Chapter 4

MELODY

Friday

I selectmy outfit with great care, elegant and sexy, not too revealing. And I'm doing it out of habit, not because I'll meet Thomas tonight.

This time, I"m going for a slim–fit, off–the–shoulder lavender cape dress with a rhinestone-studded clutch and matching sandals.

The color highlights my dark brown hair flowing down my back in large, lazy rings, yet the sandals are not thegreatestpick, considering the weather outside.

It's been raining since nine in the morning.

I took a cab to work–I usually do it when the weather is nasty—and now I'm waiting for Thomas to pick me up.

He's late, which isn't a good sign, yetan explanation arrives in the form ofa brief text message.

He'd been held up at work and gotten home late. It happens, so I won't hold it against him.

While prancing around my small yet stylishly decorated apartment, my fingers slide across my phone again, my eyesgoing to the recent calls.

I find that stranger"s number right there, tucked between a string of calls from work, my mother, my sister, and my friend, Alice.

I haven't thought about him since last night.

Once I decided his behavior and demands were absolutely hilarious, I refused to go back and think about him with an ounce of seriousness.

Despite all that, my lips curl into a smile as I peer at his number and save it in my contacts list.

After a brief deliberation, I nickname him ‘TheImpossible Man.'

What better name for someone who"s forced his way into my phone?I could alsojustdelete his number and forget about him.I won't call him anyway.

And I'm about to do that when my phone rings, and I take the call, forgetting about him.

"I'm downstairs," Thomas says, and I swivel to the window, slide the curtain to the sideand give him a wave.

"I'm coming," I say and end the call before turning my phone off, sliding it into my bag, and putting on my gloves.

Moments later, Thomas Everett, a man with a pleasant grin and a clean-shaven face, greets me inside a black limousine while the driver holds the door for me.

My date is set to impress me, and I welcome his grand gesture with a smile and a peck on his face.

"Is this a special occasion?" I ask, making sure my cape doesn't wrinkle while removing the gloves I just put on.

His eyes move away from my face as the driver reclaims his seat and sets the car in motion.

"You are special to me,' he says, not looking at me.

My gaze clings to his profile for a few more seconds before I peruse his Armani suit and expensive tie.

His words are meant to be a compliment, yet there's no substance to them. A string of words, perfect for the occasion yet having no real meaning.

They fall flat despite their admirable perfection and flawless delivery.

He finally looks at me, and I give him a smile that is as fake as his compliment.

No one can honestly say I"m that unique, especially someone who knows nothing about me, but that's my cue that we need to play this game a little longer to find out whether we're a good fitor not.

Still wearing a remnant of a smile, I shift my eyes to the window and cast a blank stare at the mysterious world outside.

After years of living in New York, I still believe there isn't a more fascinating world than the one hiding behind the dark curtain of rain.

Our trip is short and void of words.

There's not enough time to start a conversation, anyway, and I remain sunk in thought, pretending I don't know what this really is.

Two fancy people terribly alone.

Maybe Thomas Everett isn't like that.

Men are built differently and don't make a big deal out of their emotions except for some, like my father, who's struck a balance between his pragmatism and his feelings for us, enough to make our lives beautiful.

But, in this case, I know exactly what I'm getting, and luckily, the next few hours fly by.

We exchange banalities throughout the evening before leaving the Metropolitan Opera and heading to his place.

One of the benefits of dating him is that he doesn't live too far from my apartment.

I could walk home if things didn't work out and I didn't have time to wait for a cab.

We enter his place a few minutes after ten.

"Make yourself at home," he says, gesturing around while closing the door behind me.

Handing my gloves and clutch to him, I look around.

This is our fourth date and our first attempt at intimacy.

It's not like we've talked about it, but anyone can see it. Even the tattooed stranger had picked up on it.

I walk around while hegoes straightto the open kitchen and retrieves two glasses from a sculpted cabinet.

The ease with which he moves around is remarkable.

That's the thing with these seasoned men.

They've done this so many times with so many women that it shows.

I've been doing this for some time, and while my pulse doesn't shoot up in excitement, and I have no butterflies in my stomach, the expectation that I'd be at least swept of anticipation is still there.

Unfortunately, I've grown bored with the whole process lately.

Maybe that's why my sessions with Dr. Stenson have become increasingly appealing and, frankly,more entertaining.

"Malbec?" he says, his voice wafting from behind me while I stroll to the two large windows.

His place isbiggerthan mineand hashigher ceilings, and an equally beautiful view.

This rain never seems to stop––I muse, looking out the window while the garnet wine tumbles into the glasses with a lush, appealing gurgle.

I'm suddenly thirsty, and if this meetup wouldn't be so important, I'd love to be someplace else, have a few drinks, and talk to someone close to me.

Not Thomas, evidently.

I resentthe waymy thoughts go on a tangent, and I whisk them away before drawing a plastic smile across my lips and slowly turning to him.

"Nice place," I say when something catches the corner of my eye, and my gaze goes back to the window.

A dark car slowly rolls down his street.

It's a sports car with white racing stripesandits headlights turned off.

I find it interestingfor some reason.

You would't find a car like this if you looked down the entire street. This isn't exactly acommonroute for drivers in Manhattan.

To add more mystery to the puzzle, the car stops next to a fire hydrant, and no one walks out.

"I hope you like it chilled," Thomas says, pulling up next to me.

I swiftlyturnaround to erase the impression I was staring at the car with racing stripes and avoid making him curious about it.

"Yes, I love it," I say, my voice pathetically disingenuous as I grab my drink andbegin askingquestions about the framed art on the walls.