Screw it.
I pick up the card.
“Ten thousand,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “And this better be a really nice restaurant.”
Ben’s grin returns, slow and predatory and devastatingly handsome.
“I’ll pick you up at six,” he says, straightening to his full height.
“Six,” I repeat, still not entirely convinced this is real.
He takes the receipt and the sleep spray. Then he tucks his card back into his wallet and turns toward the door.
“Wait,” I call out. “Don’t you want to take some more stuff with you?”
Ben pauses with his hand on the handle and looks back at me, that slow grin spreading across his face.
“Hang on to it for me. I’ll pick it up after dinner.”
The bell chimes as he pushes through the door, and then he’s gone.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur.
I try to work. I really do. I pour a batch of candles without checking the temperature, and they set wrong. I mislabel an entire row of bath salts. I spend twenty minutes staring at a shelf of essential oils, trying to remember what I was looking for.
By five o'clock, I can't take it anymore. I flip the sign to CLOSED, lock the front door, and sprint up the back stairs to my apartment.
My living space is small but cozy, filled with plants and books and the lingering scent of whatever I've been working on downstairs. Usually, it's my sanctuary. Tonight, it feels like a staging ground for a panic attack.
I strip down and step into the shower, letting the hot water run over my shoulders. I shave my legs carefully, which feels like a declaration of intent all on its own. Then I dry off, wrap myself in my robe, and spend longer than I'd like to admit working product through my curls and diffusing them until they fall in soft spirals instead of their usual chaos.
It's somewhere between the serum and the heat protectant that my brain finally catches up to what I'm doing.
I'm getting ready for a date with Ben Mitchell. World champion boxer. The man who looked me in the eye and told me I was his like it was a fact and not a line.
My stomach flips just thinking about it.
But I'm not stupid. He's famous, he's gorgeous, and he's in town for one fight. Men like him don't end up with women like me. They have a nice dinner, a nicer night, and then they're gone by morning. That's just how it works.
I stare at myself in the foggy mirror and make a decision. I'm going to let myself enjoy this. I'll swoon a little, I'll wear the good dress, and if tonight is all this turns out to be, then at least it'll be a good story. I just won't let myself expect anything more.
I tear through my closet, rejecting outfit after outfit.
“Too casual,” I mutter, tossing a sweater onto the bed. “Too dressy. Too... librarian.”
I finally settle on a wrap dress in a deep sage green. It's soft and comfortable, hugging my curves without being too revealing. I apply a touch of mascara and dab a drop of my own signature jasmine blend behind my ears.
I check the clock. 5:50 PM.
Ten minutes.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath. The girl staring back at me looks nervous and flushed, but there's something else there too. Something that looks a lot like ready.
I grab my purse, double-check the back lock, and head downstairs. But as I step off the bottom stair, I see a shadow move near the counter. My heart stops, then kickstarts into a frantic rhythm. I reach for the switch by the door, my fingers fumbling before flooding the room with light.
“Gary?” I gasp.
