1: In Which She Gets the Low-Down on a Hook-Up (1/2)
1: In Which She Gets the Low-Down on a Hook-Up
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“So,” Evan Winters began as he helped me out his car, “are you going to invite me in for coffee?”
It was nearing midnight and, to be honest, I was glad that our Friday night “date” was finally, finally over. My lowly apartment building had never looked so inviting.
“Coffee?” I arched a brow. “Unless you're masochistic or planning on pulling an all-nighter for some reason, coffee is the last thing you should be drinking at this hour.”
Bright light was spilling across the complex’s parking lot, which was how I was able to see the absolutely comical look of bewilderment on Evan’s pretty-boy face.
“Um, then how about tea?” he amended, latching on to my arm and tugging me toward the lobby of the building.
I jerked away from him, forgoing niceties. “I hate tea. Look, Evan –”
“Juice, then? Soda? Water?”
“I know that coffee is code for sex, so cut the crap.” I sighed resignedly before pulling out the big guns. “You're a nice guy so I’ll be honest here. I don’t know what Savita’s told you but…my ex runs with the Russian mob. He thinks he still has some kind of warped claim to me which is why the last guy who took me out…” Trailing off, I made a show of looking justifiably traumatised. “Well, let’s just say the poor man blinks once for yes and twice for no these days.”
Evan adjusted his collar, puppy-dog eyes wide. “I, uh, see. Well, I’ll be on my way and I, um, hope you have a nice life. I mean, night. ’Bye, Ophelia.”
Scrambling back to his Mercedes, he tripped and fell, cursing audibly.
“Are you OK?” I called out, stifling a laugh.
“I’m fine!” he yelled back, getting to his feet and diving back into the confines of his car. Seconds later, tyres screeched as he got the hell out of Dodge.
“Pussy,” I muttered, turning on my heel and striding into the building.
They usually were. It didn’t matter if it was the Russian mob, the Italian mafia or a Mexican cartel – the end result of my story time was the same: My dates running faster than Usain Bolt on steroids from my imaginary dangerous ex.
My phone rang once I was ensconced in the elevator. I considered ignoring it until it became crystal clear that Savita was not going to give up.
“If it isn’t Miss Matchmaker herself,” I chirped.
“Did you tell Evan the mob story?” Savita exclaimed in my ear. “The poor guy just threatened to kill me. At midnight, no less! How’d you make someone as unassuming as Evan turn menacing?”
“It’s not my fault he’s a gullible idiot. Sadly, all the guys you try to hook me up with barely have two brain cells to rub together.”
“All the men I send your way are intelligent, make good money and are fairly good-looking,” Sav countered, heaving a sigh. “Don’t you want to be happy, O?”
I felt a momentary flash of anger and quickly quelled it. Sav Patel was my best and most trusted friend in the world. We’d known each other since we were six but now that we were twenty-four, I sometimes wondered what my life would’ve been like without her meddling in my private affairs. Like my love life, for example. Married to her high school sweetheart and an old friend of ours, Ryan Michaels, Sav had taken it upon herself to hook me up with the entire population of bachelors in Florida.
“You know I do,” I replied solemnly, stepping out the elevator and marching to my apartment door. “I want what my parents have. But not now. You know about my plan.”
I could picture Savita rolling her almond-shaped, hazel eyes as she snorted. “Oh, right – The Plan. Get a fulfilling job. Get your own house. Blow your nose and take a shit every two days. Get married at thirty. Did I miss something?”
I laughed, unlocking my door and pushing it open. “You're ridiculous but yeah, you get the gist. I’ll meet the guy of my dreams when I’m good and ready and not before.” Envelopes littered the entranceway, obviously pushed under the door. My brow furrowed. “Dammit, I told this man not to push things under my door. That’s why mailboxes were invented.”
“The super?” I’d totally forgotten Sav was still on the phone. “You're still beefing with the old guy?”
I collected the stack of letters and placed them on my coffee table. “We’re not beefing,” I lied. Edgar Fenwick, the building’s superintendent, and I had a short history of butting heads. He was intrusive and I was apparently condescending. “He deliberately does things to annoy me. That’s it.”
“Get over it. The guy’s, like, ninety. So Ryan has this colleague that I –”
“No way,” I interjected, quickly shutting that shit down. “No more. Evan was the last straw.”
“What was so wrong with Evan?”
I chewed my lower lip. Good question. What was so wrong with Evan? He was smart and didn’t think the Rosetta stone was a piece of jewellery. As an accountant, he was good with numbers yet didn’t show off about it. He wasn’t the handsomest guy but then again, I wasn’t superficial. Anymore. Still, he had a nice face and white teeth and maybe if he hadn’t asked for coffee, I would’ve considered going out with him again.
Who was I kidding?
“He didn’t excite me,” I confessed, idly picking up a thin envelope I knew contained my electricity bill. I was no longer a naïve teenager that believed in true love and boys like Mikhail Alvonich but surely a man had to at least make my heart race and nether regions throb.
A long silence met me from the other end of my phone before Savita offered tentatively, “I didn’t know that that was what you were looking for.”
“I’m not looking for excitement,” I emphasised, throwing the envelope back down and picking up another. “Jeez, Sav, this isn’t When Harry Met Sally.”
“And we’re back to Miss Cynical. I wondered when she’d make her reappearance.” She paused. “Well, Ryan has this friend who’s been in prison. Tax evasion, but that’s still exciting, right?”
“Not that kind of excitement. I’m not interested in Wesley Snipes.” I absentmindedly turned the cream-coloured envelope over and nearly bit my tongue. “Crap.”
“What? What is it?”
Ominously staring back at me was the Alvonich royal seal – a red circle with the black outline of a fox in the centre. Just that image brought back the memory of the first and only time I’d ever set foot in Ruslavia, ever set foot in the royal palace.
It had happened years ago yet it felt like only a day had passed since I’d had my first and only orgasm at the hands of my love interest’s uncle. Reliving the shame, I recalled how I’d made some lousy excuse about being summoned to join my parents in Corfu for Christmas. My friends – Mickey included – had seen me to the airport and I hadn’t been to Ruslavia since, although I’d had plenty of invitations.
Just the idea of seeing Nikolai again made me ill. Something more had happened that night, something I didn’t want to analyse too much: He’d ruined me for other men.
The sad thing was that while it was a powerful sexual awakening for me, it was nothing more than a sleepy roll in the dark with a warm body for him. Desperate to feel wanted, I’d thrown myself at the Nikolai and didn’t even have the good fortune of being able to say that I had no idea of who he was.
Mikhail had mentioned his uncle thousands of times before so I knew he’d been twenty-six when he’d given me the best sex of my life. Mikhail’s father, the current king, was twenty years older than Nikolai and had practically raised him after their father, the previous monarch, passed away.
Eight years older than me, Nikolai should have known better. How could I ever look Mikhail in the eye knowing that I’d slept with his uncle? It was…wrong, which was why I hadn’t seen my friend in almost six years.
What does he want? I thought, holding the envelope away from me like it was herpes in a package. Despite the distance and years, Mickey and I were still friends and I knew that I could call him whenever. I knew Mikhail’s father was alive and well – even remarried – therefore Mikhail wasn’t up for the throne anytime soon. Whatever was in the envelope was so important that he couldn’t pick up the phone and call me.
Maybe it’s him.
“Ophelia? You there?”