"Can I buy you a drink, Mara?"
I bite my lip. "Sure. Why not?"
He orders for both of us, and we fall into an easier conversation than I expected. I find out, unsurprisingly, that he works in tech—something to do with app development that I don't fully understand but nod along to anyway. He's from California originally, but moved to New York three years ago, and loves it.
"What do you do?" he asks when he’s finished explaining a bit of his backstory.
"I'm an art consultant." I take a sip of the martini I ordered, another of the pink, herby one that I started with. It isreallygood.
His eyes widen slightly. "That sounds interesting. What does that involve?"
As I start to explain, he actually seems interested. Not in the way men sometimes pretend to be interested while really just waiting for their turn to talk, but genuinely curious. He asks follow-up questions. He admits he doesn't know much about art but would like to learn more. He's charming without being over-the-top, and he’s funny. He cracks jokes and puts me at ease the longer we sit there, until I realize that I’m genuinely enjoying myself.
I tell him about some of my more interesting clients and the frustrations of the ones who just want the most expensive piece with no real reason behind it, and he tells me about his aspirations of a startup and the new apartment he just moved into. It’s a refreshingly normal conversation.
"Your friends are leaving," Daniel says after a moment, nodding toward the door where Claire is making exaggeratedgestures at me—a thumbs up, encouraging nods, a not-so-subtle wink.
I wave at her, and she grins before heading out with Emma and Jess.
"Do you need to go?" Daniel asks.
I should say yes. But I’m not ready to give up this feeling quite yet. I feel like my old self. Like the Mara from six months ago, before I got so focused on work that my personal life died and then I ended up with a crazy stalker.
"Actually," I hear myself say, "do you want to get out of here? My apartment is just a few blocks away."
His smile widens. "I'd like that."
The cab ride back to my place is charged with anticipation. Daniel pays, a true gentleman, and then hi's hand finds mine in the back seat, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. It's a sweet gesture, almost innocent, and I try to focus on that instead of the voice in my head asking what the hell I'm doing.
I'm reclaiming my life. That's what I'm doing. I'm making a choice for myself, not because someone is watching me or controlling me or claiming me. This is my decision.
If I.S., whoever he is,iswatching, maybe this will be a hint that I’m not interested. That I don’t want any part of whatever possessive obsession he’s created for himself.
Aren’t you, though?A small voice in my head whispers.Didn’t you like the gift of the hand? The promise that someone who hurts you will pay? Didn’t you like your avenging angel?
I ignore the voice, reaching for Daniel’s hand. “What are these from?” I ask, tracing the calluses, and he chuckles with a throaty sound that tells me I’m turning him on.
“Guitar,” he says finally, and I laugh. “I know that sounds stupid—” he starts to say, and I shake my head quickly.
“No, I don’t think it’s stupid. It’s just what I guessed earlier, to myself. I can’t believe I was right.”
The alcohol has made everything soft around the edges, and I'm glad. It makes me feel more at ease, less anxious when we pull up to my building and I look around to see if anyone is watching. I don’t see anyone, but then again, I haven’t seen anyone this entire time.
"Nice place," he says as we walk in, looking around. “I actually looked on this block, but nothing was available.”
“Sorry I grabbed the last apartment,” I joke, locking the door behind us. “Can I get you something? Wine, maybe?”
"Wine sounds good."
I pour us each a glass, and then we sit on the couch, close but not quite touching, and talk some more. He tells me about his family in San Diego. I tell him about going to college here. It’s a frighteningly normal conversation, and it feels good.
And then, just as I’m about to ask if he wants another glass, he leans forward and kisses me.
He’s a good kisser. His lips are soft against mine, not too demanding. His hand comes up to cup my face, and I can taste the wine on his lips. He doesn’t push his tongue into my mouth too fast. In fact, he’s not demanding at all. He’s letting me lead, letting me decide how fast I want to take this, and after everything that’s happened in the past weeks, that should be good. That should be what I want.
Instead, it feels like there’s a craving in me that he can’t begin to satisfy. I want him to grab me, push me back against the pillows, show me how much he wants me. I’d bet he’s hard, but he doesn’t make any move to draw my hand toward him, or deepen the kiss. He’s gentle, tentative.
He’s a gentleman. And I want anything but gentle.
