“But the females on there…” he continues. And not for the first time tonight, I wonder why Zola hates me. “They’re a different breed. I don’t have a clue what they want, but it’s not the kind of relationship I’m looking for.”
As I remove my bag from the chairback, I’m still mentally stuck back at “females,” but Ryan doesn’t pause long enough for me to catch up.
“Zola called at the right time,” he continues. “Said she wanted to keep working with me. Convinced me to try it her way this time. Some shit about slaying your dating demons, I don’t know.The deck she sent had a picture of you, and she cut Eliza’s prices in half. I liked everything I saw.”
Ryan seems to be attempting some version of bro vulnerability—I wonder if that was also in Zola’s dating guide. The one she’d conveniently forgotten to give me.
His misguided words don’t move me, but they do cut through my mental fog enough for me to refocus on retrieving the phone from my purse. But the missed message notifications on the lock screen briefly distract me from ordering a car.
8:07pm
Zola:I need Ro’s help with something.
I’d already wanted to get home to see the look on Zo’s face when I tear our contract to shreds in front of her, but reading theNm. Got ittext that follows makes getting home even more urgent. I need to know what she wants with Ro.
But both of those plans are quickly forgotten when I read the other awaiting texts.
8:52pm
Ro:I expect updates!
9:47pm
Ro:You forget about me?
I’d promised to send Ro the play-by-play as the night progressed, but he’s lucky to have avoided my real-time updates. And I can sum up the experience for him easily:
10:12pm
Me:OMG. SENDD HELP P
Ro:Ha that bad? What happened?
“Can I offer you a ride?” Ryan interrupts without looking up from signing the check he’d insisted on paying. Not that I put up much of a fight. I’ll file tonight away as charity work of sorts—attempted rehab of a broken man.
His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows now, tie hanging open around his neck. There’s no denying that Ryan Burgess is the stuff late-night fantasies are made of. But even this current state of buzzy undress on a man who’s been turning heads all night isn’t enough to warm the shivers trailing down my spine at the prospect of spending another moment in his company.
“I have a Lyft coming,” I lie.
My phone pings in my hand. I check it immediately, sparing no thought to first date etiquette.
Ro:You ok? Where are you?
Me:Antonios. getting a car. gotta get outta here
Ro:That’s right by me. I can be there in 5. Can Uber beat that?
I check. No, Uber cannot beat that. Nor can Lyft.
Me:You sure?
Ro:Yes. Already walking out.
The sound of Ryan clearing his throat provides a necessary reminder that he’s still here. The expression he wears could be mistaken for boredom, if not for the indignant posture of his left eyebrow and the slight flare of his nose. Like he said at the top of the evening, Ryan is not a man who likes to be kept waiting. It’s also painfully clear that he’s not a man who should’ve been seated across from me tonight.
“Look,” I begin, focused intently on unsloshing the words inmy brain before they leave my lips. “I appreciate you coming, but I think I’m gonna head out.”
The only confirmation I have that Ryan even heard me is the subtle shake of his head that acts as a dismissal, before he reclines slightly in his chair and takes out his phone. Without my permission, and most certainly as a result of that fourth cocktail, my eyes roam over his broad chest and the pull of those buttons. Snapping a mental image before I go. I continue down his arms to his hands, mostly hidden behind the table—and I know this man is not doing what I think he’s doing.
