Chapter 8

8

DES

T wenty-four hours later I'm poking through the refrigerated section at my local deli, picking up and putting back salad boxes. What the fuck do I want for dinner? Although I would never abandon Jo, I actually did spend some time looking at tech jobs in Alaska last night like a maniac, but then I realized that the finances on my apartment don't work, and the pay was shit. There is no escape .

As I bend forward, an ache spreads from the top of my head all the way down my spine. Samsung called this morning to expand the project we're working on, and the idea that we might have even more to do, and I might need to go out to Korea again so soon, is making acid bubble away in my stomach.

Halfway through writing the proposal for the expanded project, I had to leave my desk strewn with schematics in a mad dash to meet my trainer at the gym, because I promised myself I was working out tonight and booked him days ago. He drove me through an hour of burpees and heavier and heavier weights, and when I pushed out into the cold night air past the mirror at the entrance to my gym, my face was beetroot red.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and then keeps on buzzing. Goddammit . My hand shakes as I put a bag of kale in my basket and pull it out. Unknown number. Telemarketers, those assholes.

"Hello?" I snarl.

"Des?"

"Who's this?"

"It's Alex."

Stomach and head-of-curls Alex. A cute guy farther back in the store stares back at me as I blink down the nearest aisle, wide-eyed. My gaze drops to the floor.

"How are you?" Alex says. "I was wondering what you're up to tonight?" The words come out in a strange rush, like he's nervous.

Seriously? He sends me a having-oral-sex-with-someone-else picture after he talked about going slow, and now he wants to meet me? The toing and froing with this guy. Of course, when I deleted his number, I completely missed the fact that he still had mine. I glance down at the tremor in my hand. Harden your heart, Des .

"I'm not sure that I'm really up for …"

"I'm doing this all wrong, aren't I?" he whispers.

Goddammit. More complications I don't need. I stare down at my basket, then squint at the cashier by the entrance and open my mouth, but my phone starts vibrating with an incoming call, and I take it away from my ear to check the screen. Marla. Fuck.

"Alex, I've got another call coming in that might be urgent. Let me ring you back."

"Oh, okay. No worries." His voice sounds hollow.

Fiddling with my phone for a couple of seconds, I almost drop it on the polished slate floor.

"Marla?"

"Dessy! The appliances here are so complicated. How does your microwave work?"

Microwave? She can't use a microwave? You close the door, turn the dial, and press a button.

"I thought you were going out tonight to see this man of yours fight?"

"Oh my God! You could spend some time with your sister at some point. Or even come home to your apartment and help me with all these stupid gadgets."

"Marla, I've been at work all day."

"Until 7 p.m.?" she screeches.

That's not even late! "Six p.m. actually. Then I went to the gym for an hour."

"Forget it," she says, and the line goes dead.

I stare at my handset, blood bubbling. The guy down the aisle lifts his head again and gives me a half smile.

Holy shit. I run my hair through my short curls. I've only been back in the country for two weeks, and every single thing is some complicated melodrama. Do I attract dramas like a magnet? Do I matter to anyone? To my family I'm a rescuer and a meal ticket; to guys I'm a fun fuck or a wild night out; to the people in the office, I'm a punching bag who gets blamed for everything. Can no one sort anything out for themselves? No one is the least bit interested in me. My problems. My worries.

I jab the previous number on the screen and listen to it ringing before it goes to voicemail. Why am I calling Alex back exactly? Mr. Responsible, that's me. Hanging up, I grab the first bag of salad I can lay my hands on and head to the cashier. I just need to calm the hell down and veg out tonight and not take any more calls.

My phone vibrates again as I'm paying for my groceries. I don't even look at the number as I answer.

"Des speaking," I growl.

"Des. Sorry I missed your callback."

"Look, Alex …"

"Can I come over?"

"What?" We go from an anonymous bar to questionable pictures to this? "No."

Silence.

"I'm sorry about that picture I sent you of me with another guy …"

"It's okay. I sent you one first. It was a warranted response. We're even. Now I have to …"

"I feel like I should explain."

"I don't need an explanation. It was great to meet you, Alex, but I …"

"Please?"

Oh, fuck . When people ask like that, I'm not good. I chew my lip. Is this some kind of stupid game? God knows I've experienced enough of those. And, Des, you don't want to listen to someone else's priorities this evening, something that's important to them where you'll have to sit and nod in all the right places. My reflection in the dark glass window behind the till shows a good-looking, pissed-off blond guy frowning back at me.

"Bring an extra steak. I'll text you the address," I growl.

My breath catches in my throat when I fling open the apartment door an hour later and after Marla has disappeared to one of her boyfriend's fights. Alex's brown curls are a wild, just-washed tumble around his head, and I trail down his body past the tight-fitting sports jacket to hitched-up sweatpants and trainers. My eyes snag on his socks. On his ankle.

He brings his hand out from behind his back and holds out a red rose. I open my mouth and close it again. No one has ever brought me a red rose; maybe I've never even had flowers . His smile is a little unsure, a bit hesitant, and the longer I don't take the rose, the more it falters. He glances down at his hand.

"Is this wrong?" he says, and something about the way his voice wobbles is so much like the guy I met in the bar that first night that a deep warmth wells up.

I pluck it from his fingers and lean in to kiss his cheek, smelling tangerines and bad decisions . It's been three days since I got laid. But bizarrely something other than sex would be good tonight. Someone to listen . In his other hand is a bag of groceries, and a hot thrill buzzes through me: He listened and brought something. Taking it from him, I step back and gesture him inside.

Clearly realizing a new person is on her territory, Mitzi barrels over the floor, a tiny ball of fur with a red ribbon on top. She can't see where she's going when her hair is this long, and sure enough, she tumbles over her paws, rolling up to Alex's polished shoes with a soft whine. Yes, Mitzi, throw yourself at his feet, why don't you? You and me both.

"Oh my, Des. Who's this?"

"Meet my alter ego, Miss Mitzi."

"Oh my God, she's so cute ." He sweeps her up, and she wriggles, tail going hell-for-leather, licking his face. "Oh, Jesus," he says, stretching his head back, laughing, and she squirms even harder trying to reach him.

I laugh. "There's no escape."

"Des, you have the best dog."

Gah! He knows how to butter me up. As I start forward to rescue him, his eyes latch on to mine then drop to my lips before flickering up again and a small smile twists his mouth. I grin and he closes his eyes, burying his face in her coat. I wish he'd bury his face in my fur . A giggle rises up my throat. Good God, Des, behave.

"She smells like you."

He knows what I smell like?

Mitzi licks his ear, and he grimaces, so I lift her off him and put her on the floor, turning toward the kitchen as she jumps around my feet.

"Yes, sweetie we have a visitor," I say, looking down at her.

I place the bag on the countertop, and Alex opens it up, producing a packet of steak, wine, chocolate, and a little box that looks like it might contain pastries. Then he shrugs out of his jacket, and I gesture to one of the chairs around the island. I watch the fine dark hairs on his tanned arms and his long slim fingers as he hangs his jacket over the back of the chair. My gaze drops to the cutting board on the counter. Where was I? Oh yes, salad.

"How are you doing?" he asks, and the simple question makes the tightness inside me ease a little. "You sounded a little frazzled over the phone," he adds.

I grimace. "Stressed. Busy. How are you?"

He walks past and touches his hand to my waist before coming to stand next to me and picking up the red wine. My toes curl in my socks.

"I'm fine," he says.

"The bottle opener is in the second drawer down." I nod toward the cupboards behind the island, and then I open my mouth. "When you called, I was shopping after a hard session with my trainer at the gym. It's the first workout I've managed to have with him since I got back from Korea. Then my sister rang." I sweep my hand around the apartment. "She's staying here for a few days, and I don't even want to start on that whole story. Except to say she's a pain in my ass. The huge project I'm managing at work requires me to fly out of the country for long periods of time at a moment's notice, and they've just said they want to expand what we're doing. We're employing people so fast even I can't keep up with who's on the team."

My teeth grind as I pause to suck in a deep breath. What is it with the word vomit? Ultimately, he's just another person I don't know that well or who wants something from me. I turn my head and give him a tight smile. Alex tilts his head at me.

Lifting the knife, I annihilate a tomato.

"That sounds insane," he says, eyes flickering over me as I pick up an onion and give it the same treatment.

"I wanted to apologize for that picture. Thanks for letting me do that face-to-face," he says softly.

I shake my head. "I think the one I sent you was more dubious."

I've got so many questions about his photo. He's probably got a lot of questions about George. But for some reason I'm not eager to get into all that tonight. It's a heavy conversation to have with someone I've met only once before and hardly know.

Grabbing a frying pan, I scrape in the chopped vegetables and glance at him. His head is bowed and he's studying his hands.

"What's your favorite thing to do to chill out in the evening?" he says.

I blink at him. That was not what I was expecting him to say.

"A takeout, a nice glass of red wine, and watching a thriller."

Picking up some more baby tomatoes out of the plastic container, I place them on the cutting board. Alex leans over, and his hand is warm on mine as he takes the knife out of my hand. As I turn, I'm inches away from serious brown eyes and thick dark lashes.

"I'm cooking," he says. "You open the bottle and pour us both a glass, yeah? Then go and sit down."

"What?"

He peers at me over his glasses. "Find a movie you want to watch."

True to his word, Alex walks across the rug twenty minutes later with two laden plates of food. Steam curls up from the steak and potatoes, and the salad on the side is covered in a dressing that he appears to have rustled up from somewhere. Shifting back in my seat, I take the plate out of his hands.

"Wow, Alex, this looks amazing. Where did you unearth all this stuff? Who taught you to cook?"

He grins. "Your cupboards are pretty well stocked. My grandma is the cooking supremo, her latkes were the best. When I was younger, I think she thought I was a spoiled brat and that I should learn how to take care of myself. I spent a summer when I was seventeen sweating in her kitchen while she showed me everything she knew, which mainly involved her screaming at me when I messed up her recipes. Perhaps she thought we were all mollycoddled because she did it with all of us."

"All of us?"

"I have four older sisters. My parents kept trying for the boy, and apparently, I'm the ruined youngest sibling."

I laugh at this. It's like the complete opposite way around to my family.

As we're sucked into an episode of Killing Eve , I sink deeper and deeper into the couch. And there's something lovely about sitting next to him: He's quiet, absorbed in what's on screen, not fiddling or looking at his social media. Both of us completely zoned out. Every now and again he waves a hand at me to pause so we can review the plot. One episode turns into two, and the whole day recedes like a wave.

He sits back at the end of the second episode and blows out a long breath.

"Perhaps we should stop there," I say.

"I don't usually watch TV thrillers, but that was excellent."

"Really? They're not your thing?"

He laughs. "I'm a wimp. Once the body count gets too high, I'm hiding behind the couch. The only reason I have not got a cushion in front of my face right now is that I don't know you well enough to weather the judgment. My sisters had a field day tormenting me with scary horror movies when I was younger. I can still remember some they forced on me when I was ten."

Pressing my hand to my chest, I say, "I have so many of my own neuroses that I can't make fun of anyone else's." I point at myself. "Poor. Irish. Though there's clearly some Scandinavian blood on my dad's side because …" I sweep my hand over my blond head. "Eldest child nightmare issues. Dictatorial, controlling: You name it, I've got it. My dad walked out when I was twelve and left six of us kids. My mom leaned on me. Big time."

We both come from such large families. Maybe he'll understand the dynamics of that. His sweatpants shift as he hitches one leg up onto the couch and tucks it under the opposite knee, turning toward me.

"You don't strike me as the neurotic type." He pauses. "You do come across as the ordering around type, though."

I grin at him, leaning forward a bit. "It's very hot in the bedroom," I whisper.

A hint of pink rises up his cheeks, and his eyes flutter away from mine. "So, me taking over the cooking tonight was …"

Don't pick him up on that subject change. I need to give him some space, I think.

"Delightful," I say.

"Really?" This gets me a genuine grin.

"Just what I needed."

"Perhaps I've redeemed myself from the other night, then?" he mutters, sipping his glass of wine. "I got the feeling I wasn't exactly your type."

"I always go for the wrong type anyway."

He nods. "Me too."

"What do you like?"

"Nerdy, quiet."

I laugh. "There's a lot of those in my office."

"But not you."

"No, not me." I study him over my wineglass. "We touched on this when we met, but why did you pick me from the dating site again? My profile doesn't exactly scream calm and reserved."

This gets me a grin as he gestures up and down my torso. "Come on, Des, you know what you look like. But, other than that, I liked the fact you thought about what I'd written and took the trouble to respond in kind."

I was hoping he'd say that I sent the funniest response ever.

He stands up and stretches. "I need to get going."

"Why's that?"

He shrugs. "Work tomorrow." He glances at his wrist. "My last train is in thirty minutes."

"Sure," I say.

This is so unlike me. Usually, I'd go in for a kiss and suggest he stay over, but he told me he wants to take it slow, and I don't think the way I do things is Alex's modus operandi at all.

"Thanks for coming over … and cooking."

"The pleasure was all mine, believe me."

And I swoon just a little.

After he's gone, I take Mitzi out for her night-time pee and Marla returns and bitches to me about her boyfriend and her clients and everything else in her life. And I listen because I haven't seen that much of her: She's out most nights at fights or dealing with some MMA-related injury. Around midnight, I sneak off to bed and lie staring at the ceiling. A shiver rolls down my spine, and I turn over and bite my pillow. Goddammit, he's nice . I like him . Tonight was just what I needed. Good company. Wine. As I'm drifting off, I remember that we didn't talk about the photos or his day at all. He didn't ask me what my type was either.

Maybe he didn't want to know.