“I’m not afraid,” I mumble.
“I think you’re great.” He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, dropping his gaze to my mouth. “Really great.”
Well, shit. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was full-on hitting on me, right here on his sofa.
Despite myself, there’s a flutter in my stomach, a zing through my body. This is the problem with men like him: they know how to make a woman melt, what buttons to press.
I clear my throat, setting my food down. “Thanks, Myles. That’s… thanks.”
He can hit on me if he wants, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got a hot date tomorrow night with someone else; a guy who doesn’t flirt with half of Manhattan for a living, who doesn’t resemble all the worst parts of my ex-husband.
Just as I’m about to remind Myles of this fact, an odd laugh rushes out of him. His cheeks are stained a dark pink, but he fixes his eyes on mine, stretching his lips into that cocky grin again. “So that worked, huh?”
“What?”
“It’s a new move I’m going to try with the ladies at work.” He reaches for the food again.
I open and close my mouth, stunned. What was that? One minute it feels like he’s genuinely hitting on me, and the next… Was he really just rehearsing a line? God, it’s just as well I didn’t fall for it. How humiliating would that have been? “You are the worst,” I mutter.
“Oh, no. Did you think—” His eyes widen with exaggerated worry. “Did you think I was coming onto you? Fuck, sorry.” He raises his hands in surrender. “It’s a curse; women can’t resist my charm.”
I roll my eyes, standing. “Somehow, I think I’ll manage.” I wander to the kitchen and grab my purse. “I’d better go. Are you good to keep working on the site?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, pushing to his feet.
“Cool.” I check my phone and there’s a new text from Shane, saying he’s looking forward to our date tomorrow. An uneasy sensation shivers across my skin as I stand there, reading his words. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but getting a text from Shane while I’m here with Myles makes me feel a little… funny. Almost as if I’m doing something wrong.
Which I’m not, I quickly tell myself, shaking the feeling away.
“I was thinking,” Myles says, “I need to get some pictures of the items you’re going to sell so I can list them. They’re at the store, right? I might stop by and take some photos after you close up?”
I nod, typing out a reply to Shane, only half-listening. Dropping my phone into my purse, I turn to Myles with a smile.
“What are you so happy about?”
“Oh.” An uncomfortable laugh slides from my mouth. Why do I feel like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t? “I, um, I’m just excited about the site.”
“Me too. It’s going to be great.” He gives me a sincere smile, opening the front door for me. This is the nice Myles—the one I can relate to, the one I actually like. But I know smug Myles is always in there, waiting to pop out.
“Well, I’ll see you later.” I grin as I turn to go, calling over my shoulder, “Try not to woo half of Manhattan with your irresistible charm in the meantime.”
He rumbles out a laugh behind me, and I smile all the way home.
14
“Do you like jazz?”
Shane slips an arm around me as we step out of the restaurant after dinner. Since he chose La Bouffe for our last date, he suggested I pick somewhere I like this time. I was going to choose somewhere fancy and upmarket, but I’ve been thinking about what Myles said last night, about how I don’t show who I really am on dates.
So, I decided I’d try and be a bit more myself tonight. I picked a place I love called Piscitelli’s—a tiny, rustic Italian cafe on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village. And even though I still dressed in my usual black dress, on the walk over here I plucked a flower and tucked it into my hair. It’s a bright, vibrant pink blossom—a little homage to the color I used to wear.
“There’s a great place nearby that has experimental jazz,” Shane says. “Want to go?”
“Okay.” I’m not entirely sure what “experimental jazz” is, but I love Ella and Etta and Louis—all the usual suspects.
We walk for a few blocks until we come to a Chinese takeout place. Shane leads me inside, lifting up the counter partition as he pulls me after him. I trail along, glancing around in confusion, until we turn a corner and come face-to-face with a surly bouncer. Shane leans forward, mumbling something, and a huge wooden door is opened. It’s then that I realize we are at some kind of speakeasy. I’ve heard about these places but never actually been in one. They always seemed so… preposterous.
We step through the door, down a metal staircase that opens up into a dark, cavernous space. But I can’t process where we are, exactly, because I’m too overwhelmed by noise. And I say “noise,” because I’m honestly not sure how else to describe the bizarre jumble of notes spewing forth from the ensemble of musicians buried in the depths of this place. Is this experimental jazz? If so, count me out. No wonder we had to come to some random, hidden basement to hear this crap. No one else wants to hear it.
