Stephanie
When Avery texted and asked if I had plans for dinner, I didn’t know he meant this. In the last couple months since he moved here, we’ve gotten dinner a lot—everything from takeout Thai to sushi to Taco Bell.
But never a five-star restaurant. Until now.
I met him on the front porch in boyfriend jeans, a T-shirt and flip-flops and knew right away that I needed to change, because he was in dark, expensive denim and a fitted, button-down shirt. I smiled sheepishly. “This isn’t a Taco Bell run, is it?”
He laughed. “Not exactly.”
I ran upstairs and threw on something more appropriate, along with a little more makeup, and twisted my hair up into something I hoped was sexy since I didn’t have time to curl it.
Now here we are sharing a strawberry shortcake over candlelight. And the scariest part is how quickly the evening has passed and how much I loved every second of it. The atmosphere is intimate and expensive, which when we first walked in made me panic a little. This felt like a date. An actual, real date, not just two friends who flirt grabbing a bite. I haven’t been on a real date in almost three years and that last date was a disaster. Not something I am looking at repeating. Especially not with Avery.
But if this is a date, it isn’t a disaster. Avery is acting like Avery, talking easily about his team, making jokes about my brother and our mutual friends and being his usual charming self with the rare but stunning smiles and that damn twinkle in his caramel eyes.
“I shouldn’t be eating this,” he murmurs as he takes a forkful of decadent whipped cream, luscious strawberry and airy pastry and lifts it to his open mouth.
“Dessert is the most important meal of the day,” I tell him, and smile, scooping up my own piece of heaven and closing my eyes in delight as my lips cover the fork. “Mmm…”
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me, his eyelids low, his tongue skating across his bottom lip. Jesus, he’s doing that thing where it feels like he’s about to devour me. “Why are you single?”
The tone of the question—a low whisper, almost a growl—shocks me as much as the words themselves. I drop my fork to the plate quietly and pull my hands back, holding my wineglass as an anchor. “I just moved to a new state, working in a brand-new office, with a new roommate. I guess I just decided to focus on that for a while, you know?”
“Oh, I know all about focusing on a career.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t recommend it.”
“Is that why you started dating Liz this summer?” I probably shouldn’t bring her up, because ex talk isn’t exactly good first date etiquette, if this is a first date.
“Yeah, I guess I just got tired of being alone,” he admits, and lifts his napkin from his lap, dropping it on the table between his hands. “But being with someone for the sake of being with someone is just as bad as not being with anyone.”
I blink. “She didn’t seem like just anyone. I mean she seemed like the right type of girl.”
“Is that so?” His dark eyebrow cocks and he tilts his head curiously. The candlelight brings out the amber in his eyes. “What type is that?”
“Pretty, sweet, kindergarten teacher, probably volunteers with the homeless.”
“At a food bank,” he corrects, and I smile.
“See? That type. Oh! And a hometown girl. Hockey boys love their hometown girls.”
He leans forward and takes my fork off the plate, scooping up the last strawberry and dredging it through the dollop of whipped cream on the edge of the plate. He lets the fork hover in front of my lips. I open them and wrap them around the fork.
“You’re from my hometown,” he says as the fork slips out of my mouth.
I almost choke on the strawberry as I swallow it down. He’s right, technically. I was born in Dieppe, New Brunswick, just like him. “I haven’t been back since I was a kid.”
“I’d have to check the rulebook, but I don’t think frequent visits are a requirement,” he responds, his voice abnormally low. Like turning the dial on a thermostat, he’s cranking the heat higher and higher with every syllable.
He gently puts the fork back on the plate and lets his hand drop onto the table, resting on top of mine. My eyes are riveted to his face and I am deeply aware of how good it feels to have his skin, even just his hand, against mine. Then a shadow falls across the table and we both startle, looking up to see a middle-aged man in a pristine white chef’s outfit standing beside our table.
“Mr. Westwood, I’m Chef Ned Felder. I am a huge fan of the Saints, so I wanted to come out personally and make sure your meal was enjoyable.”
Avery’s hand slips away from mine and he stands, shaking the chef’s hand and complimenting him on the meal. I nod and thank him as well before excusing myself to use the restroom. They’re still chatting as I slip away from the table and make my way to the ladies’ room at the back.
My brain is spinning the whole time. I have somehow accidentally fallen ass-backward into a first date with Avery Westwood and I am now officially in the deep end of my feelings for him. The more time we spent together, the deeper the deep end seems to get, but the fact is, all the reasons why I shouldn’t get romantically involved with him aren’t disappearing. They are as solid as ever. I am still not the right girl for him. In all honesty I’m not even sure if I am the right girl for anyone. I have a truly dismal history with relationships.
I went out with Mike for almost four years, from sixteen to twenty. He’s the one who first gave me Oxy that he’d stolen from his mom. We ran away together. He was emotionally abusive. When that ended because he ran off to Colorado with some girl, I found myself with Joel, who turned out to be physically abusive. That ended six months later when he broke my arm and I went to the emergency room higher than a kite. They called the police, who had a missing persons report on me from years before, and called my mom and Sebastian. I got clean shortly after, thanks to a pricey rehab in Washington that Seb paid for, and then settled in Seattle. Sebastian was completely nonjudgmental and incredibly supportive.
Once I was sober and building my life back, I dated Marty. We’d met at a mixer for Seattle locals enrolled in my online university. He was in the paralegal program too. He seemed funny and sweet, but, thankfully, I found out on the second date he was a married sleazeball with a wife and a kid.
