But, nope. He’s gone. Completely vanished.
You didn’t hear the door open, so you’re pretty sure he’s still inside the apartment somewhere. But it’s not exactly a big place. How could you not see him?
“Hello?” You call, but there’s no answer.
He must have got bored and went back into his book—the book that you’re definitely not going to be taking with you.
Good.
He can just stay there on the shelf and behave himself until you get home.
Checking your texts a final time, you let your blind date know you’re on the way down and head for the door.
When you get to the street, there’s a sleek, black sports car waiting.
Wow.
Okay, this dude is more loaded than you expected.
Either that, or he’s living in crushing debt. It’s hard to tell with these things.
Maybe it’s a good thing you dressed up a little. Just in case. Not that you’d marry a dude for his money or anything, but hey, maybe he’ll be awesome. Then you can jet off into the sunset andforget all about your low-wage job and live happily ever after as a billionaire’s wife.
Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?
You’ve never actually been picked-up by a stranger for a date before, and you smile nervously at him as you buckle in.
He gives you a long, appraising look up and down. The kind of look that lingers on the low cut of your dress and the high hemline that hiked up even higher during the six flights of stairs down.Oops. You self-consciously try to yank the bottom of the dress back down into place over your thighs.
“Hi,” you say a little more breathily than you’d like. “I’m June.”
He offers you a polite, if forced, smile.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Wintergreen.”
He’s…English!?
Wow, well, his accent is pretty cool. Did you fall into one of the romance novels filling your bookshelf?
He’s not bad looking. Everything about him is perfectly manicured, from his greased-back hair to his tailored suit.
But there’s a slick glint to his gaze that leaves a slimy feeling trailing down your spine as he smiles at you.
You can’t exactly placewhatis that leaves you feeling ill, but there’s something off about that look.
Something…almost inhuman. Like it’s fake.
Everything about his suit is so perfect, it almost looks artificial. Same with his hair. Not a strand is out of place.
Yeah, that’s the feeling: That everything about him is fake. Not just his appearance.
Wait, what? That’s an odd thing to think about a person.
You shake your head, muttering to yourself as you brush the slimy feeling off. Or—you try to. Goosebumps keep rising up your arms.
Maybe all the weird stuff with the bookshop and the alleyway monster and the magical dude has left you paranoid.
As your date pulls onto the road, you rub the golden cuff on your left wrist. It looks simple enough, just a plain, wide gold band, but you find yourself covering it with your hand as your date glances your way.
