I pour another whiskey and pull up my phone browser. Type in "how to date someone."
The results are deeply unhelpful.
Apparently I'm supposed to "be myself" but also "show my best self" which seems contradictory. If I'm being myself, isn't that automatically my best self? Or am I supposed to pretend to be a better version of me? That sounds exhausting.
There's something about flowers—do men like flowers? Do shifters? Would Jason want flowers or would he think that's weird?—and opening doors, which I already do out of habit, and "asking questions to show interest."
I can do questions. I interrogated people for a living.
That's probably not the same thing.
One article says to "find common ground." We both like bikes. We both like spicy food. That's something. I can talk about those things without making it weird.
Another article says to "be vulnerable." I'd rather be shot. I've been shot, actually, and I'm pretty sure it was less painful than whatever "being vulnerable" entails.
A third article says "don't try to sleep with them on the first date." Well. I've already fucked that up. Technically we've had zero dates and I've already had my hand on his dick, so I'm starting from negative territory.
I close the browser and text Robin again:What if I fuck this up?
You already did. Tomorrow is about unfucking it.
Helpful.
Just be nice to him. Show interest in things besides his ass. Don't leave after the movie.
Where would I go?
Exactly. Stay. Hang out. Be normal.
I don't know what normal is.
Fake it. You've done undercover work.
This feels harder than infiltrating terrorist cells.
Because it matters more.
He's right. It does matter more. Which is terrifying.
But Jason matters. The soft lion who wanted to feed me before he even knew my name. Who lit up talking about engines and spice chemistry. Who made four batches of vindaloo to get it right for someone he'd met once. Who was strong enough to walk away when I couldn't give him what he needed.
Maybe I can learn to give him what he needs. Learn to be someone worth staying for.
I guess I need to find out.
Chapter 7
Jason
Thursday. Horror movie night. I've successfully avoided thinking about Ash for exactly zero seconds since yesterday.
It's not for lack of trying. I threw myself into work—rebuilt a transmission that had been sitting in the corner for weeks, changed the oil on three bikes, reorganized the entire tool wall in the garage by function instead of size. Physical labor usually helps me clear my head, burns off the restless energy until I'm too tired to think. Not this time.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on me. Heard him saying he wanted me so much it hurts.
Just not enough.
I come in from the garage around seven, covered in grease from the transmission job, and stop dead in the doorway.
