CHAPTER TWO

ALICE

“Thank you,” I say, trying to squeeze past the large man holding the door open for me and not rub up against any part of him. I seem to attract slimeballs and my yoga classes come in handy as I manage to not let my butt or breasts come in contact with his odious self. I wouldn’t be too upset if my knee found his balls though.

Five years ago, I wasn’t like this. Now, after years of being practically felt up as I enter and exit buildings, I have zero qualms about digging my elbow into some man’s gut. I love a gentleman, but the ones I’m coming across aren’t being chivalrous, they simply want an excuse to touch me.

“What’s your hurry?” the guy asks, rushing after me.

Not bothering to slow my stride, I toss over my shoulder. “Not interested.”

“Bitch!” he shouts at my back.

The word rolls right off. I’ve been called much worse and right to my face. I continue down the sidewalk to my car and gratefully slip inside the black Porsche. It was my birthday gift to myself two years ago when I turned twenty-five and I adore it.

I only have a twenty-minute commute between home and work and honestly I wish it were longer. Most of it is stop and go traffic right in town and I don’t get a chance to open up the engine and enjoy what this car can do.

At a red light, the car next to me honks and I grin. I dislike guys ogling me, but when the attention is directed at my car, I can handle and fully understand it.

In no time, I’m pulling into my two-car garage and heaving a sigh. Another day, another dollar. This is what my life has been reduced to. Work, sitting at home watching whatever is new on Netflix, and yoga classes. I should really take a vacation.

Or the tiny voice in me pipes up while I’m mixing up a bowl of tuna salad, maybe get around to joining a dating service.

There’s really no other way to meet people. I’m not a social butterfly. Curling up on my couch with a cup of tea, a blanket, and my phone is about as exciting as it gets. All the men that I run across through work I can’t date, even if I would be interested because I’m not going to suffer through a bad work romance breakup. Watching Tim and Carry at work do that is horrible enough. I wouldn’t want to be living it myself.

None of my very limited number of friends have any single men they’re trying to set me up with. Not that that ever worked when they used to try, anyway. It’s as if after Richard left me I’ve been branded with a big L for loser on my forehead.

It’s rather pathetic. I could have a date any day this week. All with men I don’t want. Yet I can’t seem to find any good, decent guys.

I don’t want anyone hung up on their ex, or worse yet, still with someone. I have zero interest in cheaters. Once was more than enough, thank you very much.

The same goes for men that want a second mom. I want a partner, someone who is my equal, not someone I need to take care of. I make more than decent money and I could support someone else but call me old-fashioned. I want a man that can pull his weight.

Is that really too much to ask for?

Apparently so.

For a lark, I start scrolling through dating sites while eating my dinner. They have sites for everything and everyone, including professionals. That one catches my eye and I’m about to click when a call comes in.

It’s Grammy Brooke!

Smiling, I answer and at the sound of her sweet, cheerful voice, I’m instantly happier. Some of my best memories growing up were visiting her.

In her twenties and thirties, Brooke was a model and actress. She retired when she married her husband and had my mother. In her fifties, she took up acting again and starred in a very successful television show that ran for eight seasons.

Her and Pop’s house was filled with all sorts of photographs of her with other celebrities and various memorabilia from her movies and acting work. Not only that, but we’d spend hours together going through one of the walk-in closets in a spare bedroom that contained the most amazing clothes, all leftovers from her acting days.

When Pop passed away, she saw no reason to keep the house and moved into a condo down in Florida for a while. That lasted for ten years, and my mother and I would spend summers with her when I was still living at home. When I went away for college, I didn’t see grammy that much.

It was amazing when three years ago she moved into the Honeysuckle Senior Center, right here in the city I worked in. In a hilarious twist, my mom ended up taking over grammy’s condo in Florida.

“Grammy! It’s so good to hear from you.”

Her chuckle is like warm molasses rolling over me. “We spoke just last week.”

“I know. It’s still good to hear your voice.”

“You are such a dear, Alice. Don’t ever change!”

Laughing, I move over to one of the big sofas in my living room and plop down, curling my long legs up under me. “I don’t plan on it. How are you doing?”

“Amazing. Things have finally fallen into place, and I couldn’t be happier.”

“Oh my, thinking about coming out of retirement?” I tease.

Grammy has long said the only way she would ever consider acting again was if they gave her a prime role, the filming location was in Hawaii, and her costar was one of those handsome young men. Then she’d rattle off a list of those “young” actors. I had to google them to even know who they were and all of them were no longer young and some not even still living. That I didn’t mention to her.

She snorts. “They could only hope. No, I have you set up on a date!”

“A date?” My mind whirls and I can’t help adding mind reader to my grammy’s long list of accomplishments.

A bit of eagerness descends and with it comes the relief that maybe I won’t need a dating service after all. “Tell me more.”

***

I arrive at The Stone Grill fifteen minutes before our six pm reservation, but the smiling hostess immediately leads me to a table near the rear of the restaurant. The tables are rather close together and I feel rude as we weave between them to reach mine. A wave of disappointment hits me when I see it’s empty. My date hasn’t arrived yet.

His name is Mark, and that’s all I know about him. Oh, other than he’s supposed to be perfect for me. Despite my past bad luck with men, grammy’s optimism is catchy and I’m buzzing with excitement.

Smoothing down my short blue dress, I can’t help feeling the appreciative stares from the diners around me as I sit. At five foot eight, I’ve been blessed with long legs that I know look great, so I wanted to show them off tonight. This dress not only fits me perfectly, but also showcases my legs.

Not knowing how tall my date is, I wore flats instead of heels. Some men don’t like a taller woman. I hope Mark isn’t one of them. I’m also hoping he’s over six feet so I can wear my three-inch heels whenever we go out.

I sit and try to patiently wait while scanning the restaurant, hoping to catch a glimpse of my mystery man when he makes his way to our table. The minutes drag by, and I start fantasizing about what will happen if we hit it off tonight. I haven’t been dancing in ages, not since my college roommate dragged me along with her and her friends to various clubs. Dancing is definitely top of the list.

Dropping deeper into my fantasies, I also hope he likes lazy weekends in bed. Just the two of us curled up together, talking about everything and anything that pops into our heads.

And sex!

Warm color blooms on my cheeks and I fight the urge to glance around to see who might be watching me and perhaps reading the guilty blush on my face.

It’s been over a year since I’ve had a partner and while I can take care of my needs on my own, I miss the closeness that comes from a relationship. That’s why a one-night stand doesn’t interest me. Sure, my itch might get scratched, but I want more than that.

Poor Mark, I’m expecting a lot from him. But if this doesn’t work out, I’m going to do it. I’m going to join that dating site and actually get out of my house and go on dates.

Deep down, I’m really hoping this works out and Mark is not only tall and charming but is sexy and handsome… and why not go for it all- he’ll have a big dick that he knows how to use and fall madly and passionately in love with me.

A loud, angry male voice interrupts my warm and happy thoughts and I look around the restaurant in search of the disruption. I see many other diners craning their heads and doing the same.

As the voice snarls something else, I can’t help wincing in sympathy for whoever is on the receiving end of that jerk’s rant. I can’t make out any actual words, but the nastiness in that surly voice is enough to let me know I don’t want to meet up with the voice’s owner, that’s for sure!

Digging my phone out of my little bag, my shoulders slump. My date is late. Not a good sign.

I’m shoving my phone back in my bag and wondering how long to sit here and wait on him when the smiling hostess from early comes striding toward the table. Only she’s no longer smiling, and her pace is closer to speed walking than the leisurely one she glided at before.

Her lips are in a strained, pinched line when she stops in front of my table, her hands a blur of motion as she clasps and unclasps them. “I’m so sorry Miss, there’s been a mistake.”

My smile wobbles and falls as my stomach sinks. I’ve been stood up.

“Your date is waiting for you at a table up front,” the hostess says.

“Oh,” I breathe. My brows scrunch down. That’s odd, but whatever, he’s here, that’s what matters. I grab my bag and follow along behind her as she hurriedly weaves through the packed dining area.

As the hostess leads the way through the restaurant, my gaze is drawn to a lone man at a table in the very front of the dining area. He’s older than I am, that is apparent, but he’s also ruggedly handsome, with sharp defined features and thick dark hair and even darker eyes. My stomach does a slow dip as a flutter of attraction beats within me.

At the same time that I’m taking in his attractive features, I can’t help noticing that he’s not even bothering to stand at my approach or pull out a chair for me.

Some of my giddiness fades. I don’t like rudeness and bad manners.

“Alice?” he inquires in a deep voice that leaves my mouth dry and my pulse picking up.

“Yes, and you must be Mark,” I say, pulling out my chair and sitting even as my brain slowly realizes that he’s not sitting in a chair like the one I am. He’s in a wheelchair.

“Marcus,” he corrects with a slight edge to his voice.

I’m glad I’m sitting because suddenly I’m no longer feeling butterflies in my stomach at meeting my handsome date. Something like horror fills me as it dawns on me that this is the owner of the loud and angry voice I heard just a few minutes ago.

My date is not only disabled, he’s also rude.