28

tabby

 

It felt like a first date, like my first date ever, and I guess in a way it was. It was my first date in a new life, one without my parents, without my sister, and without Greyson. I was alone, getting ready in my bedroom and talking to myself the way I would’ve with Sam, had she been alive.

“This one?” I asked, holding up a slinky black dress to my nearly-naked figure. I wrinkled my nose, tossing it aside and held up the same dress in red. “What about this?”

I imagined what Sam would’ve said. She would have gone with the red. It was bold, it screamed look at me, my tits, my ass. But she would’ve known ahead of time that the night would lead to sex—her nights always did—and that wasn’t what I was after. I didn’t do that.

Or did I? “Sebastian’s different,” I muttered to nobody, the profundity of the statement completely lost on me in the moment.

Nothing in my closet seemed right. Nothing worked for the type of night I wanted to have. I wanted nice and casual, with the possibility of more. I didn’t want the night these dresses would insinuate; these were the dresses I wore with my ex, when I knew that sex was a sure thing.

I’d wear them for Sebastian. “Oh my God, stop it.”

I settled on a knee-length pencil skirt and a black sleeveless top. I double-checked that my tattoo would be hidden without the need for a blazer, made sure my bra was padded enough to conceal my piercings, and selected a pair of black stilettos, before assessing my hourglass silhouette in the full-length mirror.

It would have to do.

Roman picked me up from the house in his Ferrari, the top down as he’d promised weeks ago. After seeing the multi-million-dollar mansion he lived in most days, I felt embarrassed of my little house in a town where this was considered to be on the larger side. And although he didn’t say anything, I could feel his judgement when I made him wait for a moment in the living room.

“You have a lot of records,” he mentioned casually, his hands tucked into his pant pockets. Perusing the shelves with a skeptic’s eye.

“It’s a collection,” I replied, stating the obvious as I spritzed a bit of my Work Perfume onto my neck and wrists.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be such a rock fan.”

I walked across the living room to find him holding the Metallica record Sebastian had held over a month ago. It felt sacrilegious somehow for Roman to be touching the same corner as Sebastian, like two worlds colliding, and I wondered if the universe would explode from their fingerprints merging.  

“I listen to a variety.” I flashed him a small smile, as I pulled out a Michael Bolton album to prove my point.

Roman chuckled. “I don’t see any Sinatra here. I’m a fan of the Rat Pack.”

“Well, maybe I’ll have to add a little Sammy and Dean.”

Lifting his brows, obviously impressed, he asked, “You’re actually familiar with them?”

“I told you, I listen to a variety.” My smile broadened.

With a hum and a nod, he continued his browsing. “You have so many I haven’t even heard of.”

I shrugged, holding my hands over my stomach and feeling exceedingly eager to get out of there and to the restaurant. “I used to go to a lot of concerts with my sister. Lots of them were smaller, lesser known artists, and I’d buy their records.”

To my horror, he pulled out the Saint Savage album. Sebastian’s first band. The album acquired on that fated night. “This looks … violent,” he chuckled, examining the black and red cover art of a raven and a bloody heart.

“They were a, uh, metal band I liked a really long time ago,” I explained loosely.

“Hm,” he nodded without a care, and then uttered, “Wow.”

“What?” I asked, nervously twisting my fingers.

“This one’s signed,” he commented, almost impressed.

“No, it isn’t,” I insisted.

Sam had neglected to get signatures from the band members, as she’d left me alone at the concert where she met Sebastian. But Roman now turned the cover to face me, and there it was, in bold black marker. As clear as if someone had just recently scribbled their name in the upper left corner.

Sebastian Morrison.

“Oh,” I whispered, my voice tight with abrupt emotion. “I guess I, uh, must’ve forgotten about that.”

Chuckling, he shoved the album back into its spot and invited me with a heartwarming smile to take his arm. “Ready?”

No. “Yes.”

 

***

 

Poco Bella was beautiful in the summer, with its terrace aglow with fairy bulbs and candlelight. The adjacent garden was well landscaped, alive and thriving after a long hard winter of snow and death.

Roman was a perfect gentleman, as I already knew him to be. He pulled out my chair and waited patiently for me to sit before seating himself. We ordered our meals, he ordered a bottle of wine for us to share, and as the waiter walked away, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think to ask if you drink.” Dropping his hand, he smiled apologetically across the table. “Do you?”

I laughed lightly. “I think I can afford a drink or two.”

“Oh, thank God,” he chuckled, relaxing in his chair. “I went out to dinner with this woman a few months ago who didn’t drink any alcohol. I’m not saying that matters to me, but she proceeded to berate me about the caloric value in every glass of wine I drank throughout the night.”

“And how many did you drink?” I folded my hands on the table, giving him my full attention.

“Oh, well, after that dinner, I think I had the whole bottle under my belt,” and he laughed, erasing any tension that might’ve been lingering. “Lots of calories, but they were worth it.”

We didn’t drink the whole bottle, it wasn’t needed when the conversation flowed lightly and with ease. There was no bickering, no banter, no heat. Just genuine conversation between two adults.

We talked about his rapid rise to success, his varied achievements, and the awards that had been presented to him. It was less about bragging, and more to simply run through the laundry list of things that made Roman who he was. He asked about my career ambitions, where I saw myself in ten years, and if I’m being honest, the maturity in conversation felt like a breath of fresh air.

It was nearly impossible not to compare him—this—to Sebastian and what I had with him. Here, in this restaurant with Roman, I felt like an adult on a respectable date, while my secret affair with Sebastian seemed childish in comparison.

“I know that maybe it’s not the most kosher thing to do, to date your clients,” Roman smiled earnestly, reaching across the table to slip his hand over mine, “but I would really like to do this again.”

I nodded, pushing Sebastian from my mind. Reminding myself of what I would’ve done, had he never been in the picture, and so I said, “I would too.”

 

***

 

“Well, since we’ve already agreed to a second date, what are we supposed to do now?” Roman smirked coyly, after walking me to the door of my empty house.

I shrugged, the two glasses of wine swirling through my bloodstream, leaving me feeling a little loose and maybe willing to play along if he were to kiss me. “I don’t know. I haven’t been on a first date in a very long time. I think I’ve forgotten what happens here.”

With a curious nod, Roman drew his brows together and pinched his lips. “I see. Well, I could simply wish you a good night and pleasant dreams, or I could shake your hand, which would be perhaps a little socially awkward of me, but if it’s what you’d prefer, we could do that.”

I giggled. “Are those the only options?”

“Well,” he stepped forward, polluting the limited space between us with the scent of spice and manly musk, “we could hug, which I would appreciate. However, if I were to hug you, I might also feel compelled to kiss you, and that, I would appreciate so much more.”

My heart skipped along in my chest, standing there with him so close. I was suddenly fourteen, on my parents’ front stoop with my first crush, and looking toward my living room window, I could almost see the apparition of my mother’s eyes, spying on me and the cute boy from school. I found I wanted Roman to kiss me. I wanted to know if he kissed the way I thought he would, with power and control and the slightest touch of sensitivity, and I wanted to do it without guilt.

I hoped I could.

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Is that an okay for a hug, or a kiss?”

With a nervous smile, I whispered, “Both.”