is going to baulk at the notion of this being too much like a date.
But he just smiles and gestures to one of the chairs while he takes the other. I sit, trying to keep my breathing calm, and take a large gulp of my wine, then scold myself. Not too quick!
“So,” he says, taking a swallow from his Coke. “Why are you nervous?”
Because you’re gorgeous. Because I don’t know where this is going. Because you might want to have sex with me, and I’ve never had a one-night stand, and I’m terrified.
“Big game tonight,” I tell him, gesturing at the TV.
He grins, and we talk for a while about various sports. I confess that I was a champion swimmer at high school. Harrison tells me he was a keen sportsman at school and a great sprinter until he broke his leg in a car accident.
“So that was that,” he says. He smiles, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Who was driving?” I ask.
He studies his glass. “My dad.”
“Was he…?”
“Oh, he’s still going strong,” he says flatly. “As far as I know.” He swigs the Coke and looks away, out into the dark night.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”
“He was drunk.” Harrison looks surprised at his confession. His gaze comes back to me, then returns to his glass. Maybe driving home isn’t the only reason he’s not drinking. “He was always drunk. And violent. Mum finally left him after the accident and took me and my brothers with her. I’ve only seen him twice since then.”
It’s difficult to know what to say to that. “That must have been hard for you,” I opt for.
He sits back, an arm hooked over the back of the chair, and tips his head at me. “I don’t tell many people that.” He gives me a curious look.
“I have that kind of face.”
“Hmm.” He sips his Coke. “Have you seen the new Bond movie?”
He wants to change the subject. I’m touched enough that he’s told me something so personal—I’m not going to push it. “I have. Great opening scene, I thought, with the fight on top of the building.”
We start talking about other action movies, and soon the food arrives. I tell him the chili sauce with the wedges could be hotter, and he agrees. “You like cooking?” he asks.
I grin. “I love cooking. I only really discovered it after I left home.”
“Your mum didn’t cook?”
“She did, but she’s the sort of person who sticks rigidly to a recipe, and I wasn’t allowed to experiment. I’m not that sort of cook—I make it up as I go along.”
“Me too,” he admits, surprising me.
“You cook?”
“Yeah, all the time. I find it relaxing.”
Thrilled, I start asking him about his favorite recipes, and I’m delighted to discover that his passion for food is on a similar level to mine. We eat the wedges, and I buy us another drink in spite of his protests, and the more I talk, the more I relax. He’s not at all what I thought he’d be like. He’s not arrogant or patronizing or superior; he’s funny and clever and interesting. And best of all, he makes me feel interesting. That takes some doing, the way I’ve been feeling.
At one point, we come to the end of a line of conversation, and I sit back in my chair and give him a puzzled look.
“What?” He dips his last potato wedge into the remains of the sauce before eating it.
“I’m having a good time,” I tell him.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“You didn’t think you would?”
“I thought…” I don’t know what to say without insulting him, but then decide I might as well be honest. “I thought you’d chat me up and fill the conversation with sexual innuendo, and then tell me you’d booked a motel room or something. You haven’t, have you?”
“No.” He looks as if he doesn’t know whether to be amused or insulted.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” I say hastily. “I’ve not done this before, that’s all.”
His expression softens. “I know. Colette said as much.”
“She did?” I feel my cheeks burn. Did she tell him I’ve only ever slept with one other guy?
“I’m flattered,” he says. “That you’re here with me tonight. Whatever happens, I’ve had a good time.” His eyes are honest. He means it.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He pushes his empty glass away. “Want to go for a walk along the river?”
Surprised, I say, “Sure,” and I rise and slip on my jacket. We head out of the bar, and cross the street toward the waterfront.
Without asking, Harrison takes my hand. His large, warm fingers close around mine, and I find myself suddenly breathless. It’s the first time he’s touched me, and even this innocent gesture sends shivers skittering up my spine.
I don’t know where this is going. Ultimately, nowhere, is the answer. In a few weeks’ time, I’ll be putting this city behind me, and whatever happens tonight will become a distant memory.
But the next few hours… Anticipation surrounds us like glitter tossed in the air. What’s he going to do? Will he ask me to go back to his place? I don’t know if I can go through with it, but the excitement of having the option, of pretending that I’m brave enough to spend the night with this man, is enough to make me glad I came tonight.