“I’m sorry, Aurora. I’m not sure what came over me. I just thought if she was special in one way … she might be special in other ways.”
“She was special in every way.”
I don’t give him a smile. I don’t give him anything.
I fucking swear, my vibrators have better emotional intelligence than the men I’ve met lately.
“Right, of course,” he says, like he didn’t just lose his shit because my dead mother wasn’t magic enough for him. “Can we forget about this and talk about something else? Maybe you could tell me about a book you read recently.”
I’m well aware he’s trying to manipulate me, but my dates rarely ask about what I’m reading. So, I launch into a detailed description of a novel I read a few months back, a modern twist on the Hades and Persephone myth, determined to talk until he squirms.
Payback’s a bitch, pal.
An hour later, when I’m in the middle of describing the moment Hades whisks Persephone away from the gala, a server comes to our table to let us know the restaurant is closing.
It’s late and I’m more than ready to go home.
This night can officially go die in a fire.
“Is it okay if I use the restroom before we leave?”
I direct my question to the server, who can’t seem to stop staring at my date.
“Of course!” our cute server says, flashing a flirty smile at Jameson.
Girl, you can have him. No returns, though.
After finishing up, I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and pat it dry with a paper towel. As I turn to leave, I catch my reflection in the mirror and freeze.
Holy hell, I look rough. There are deep shadows under my eyes, and my skin is dull and pale from stress.
I lean closer, rubbing my forehead. I need sleep. A break. Something.
A few hours ago, I felt like an Appalachian backwoods baddie. What the fuck happened?
Maybe I shouldn’t have moved to Lorewood. Three weeks here, and my life already feels upside down.
What will the next three weeks bring?
As I leave the bathroom, I wonder if Jameson caught on to my torture tactics.
I’m way too tired for this bullshit.
“I grabbed the check if that’s okay with you,” Jameson says when I return to our table.
He’s idly scrolling on his phone while one of his hands runs roughly up and down his thigh. He looks sweaty and unfocused.
“You had half a glass of wine left. I didn’t let them take it in case you wanted to finish it,” he says as he hands it to me.
I want to get out of here as much as the servers and cooks do, so bottoms up, I guess.
“Uh, thanks! I’ll just finish this up quick, and we can go.”
The cold, sweet wine makes me shiver as I swallow the last few sips. I’m going to need a little liquid courage to let Jameson down, anyway.
“We were chatting so much I think I forgot it was there.”
“Shit. Be right back. I gotta hit the bathroom.” His fingers drum against the table, his eyes flicking to my wine glass before he stands.
