The food arrives. Expensive. Beautiful. Probably delicious. I eat mechanically. Taste nothing.
He eats. Watches me. "You're very guarded."
"I'm very tired."
"Of what?"
"This." I gesture vaguely. "Small talk. First dates. Pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"That I'm someone who does this."
He sets down his fork. "What do you do, then?"
"Write. Drink. Survive."
"Sounds lonely."
"It is."
"Let me change that." He leans forward again. Intent. "Come with me. After dinner. There's a rooftop bar nearby. Private. Quiet. We can talk. Really talk. No pretense."
"Oliver—"
"Or don't talk." His smile turns slightly wicked. "We could just drink expensive whiskey and watch the city. No pressure. No expectations."
I stare at him. He's perfect. Polite. Interested. Green eyes warm in the candlelight. The kind of man women dream about.
And all I feel is… nothing.
"I should go home," I say.
His face falls. Just slightly. "Already?"
"It's been a long day."
"It's barely nine."
"I'm tired."
He studies me for a long moment. Then nods. Signals for the check. "Let me at least drive you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
• • •
The drive back is quiet. Classical music. Again. Leather seats. City lights blurring past.
He pulls up to my house. Puts the car in park. Turns to me. "I'd like to see you again."
I hesitate.
"Please," he adds. "One more chance. Lunch. Coffee. Something low-pressure."
"Oliver—"
