A pause. “That you don’t date. No one’s ever seen a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, visit you.”
“You don’t date either,” I point out.
Her jaw tightens. “I was trying to…tonight.” She gestures vaguely at herself, her dress and shoes.
“You just picked the wrong guy.”
She frowns. “Yeah, right. Who should I have picked?”
Me.
I don’t say it, but I want to.
“Someone better,” I say instead. “Someone who shows up for you.”
Something sad crosses her face, and my chest twinges.
“I don’t think that person exists.” She hesitates, then keeps going. “I used to date a lot. They were all jerks. I thought maybe they were just too young. Immature.”
I nod.
“So I stopped,” she says quietly. “Spent a couple of years focusing on loving myself. Like everyone says you’re supposed to.”
Another nod.
“Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I figured I’d try again.” She exhales a sad little laugh. “Guess nothing’s changed.”
My chest tightens.
“I’m so stupid,” she adds. “I had this dream last night. A dumb one. Marco, the guy who was supposed to take me out, showed up with my favorite flowers. A bottle of wine. Chocolates in a box with a big red ribbon.” Her voice wobbles. “He smiled and told me I looked pretty.”
She sniffles.
And just like that, I’m back to wondering how hard it is to hire an assassin. Is there a job board for that? LinkedIn, but for murder? I rub my jaw, narrowing my eyes as I seriously consider it.
“You know what I miss?” she asks suddenly, clicking on her turn signal.
“What?” I watch the streetlights play over her profile, slide along her cheek, and shadow her nose.
“Sex,” she says, almost wistfully. “It’d be nice to have sex again.”
I blink.
Then blink again, sure I’m hallucinating.
Did Hannah Johnson—sweet, earnest, talks to her cat like he’s a baby—that Hannah Johnson just tell me she misses having sex?
I turn and look in the back of the car, sure I’m going to find a mischievous half-naked cupid back there holding a bow and aiming it for my head, but no. Nothing but some crumpled napkins and a fuzzy, gray cardigan.
“What about you?” Hannah asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Why don’tyouhave a date tonight?”
Her eyes dip to my biceps, thighs, then back to my face.
I stay still. Let her look.
My heartbeat picks up. Not from panic this time, but from something far more dangerous.
She wets her lips.
