I moved toward the empty pages waiting for me to fill them in. “I know that. I’m not ashamed of my life. I don’t regret anything. I wouldn’t trade a single day with Grandma for all the money in the world . . . I just feel kind of stuck, you know? Grandma’s gone now, but I can’t figure out what I want to do with my life. Some days I feel like I’m going to wake up and find out I’ve aged fifty years and am still working here and eating canned soup while sitting in front of a television all alone.” I grabbed another towel to wipe down the espresso machine as a distraction.
I didn’t give most people a chance to get close enough to know the real me—the person who hid fear behind strength. Kate, I’d let slip past the gate enough that she knew.
“I can’t conceive of a better time to get ‘unstuck’ than with some hot, wealthy foreigner who’s paying you a load of money to break the law with him.”
The way she’d said it so matter-of-factly made me smile. “It’s definitely a fresh start.”
She nudged me with her elbow. “Definitely.”
It was the first date I’d been on in a long time. It was the first “fake” date I’d ever been on. That had to be the reason my stomach was unleashing hell on me as I rode the elevator to the top floor of the hotel I was meeting him at.
For dinner. Only dinner.
After our initial meeting last week, we’d agreed on a day, place, and time to get this first date thing scratched off the relationship to-do list. Much like last week, at the other slightly less lavish hotel, I was getting looks from the time I stepped into the lobby. Kind of the way a person felt in a dream when they showed up naked at school.
I didn’t fit in with the social elite. I never would. I’d never rub elbows with the wealthy or bullshit with the upper crust.
And I didn’t give a crap.
People in this class of society behaved like money was their passport dictating how to experience life. They acted like anything could be bought, along with themselves. It turned my stomach . . . right until I stopped in front of the hostess stand and remembered why I was there. I was marrying a man for a million dollars.
I turned the judgment finger around on myself.
“Max Sturm,” I told the hostess, guessing he was already there since I was fifteen minutes late. A person like Max didn’t show up late to anything in life.
The girl didn’t need to consult the sheet in front of her. “Mr. Sturm’s right this way.” She led me into the dining room while I refrained from grumbling over the mister part.
It was prime dinner hour, and the restaurant was busy. There wasn’t one empty table, and from the wait out front, I doubted there would be for a while. I practically had to jog to keep up with the hostess. Twilight hung in the sky outside, and as we moved closer to the windows stretching around the perimeter of the restaurant, I let myself take in the view.
Portland was bathed in color, the great Willamette River looking as if it was filled with diamonds instead of water thanks to the lighting. The view alone was worth the price.
Still jogging to keep up through this restaurant that would not end, I kept admiring the view. Which backfired when I kept walk-jogging even after the hostess had rolled to a stop. When I crashed into her, I made a noise that was more animal than human.
“Sorry,” I said, realizing a moment later that we’d stopped in front of a window table where someone was waiting.
He was looking at me in that same way again—fighting that damn smile. Although since I’d just rear-ended a hostess in front of a restaurant full of people, the smile was warranted.
“Hey,” I greeted him as the hostess slid the empty chair out for me.
“Hello, Nina.”
I slid off my shoulder bag and settled it on the floor beside my chair, trying to shake off the chills I felt tumbling down my spine from the way he’d said my name. “Sorry, I’m late.”
I scooted the chair closer to the table and didn’t know where to look. He obviously had no qualms about staring a person in the eye. Usually I didn’t either, but for some reason, tonight I found it difficult to maintain eye contact.
Especially when the person I was supposed to be making eye contact with was him. A face meant to be worshipped, a body meant to sin, a smile birthed straight from the depths of hell. My future husband. That person.
He leaned across the table like he wanted to tell me a secret. “If this were a real date, I might actually be offended.”
“But you’re not? Since this isn’t?”
His eyes dropped to my mouth, then he leaned back in his chair. “Not this time, but please try to keep in mind that I respect your time, and I hope you’ll do the same with me.”
Was he telling me not to be late again? Ordering me?
I knew I had a serious chip on my shoulder with this kind of stuff, so I made myself take a deep breath and calm down. He was saying he respected my time, and he had been the one here on time. He was saying that he hoped I’d do the same, which was not too much to ask.
One more deep breath and the raging feminist inside me calmed her shit.
“I should have been here on time, but public transportation had other plans.” I reached for my glass of water and took a drink. I was thirsty from hustling from the bus stop to the hotel.
“You take public transportation? As in the bus?”
The way he said it, like it was an incurable disease, made me smile. “As in the bus, the light rail, and even those nifty streetcars on occasion.”