Page 5 of Secret Love

“Bullshit.” She smirks. “I bet you have some narcissistic drive. Like a grandiose sense of self-importance with an extreme inability to recognize the feelings and needs of others.”

I raise a brow. “Not bad.”

“Really?” Her face lights up. “I knew I’d figure you out. I’m only a year into my degree and I’m already really good at it.”

“What degree?”

“Psychology.”

“Good for you.”

“You’re dodging my questions.”

“You’re not entitled to answers.”

She sits back and huffs. “Okay, fine. You’re right. I’m not. It’s just weird, that’s all. And intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” I repeat.

“Yes, you intrigue me.” She gestures across the table. “You’re obviously in great shape, so it’s not like you don’t want to fuck me because you’re self-conscious. We’ve talked for hours, but you’ve never really said anything about who you are or where you came from. It’s like you’re running from something, but I don’t feel unsafe around you. Sometimes, I even think, ‘Wow, he might actually like me,’ and yet, you won’t even tell me your name.”

“You know my name.”

“Your name is not Channing Tatum.”

I smirk. “It could be.”

She rolls her eyes. “Look, I get it. You’re the walking personification of the tall, dark, and handsome stranger and you obviously like it that way.” Her shoulders bounce in defeat. “I guess it would be easier to hate you if you were more of an asshole to me.”

I reach into my back pocket for my wallet and pull out a small stack of twenty-dollar bills. “Sorry,” I say as I fold it up and set it on the table in front of her. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

Darla eyes the money but doesn’t take it. “And you always pay cash, so I can’t trace your payment.”

I breathe a small laugh, drink the last sip of my beer, and stand up. “Goodnight.”

“Wait.” She turns in her chair toward me. “One more question. I promise it’ll be the last time I ever ask.”

I pause. “What?”

“Why do you really request me every time? Do I remind you of someone?” She chews on her lip. “You know, someone other than a glamorous movie star?”

“No,” I lie. “Like I said. Consistency.”

Her eyes narrow, not believing a word of it as she grabs the money off the table. She reaches into her purse and withdraws a pen, quickly scribbling something on the top dollar before holding it all out for me to take back.

“Well, whoever she is,” she says, “I hope you two are happy someday.”

I take the money and turn it over to read what she wrote.

Her phone number.

“If all you wanted was a friend, Channing,” she says, her voice calm and warm, “then, it’s a whole lot cheaper than this. You just have to let someone in.”

I place the money back into her open palm. “That costs a lot more than you think,” I say before I turn and walk away from the table.

She cringes, obviously hurt by the rejection, but I catch her shoving the money into her purse as I exit the bar.

Sorry, Darla. It’s not you. Letting people in is just something I don’t do anymore.

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