Alexander—if that’s really his name—sneers as he grabs your upper arm to steady you. He grabs it so hard, you help in surprise.Ouch. He also happened to grab the place that’s still healing from where that monster sliced you. It’s still there, just a scab barely concealed with makeup.
Double-ouch.
“Watch it,” your date says, as if it’s your fault for falling.
Red flag!cries the little voice of reason in your head, even as you apologize on reflex.
But he doesn’t let go. He just stands there glaring coldly at you, like you’re an insignificant little bug he’d love to squash.
And that’s not all: His hand feels…cold.
A sickly feeling slides down your spine.
A feeling that says this was all a horrible mistake.
Maybe Mysterious Hot Book Guy was right, and you should have brought him with you, after all.
Because what kind of guy sneers at someone like that just for tripping a little in their high heels?
Finally, he lets go of your arm, and you follow a concerned-looking server lady over to a small table overlooking a large balcony. You’re who-knows-how-many stories up, and you can’t fathom why anyone would have built a balcony so high in the sky.
At least you’re notonthe balcony. That would be worse. Much worse.
Your server eyes your date with the kind of look that says you’re not the only one who thinks he’s a bitoff.
At least there’s that. Sweet, sweet, validation!
Your date barely glances at his menu before giving her his order. There’s no prices on these menus. And they’re made of wood. Seriously. Instead of a piece of paper, it’s a dark mahogany board with the name of each item burned-in.
Fancy. Just like everything else in this place, with its smooth jazz music and low mood lighting.
You decide to order the salad, hoping it’ll be the cheapest thing—just in case your date expects you to pay.
“And would you like anything to drink?” The server asks with a polite smile.
You’re going to ask for just water, please, but before you can, Mr. Slicked-Hair orders a bottle of red wine for both of you.
And it sounds expensive.
You wince.
Hebetterbe planning to pay for this.
You fidget nervously with your purse zipper under the table, wondering just where Corrine got this guy.
The server has only just walked away when your phone vibrates.
You reach into your purse to set it back to silent, but before you can, it buzzes again.
And again.
What the?Is it Corrine checking-up on you?
“Excuse me,” you say to your date as you turn away and pull out your phone.
To your shock, it’s not Corrine that’s messaged you.
It’s an unknown contact.
