“You look good,” I tell my reflection. “You look like a person who has her shit together.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced. Smart lady, but the joke’s on her.
Because I’m going on this date anyway.
Well, in seven minutes, I am. That kinda feels like an eternity, though. I’m actually ready early, against all odds, so I have nothing to do but sit on my couch and meditate on the many manifestations of my anxiety.
The main form my anxiety is taking tonight is a simple question:What the hell am I doing?
Bastian is my boss. He’s a notorious d-bag with the mouth of a sailor and the bedside manner of Hannibal Lecter. He should be utterly and completely off-limits for all things romantic and sexual.
But he’s not.
God,he’s, like, super-duper not. He’s soon-limits that it’s frankly insane.
This state of constant longing and semi-permanent arousal cannot possibly be good for my biology. I’m just jittery andgiggly, like I’m high on laughing gas at the dentist. The colors of the world look bright and all roads lead to Bastian.
Maybe I’m just using this as a very complex and risky form of denial. After all, if I’m obsessed with Bastian, I can’t obsess over Mom, right? Or Rapey Rick? Or Dr. Haggerty? Or any of the problems that each of those specters represents in my life?
If I’m doodlingMrs. Bastian Halein the margins of all my notebooks, I can’t keep panicking every time I see a black sedan with tinted windows.
But so what if it is denial? Who cares? Even if this all ends with him breaking my heart, that’s not the only bad ending I have in store. So it’s easy to just sayScrew it,toss all caution to the wind, and let myself buy the train ticket for A Very Bad Idea.
Right then, I hear thechoo-chooof that train, in the form of a knock at my door.
I clear my throat. “Who is it?” I call out, already half-smiling.
“Your worst nightmare” is the rumbled response.
“Self-aware nightmare, too,” I mutter. I get up to answer it.
But when I open the door, the circuits of my brain start smoking and fritzing out.
Bastian stands there in black jeans and an ash-colored sweater that hugs his shoulders. His blond hair is damp and curling just behind his ears. He’s emanating wintergreen aromas and his fuck-me eyes are already dialed up to the extreme.
“Hi,” I manage to squeak out.
His eyes float down my body before coming back up to meet mine again. “Eliana. You look…”
“Nice?” I supply, remembering his instructions.
“I was going to say ‘dangerous,’” he murmurs. “But ‘nice’ works, too.”
I blush. “You clean up okay yourself.”
One eyebrow arches. “Just ‘okay’?”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Hale. It’s unbecoming.”
“I would never,” he laughs. “Ready to go?”
I grab my purse and lock the door behind me. As we walk toward the stairs, his hand finds the small of my back. It’s frightening how quickly I’ve come to rely on that touch to steady me.
“So,” I say as we step outside into the February cold, “are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
“Not even a hint?”
