Oh, my Lord, he chews with his mouth open. I see everything. I hear everything. Food tumbling like wet cement.
And all I can think is: Drogo would never chew like this.
But no. Here I am, trapped with Mr. Fork-Feeder, when I should still be celebrating. The presentation this morning went well—Drogo's horror theme park is going to be spectacular. Watching him design that park, seeing his vision come to life through my stories? That was magic.
Too bad the after-party included this disaster of a date.
Lucy said dating would do one of two things: make me forget my feelings for Drogo, or trigger him to actually make a move.
I want the second one. God, I want the second one so badly it hurts.
I've been in love with Drogo since the night we met—seventeen years of wanting him, aching for him, pretending I don't notice the way his hands linger on my skin or how his eyes track every man who gets too close. Seventeen years of this exquisite torture.
So here I am, suffering through bad dates, hoping one of them will finally push him over the edge.
Except this date isn't just bad. It's a fucking catastrophe.
Now he's offering me food with his fork—like he wants to feed me in public. What is wrong with him? This isn't a romantic movie. Eat your damn food.
"No, no... thank you." I twist my mouth into something that might pass for patience. He looks confused—like I'd just refused the most human thing on Earth.
"I'm allergic to asparagus."
I'm allergic to bullshit, but whatever.
He grins; I return it.
Before the food arrived, I thought he was handsome—green eyes, brown hair, sharp cheekbones, fit. Now? I'm not sure I'll make it to dessert without losing my mind.
"You know," he says, leaning back like he owns the place, "you're a lot prettier in person than in your photos. The tabloids don't do you justice."
"How kind." I take a sip of wine, wishing it was arsenic.
"I mean, I thought you'd be more... mysterious. You know, the whole 'horror writer' thing. But you're actually pretty normal."
Normal. Right. Because the scratches that appear on my skin when I miss deadlines are totally normal. Because the dreams that turn into bestselling novels are just everyday occurrences.
"I contain multitudes," I say dryly.
He doesn't catch the sarcasm. "I bet you do." His eyes drop to my chest. Subtle.
"So listen," he continues, leaning forward, "I was thinking after dinner, we could skip the whole 'getting to know you' thing and just go back to your place. I want to see where the magic happens, you know?"
I blink. "The magic?"
"Your bedroom." He grins like he's just offered me the moon. "Where you write. Where you... do other things."
Oh.
"I think I'm not feeling well," I say, already reaching for my purse. "I'll pay for everything and head home."
He grabs my hand. His fingers are damp from his wine glass.
"You can pay, but you're not leaving. We have a full night planned."
I pull my hand back. "I don't recall agreeing to a full night."
"Come on, don't be like that." His grip tightens before I can fully extract myself. "I took time out of my busy schedule for this. The least you can do is make it worth my while."
