8. Charlotte

8

CHARLOTTE

I ’m glancing at my phone, checking for any urgent emails from work, and half-listening to Jaz tell me about her plans for this coming weekend, when a voice cuts through the air and makes me go very still.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Just the sound of his accent is enough to make me curious, to make me look at him instead of waving him off, the way I’m instantly inclined to do. I don’t want some strange man interrupting my lunch with Jaz, but when I look up, I’m glad that I did.

The man standing just next to our table is gorgeous. Tall, well-muscled, his arms rippling with tattoos that run all the way down to his hands and over his fingers, and climb to just above the open collar of his shirt. I can see a light dusting of blond hair on his chest, lighter than the dark blond hair on his head, and a glimpse of broad pectorals beneath the open buttons. There’s more ink across his chest, and the first thing I think is that I want to know just how far down the tattoos go.

Did that night at the club really change me that much? I’m not the type to ogle men. Not the type to think about a stranger sexually—even one this attractive. But I can feel my cheeks heating as I try to force myself to look up at his face.

He smiles at me, and for a second, I think I feel a flicker of recognition. There’s something to his smile, a sort of self-satisfied, almost cocky smirk that reminds me of the man from the club. But he can’t possibly be the same man. For one, I can’t picture that man dressed so casually. There’s an informal, relaxed air to this man that’s completely different from the formal, precise way the masked man at Masquerade behaved.

That man had a British accent, too. Not the sort of Americanized Russian accent that this man speaks with.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself,” he continues. “I know it’s awfully rude to disrupt your lunch, but I couldn’t risk never getting the chance to meet you.”

“I—” I blink rapidly, trying to get my thoughts under control, to think about this rationally. This man is a stranger, someone who just came up to me out of nowhere to flirt with me, and it should put me off. But either that night at Masquerade did crazy things to my libido, or my anger with Nate unlocked some deeply hidden part of myself, because all I can think is that I want to give him my number just so I can find out what he looks like with his shirt off.

And so that I can keep hearing him talk to me in that incredibly sexy accent. Every word out of his mouth sends a tingle through me, making my pulse race a little faster. I want to hear him say different things in it. Dirtier things.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his smile turning regretful, and I realize that I’ve waited too long to respond. “This was far too rude of me. I’ll go. I apologize again.”

“No, wait.” Jaz is the one who speaks up, pushing her chair back. “I’ll grab my lunch to go and meet you back at the office. Sit down. Chat.” She offers the man a brilliant smile, and then looks at me with an expression that very clearly says get it together, Charlotte.

“No, Jaz—we were having lunch. I don’t want you to—” Even as I protest, I realize that I do want her to leave so I can talk to this man. His opening lines, his approach—none of this would have worked on the Charlotte that I was a few days ago, but in my current headspace…and especially after what happened at Masquerade, I want to try new things. I want to be open to new experiences.

I want to be impulsive enough to have lunch with a drop-dead-gorgeous stranger who approached me.

“It’s fine. I promise.” Jaz is already getting up, grabbing her phone and her purse. “I’ll just tell the hostess to box up my order. I have some interview applications to go through anyway. The work just piles up, you know?” She smiles at the man. “Don’t make me regret this,” she warns him, and then she’s gone, already tapping away at something on her phone.

I realize why when, a second later, her name lights up my screen.

Jaz: You’re looking at him like he’s the second coming of Ryan Gosling. Just find out the man’s name, for God’s sake. And if he asks you out, say YES.

Jaz: Also, his accent is delicious. Don’t you want to hear that moaning your name? Yes, you do.

“I—” I look up at him, feeling like I’m floundering. “Well, you might as well go ahead and sit down.”

He hesitates, then does exactly that. “I know this is all really presumptuous,” he says, and the apology in his voice sounds sincere. “I think I lost my mind a little, when I saw you. I can’t imagine that you’re single, but if you are—I’d really like to buy you lunch.”

“Why?” I blurt out. I can feel that I’m still staring at him, but I can’t seem to relax. This is all strange, and I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never had lunch with a stranger. I’ve never had a stranger approach me like this in public—not in a way that I’d entertain, anyway. All of my dates have always been with friends of friends—people that I’ve been set up with—or men like Nate, who I met through some official channel. I met Nate in class, my senior year of college.

But I’m trying new things. And as I wait for his answer, I’m sure that this qualifies.

His mouth twists wryly, as if he’s unsure if I’ll like what he’s about to say. “I know I’m not supposed to say that it’s because you’re beautiful. But you are. You’re stunning. And I want to get to know you, so I can find out what all the deeper parts of you are that would make me fall in love with you regardless of how gorgeous you are.”

“Did you get that from a book?” I bite my lip instantly, realizing how rude that must have sounded. “I’m sorry. Just—no one says things like that. I figured you would just tell me that it was because you thought I was hot, and leave it at that.”

“You are.” He grins, and it’s captivating. It softens all the chiseled lines of his face, makes my heart beat wildly in my chest. “But I’m sure there’s more to you. I just need the chance to find it all out.”

I take a breath, but before I can say anything, the server comes back to our table. He has my chicken salad sandwich in one hand, and he looks at my new lunch date, raising an eyebrow.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

“A water, please,” the man says smoothly. “And I’ll have—” he glances down at the menu. “The steak and gouda melt. Thanks.” He hands the menu back to the server, and I take the plate with my sandwich; my appetite fled. I don’t know how I’m expected to eat in front of this man. My stomach feels like it’s in knots.

“What’s your name?” It’s the simplest, safest question that I can think of, until I can get my head straight again.

“Ivan Vasili.” He smiles. “Very Russian, I know. But my family is very traditional.”

“I’m Charlotte.” I reach for my glass of water, my mouth suddenly very dry. “Charlotte Williams.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte.”

I still can’t decide if I should get up and leave. If I should be offended that this man has decided he can come and take over my lunch hour, just because he wanted to meet me. But being attracted to someone isn’t a crime, and neither is talking to them. He’s done his best to be polite about it, even apologetic about the parts of his approach that have been, admittedly, rude.

And he’s gorgeous. I can’t be upset about him leading with his opinion of my looks when at least three-quarters of the reason I haven’t asked him to leave or gotten up to leave myself is because of how handsome he is.

The other quarter is because I’m curious about him, too.

“So tell me something about yourself.” That smile is still on his mouth, and he takes a sip of his water, his expression openly curious. “What do you do?”

“I work just down the street. In their IT department.” I’m not sure I want to give him the actual name of my workplace yet, even though that would be a relatively easy thing to find. He could just look me up on LinkedIn. But if this man is going to dig for information on me, I at least want to make him put in some effort. “What about you?”

“I’m an independent contractor.” He grins. “Which is just a fancy way of saying I’m not good with routine, but I like money, so I’ve learned to be my own boss. I mostly deal with tech stuff, too. Some financials. A lot of it is locked behind NDAs, though, so I can’t tell you too much.”

The evasiveness makes me nervous. But it’s not unheard of. There are parts of my job that I can’t talk about. Sarah, another one of our friend group, works for the FDIC. She can’t tell us about most of her job, and she has a laptop that she’d go to prison if anyone but her looked at it. There are plenty of legitimate jobs that can’t just be talked about freely. I can understand the need for confidentiality when it comes to that.

“Tell me something more interesting than just what you do for work, though,” he adds. “What about—hobbies? What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“I—well, I go to the gym. Yoga, cardio, that kind of thing. Nothing all that unique. I have a standing Sunday brunch date with my girlfriends. I like to read.” I realize, with every word out of my mouth, just how dull my life sounds. No talk about travel or trying new restaurants or anything even remotely exciting. I wouldn’t blame him if he just got up and walked away.

“A quiet life.” He smiles. “That sounds relaxing.”

I narrow my eyes at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s making fun of me. It doesn’t sound like he is.

“What do you like to read? I’m partial to mysteries, myself. I like a good paranormal thriller.”

I can’t help the slight shudder that runs through me at that. “I’m easily scared,” I admit. “And I don’t like books that are really tense. I read a lot of—I guess women’s fiction is the genre. Stories about families, generational plots, that kind of thing. Low-stress.”

“Is your job particularly stressful?” He looks at me curiously.

“No,” I admit. “I guess I just—don’t like to feel anxious. I don’t like tension.” I don’t know this man well enough to explain the things I’m realizing about myself to him—that I’m anxious all the time in my daily life, that I always want to please others, to be the good friend and partner and employee that I feel I’m supposed to be. That the thought of pushing myself, of feeling tension or fear in my hobbies, makes me nauseous. That when I’m alone, I just want to feel peace.

Except—

I didn’t feel peaceful at Masquerade. I felt out of my comfort zone. Shoved out of it, really, like a baby bird learning to fly. Terrified, quite frankly. But by the end of it?—

By the end of it, I felt like a lifetime’s worth of tension had been wrung out of me. Like all that buildup, all that tension and nervousness, was worth it for the exquisite pleasure that I’d felt at the end.

And now, I’m starting to think that I want to keep pushing myself. Beginning with this strange lunch date.

“You look like you’re a million miles away,” Ivan comments, and my attention snaps back to him as I feel myself flush.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly. “My life is in a bit of upheaval right now. I’m not as together as I usually am.”

He chuckles. “You seem very together to me.”

“It’s a facade,” I promise him. “One I’m very good at.”

There. A moment of vulnerability. His face softens, and his gaze sweeps over my face, taking me in.

“I’d like to see what’s under the mask, then.”

A chill sweeps down my spine, and I feel myself go still. I look at him carefully, trying to determine if I was wrong earlier. If he could be the same man I met this weekend at Masquerade.

There’s something about him—but no. Not enough. It can’t be the same man. And anyway, the rules and protocol at Masquerade are all designed to avoid exactly that outcome—that anyone who plays there might find each other in reality.

It’s just a coincidence. Or maybe I just attract men like that now. Cocky men with a mysterious edge to them. Maybe that’s my type, outside of my comfort zone.

There’s only one way to find out.

“I’d also like to take you out on a real date,” he continues, as if he heard my thoughts. Something jolts in my chest, a feeling of fear—but also anticipation.

I’m afraid of what it would be like to go out on a date with him, of what that would mean. What happened at Masquerade had a tinge of unreality about it, something locked behind closed doors. But going out on a date means accepting that my relationship with Nate—five years of my life—is over. That what he did is unforgivable. That I’m finished with everything we had, because of what he did.

He tried to call me over the weekend. Then he texted me. He apologized. He said it was all a mistake. I ignored the texts, and by Sunday night, they got colder. He said I wasn’t even trying. That I’m throwing away five whole years over something that can be fixed.

In the solitude of my apartment, I almost believed him. Over brunch on Sunday, Jaz and Zoe and Sarah and our other friends all told me in a chorus of that’s absolute bullshit exactly what they thought of Nate’s efforts. And my thoughts, all weekend and this morning, kept drifting back to that night at Masquerade. Wondering if I can ever go back to a relationship like the one I had with Nate, when I know what else is possible now.

I look at Ivan. Could he make me feel that? I don’t know. I’m still not convinced that night is something that can be replicated in reality. But I want to explore. I want to find out what possibilities are on the other side of this relationship that has crashed and burned so spectacularly.

“I just got out of a relationship,” I tell him hesitantly. “I’m not looking for anything serious right now. Truthfully, I’m not even sure what I am looking for.”

That smirk returns, teasing the corners of his mouth. “It’s just dinner,” he says teasingly. “I’m not proposing.”

I can’t help but flinch a little at that, thinking of the ring I found in the closet. The ring that Nate has now—or that maybe he already returned. I can’t be sure. Based on his calls and texts, I think he might still be hoping that I’ll change my mind, that he’ll get me back.

I want to close the door on that, as firmly as I can. So I take a breath, nodding.

“Okay, then. What about Friday night?” I don’t have any plans yet. The best I had come up with had involved a bottle of wine and bad reality TV.

“Friday night it is.” His smile widens. “Can I give you my number?”

It strikes me as odd that he asked to give me his, rather than asking for mine. But it also occurs to me that maybe he wants to give me the space to contact him, to be the one who reaches out. He’s already come on strong by walking up to the table and introducing himself out of nowhere. I can only assume he’s trying to make me more comfortable by putting the ball in my court.

“Sure.” I pick up my phone, and he reaches out, sliding it smoothly out of my hand as soon as my Face ID unlocks it. It takes me aback, and I look at him, wondering if I should protest. He just took my phone out of my hand, after all. But there’s something about it, a certain confidence, the way he smiles at me as he starts to type his contact information into my phone, that makes me think I’m overreacting.

He’s charming and polite, and he hasn’t done anything overtly offensive. I’m being too prickly, because of Nate. Too suspicious, because of who I am as a person. I need to give this man some breathing room to show me who he really is, or I’m going to ruin a good thing before it even gets started.

He hands me back my phone after a moment. “There.” His smile softens again, and there’s a sudden sincerity in it. “I know I came on very strong. Text me when you’re sure about the date, and we’ll decide where to go and what to do.”

See ? I let out a breath, relaxing as I realize that it was exactly what I’d told myself. He wanted to give me the chance to think things over. To text him and give him my number when I’m sure. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” I tell him, motioning for the server. Neither of us has touched our meals, and I’m going to end up getting mine to-go and eating it at my desk. My lunch break is almost over.

“I want you to be comfortable.” He takes the to-go box from the server, that smile still on his face. “I’m hoping this is going to be the first date of many.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I tell him, boxing up my sandwich and handing the server my card, before Ivan can hand over his. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t looking for anything. But we’ll see.”

The truth is, I’m already far too attracted to him for my own good. I’m already thinking that I might want more than one date, too.

But what I don’t want right now is to get attached. I want a chance to explore what that night at Masquerade awoke in me. I want a chance to try some of the fantasies that I’ve been thinking of ever since, before I get serious with anyone again.

More than anything, I want a chance to be free.