It’s definitely a date.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I’m an idiot.”
I walk to the bathroom, turn on the light, and stare at myself in the mirror.
My hair is a mess. My mascara is smudged. I look like a woman who is being actively haunted by a very determined billionaire.
Which is accurate.
I splash cold water on my face and lean forward.
“You are not going,” I tell my reflection.
Reflection: Ruby looks unconvinced.
“You are strong,” I tell her.
She squints like she’s considering filing a complaint.
“You do not crumble for a hot man in a suit.”
She raises a brow.
“You are NOT THINKING ABOUT HIS HANDS.”
She absolutely is.
I turn the light off, grab my phone again, and crawl into bed.
I turn on a meditation video to calm my brain.
It works for thirty seconds.
Then my mind immediately replays dinner: the wine, the candles, the soft lighting, the way he watched me like he was memorizing every expression I made.
I squeeze my pillow.
“This is not my fault,” I whisper. “He’s too intense. Any woman would be feral.”
My brain agrees.
My body double agrees.
My ovaries are already writing wedding vows.
I drift in and out of half-sleep and fully-awake panic until the sun starts to rise.
When my alarm finally goes off, I sit up with the physical grace of a corpse.
I grab my phone.
No new messages.
Okay. Good. Great. Healthy. Normal.
I get ready for work slowly, pathetically, like someone walking toward her own emotional execution.
When I finally leave my apartment, I feel marginally more human, until my phone buzzes.
