Chapter 5

MELODY

Minuteslater

I'm perchedon one of the upholstered swivel bar stools, holding a half-empty glass in my hand.

A juicy piece of salmon sizzles under the broiler while two bowls of salad await on embellished placemats in front of me.

I've already dismissed the idea of dining at the table, mainly because we seem unable to be comfortable with each other, and the pressure is already too much.

It's not as if this type of situation hasn't happened before.

Most of the time, the men behave like that, and I don't need a ‘shrink'––to quote the stranger from last night––to know it has to do with me.

I am so uninspiring that they can't let their guard down.

Part of it is done on purpose––I'm not making it easy for them asI want to know if they're willing to put in the effort or not.

It's just about the only time they have to do that, and if they fail at it, there's no hope for bigger gestures later.

"It must be ready," I say, flicking my chin toward the fish before taking a sip of wine.

The alcohol warms me, and I wish I had a different outfit as I begin to sweat.

Flashing a smile, Thomas agrees, turns his back to me, and handles the fish when a rumbling noise drifts from the street.

My mind goes straight to that car.

They must've waited for someone and are picking them up now.

Thomasseemsunaware of the unusual noise when a strange thoughtpopsinto my head, connecting the car to the man I met last night.

No… There can't be a connection.

Besides, there was no noise in front of Aretha's building last night.

I swiftly ignore that crazy thought, yet my mind goes back to him, my interest in that car only growing.

"Is it common to hear this kind of crazy noise in this neighborhood? It seems like such a quiet street."

He pivots and plates the salmon.

"The noise?" he asks, distracted.

"Outside," I say quietly, hiding the lower part of my face behind the glass.

I take another drink, hoping to conceal my curiosity.

"Oh, the car noise?"

His interest in the topic inevitably plummets as he slides into his seat next to me, unfolds a linen napkin, and sets it on his lap.

He shifts slightly so he can eat and look at me.

"Eat." He warningly points to my food with his fork. "It gets cold."

The noise dies down, and we discuss a few professional topics before talking about personal things.

"How come you've never settled down?" I ask, finishing my food and drinking the last sip of wine.

"Would you like some more?" he asks, chewing on his last bit of food before running his napkin over his lips.

"No, thank you. A glass of water would do."

He slides off his chair, makes a beeline for the fridge, and retrieves abottle of water.

"Don't worry. I can use the same glass," I say whenhegrabs a clean glass from the granite counter.

He fills up my glass, and I drink half of it.

"The food was delicious," I say while he witnesses everything with a smileon his face.

"Thank you."

His cheeks are flushed from the wine, and he seems more relaxed. Maybe it is because of the wine, but I find him curiously attractive after a few long months of celibate life.

And maybe tonight is the night.

"I can ask you the same thing," he says, and I can't recall what we were talking about.

He flicks his finger at me.

"How come you didn't settle down?"

"Oh."

I blush on cue.

"I was too busy with my career."

He's waiting for me to continue.

"And maybe I haven't crossed paths with the right man. What about you?" I toss at him, eager to talk about him more than myself. "There must've been someone," I say.

He"s forty-four years old and has never been married. Is he a high-value man? Of course he is. Any dating coach worth their salt would say something doesn't sound right if he's still a bachelor.

He tilts his gaze to his drink, smiling at a memory, and I relish that moment because it makes him look imperfect and, therefore, more human.

"I've gotten close to a couple of women. Both times, I was in different stages of my life. Later, I learned my needs had changed as I'd gotten older."

His statement piques my interest.

So, where do I fit in his story?

He's suddenly looking at someone like me because…?

"In what way have your needs changed?" I ask, and his eyes meet mine.

I don't think I'll like the answer.

Why me?

Because I'm younger? More ambitious? Look like a trophy wife?

Or is he more patient? More lenient? And professionally speaking, he knows more than me?

"The first woman happened when I was very young."

"As in?"

"I was in my late twenties, and she wasvery attractive."

Ouch.

"Not that you aren't," he rushes to add.

Double ouch.

"It wasn't about that," he says, realizing he needs to stop digging the holedeeper. "Shewasn't serious about anything."

I'm flattered, but I wonder if that'sactuallya good thing for me. Maybe my needs have changed too.

It's not as if I don't want someone serious about life, but I alsowantpassion.

And passion is hard to find these days.

"So that didn't work out. And then, the next time I met a woman I wanted to settle down with, I was so eager to do it that it became a turnoff for her… And you?" he says, moving his focus back to me.

"Uh…"

I wish I had an answer like his.

"I didn't think about it? And then, um…" I stop and crack a smile. "What makes you think I'm looking to settle down?" I ask, still grinning while buying some time.

"You asked me why I wasn't married, so I figured it was important for you too."

Oh.

This conversation is so different than the foreplay I envisioned.

"You know what? Let's not talk about it." I say, setting my glass down and hoping tomove backto a different topic. "I'd like more wine," I add.

"Sure," he says, pouring me another glass. "At least finish your thought," he murmurs. "You said you didn't think about it."

I sigh and eventually get it off my chest.

"Yes. I didn't. I had no room in my life for something like that. And then I started dating, and things got worse. So I began to look closely at why that happened and realized things had to make more sense."

"You wanted to have someone good for you right from the start."

He laughs, amused, and I like this Thomas.I get that hemight have a few secrets up his sleeve.

What he just said may betrue, but there are gaps in his story.

What if he's telling me what he thinks I want to hear?

What if he's learned to enjoy the beginnings more than anything else? Getting to know someone, having fun with them, and ditching them for someone else?

What if I'm right?

"I didn't expect to meet Mr. Right overnight, but I wanted to know if what I was doing wasworking."

I smile and toss him a sultry look before getting busy with my drink.

A deceitful look slides over his face, hinting he's gotgame, and he's about to make his move.

Smiling, he presses his napkin to his mouth again, as if a morsel of food is stubbornly glued to his teeth, drops it on the counter, and takes my hand.

That's my clue, and I'm half won onthe idea ofgetting to know him better, despite not even sharing a kiss, when a car engine roars outside like a bad omen.

We both snap our eyes in that direction.

Someone revs up their engine as if readying themselves to lurch forward in a street race.

I expect sirens wailing, lights flashing, and police cars engaging in pursuit at any moment.

Who is so crazy to race their cars on a narrow street in Manhattan?

Thomas breaks awayfrom me, heading to the window while I reflexively reach inside my bag and pull out my phone.

"Do you see anything unusual?" I ask, powering on my phone out of habit.

Maybe I'm missing something.

"No. Not really.Theymust be down the street."

He slides the window open, and the smell of peeling tires wafts into his place.

"I'm sure someone has called the police already…" he mutters. "I can't see much. The noise is just unbearable."

Ding.

I tip my gaze to my phone.

My phone flashes a notification.

Thomas moves away from the window, looking for his phone as I read the message, flabbergasted.

The Impossible Man: It's not nice to turn off your phone, babe.

My breaths stop flowing.

What?

Is he serious?

I can't not notice the hint of psychopathic threat in his tone. It's like being wrapped in a dark story with a crazy stalker.

What if he's crazy?

He's seeing my shrink, isn't he?

Oh, forget about what he said.

She's not a psychiatrist. She's a clinical psychologist with a PhD.

Ohh… He can get on my nerves.

I forget about the car and the smell of burning tires when my phone rings.

Thomas is on the phone with his neighbor, or maybe the cops––it's hard to tell––when I notice the name flashing across my phone screen.

He lives up to his name.

He is impossible.

I'm tempted not to take his call when I realize the noise has stopped, and I'm itching to find out if he'sreallybehind the mayhem outside.

I tap the screen and answer with my phone pressed to my ear.

"Yes. Who is this?" I say so I won"t have to give Thomas an explanation about why the noise outside might have to do with me.

Now, that's a crazy idea.

The good thing is Thomas pays no attention to me while I swallow hard, waiting for an answer.

"Hello?" I ask again, annoyed with the silence at the other end of the line.

"What did I tell you, babe?"

His nasal voice makes my skin prickle.

A thrilling mix of fear, annoyance, and anticipation sweeps through me.

I'm not used to being stalked.

His vibrantandthick voice echoes in my ear as if hestands beside me withhis lips pressed against my skin.

It's low and raspy as if he didn't get a wink of sleep.

I realize I might have a problem with this man as he seems serious about his claims.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir?

"Sir?"

He laughs so hard that I crunch over my phone and shiftin my seatto turn my back to Thomas so he can't hear him.

"I'm sorry, I don't hear you very well," I say, noticing that Thomas has ended his conversation and the street is still quiet.

"You hear me very well, babe. Don't let that man touch you, or his problems will burden your conscience."

"His problems?"

He laughs again, quietly this time, while I swallow with more force to disperse the lump in my throat.

Thomas rounds the kitchen counter, replenishes his wine, brings his glass to his lips, and sips, looking at me intently as if I'm negotiating a hostage crisis.

I gesture to him that it's nothing and everything is under control while he silently asks a question.

"Who is it?" Thomas murmurs, and the man at the other end of the phone line speaks again.

"I can hear him. Don't make things more complicated than they are," the stranger with striking eyes says with serious aggravation in his voice, and I feign a cough to cover his words while gesturing at Thomas to bring me more water, hoping he won't hear him.

"We talked about this last night," he continues. You're wasting your time with Thomas. Besides, I kissed you, so no one touches your lips unless I give it a go."

It's my turn to chuckle, earning a lifted eyebrow and a curious look from Thomas.

"Here is your water," he says as the man at the other end of the line stays silent.

Thomas studies me while I stare at him wide-eyed, not knowing what to say.

"You finish your conversation. I'll be in the other room," Thomas says politely, and I appreciate his discretion more than ever.

The tattooed man continues.

"Nowdrink your water and make up an excuse to go home. Or you'll hear noises for as long as you're there."

He hangs up on me.

I stare at my phone in disbelief.

What is wrong with him?

I do drink my water before putting the empty glass down and straightening out of my seat, more determined than ever to have sex tonight.