Page 26 of Endless Obsession

“Why?” I blurt out. I can feel that I’m still staring at him, but I can’t seem to relax. This is all strange, and I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never had lunch with a stranger. I’ve never had a stranger approach me like this in public—not in a way that I’d entertain, anyway. All of my dates have always been with friends of friends—people that I’ve been set up with—or men like Nate, who I met through some official channel. I met Nate in class, my senior year of college.

But I’m trying new things. And as I wait for his answer, I’m sure that this qualifies.

His mouth twists wryly, as if he’s unsure if I’ll like what he’s about to say. “I know I’m not supposed to say that it’s because you’re beautiful. But you are. You’re stunning. And I want to get to know you, so I can find out what all the deeper parts of you are that would make me fall in love with you regardless of how gorgeous you are.”

“Did you get that from a book?” I bite my lip instantly, realizing how rude that must have sounded. “I’m sorry. Just—no one says things like that. I figured you would just tell me that it was because you thought I was hot, and leave it at that.”

“You are.” He grins, and it’s captivating. It softens all the chiseled lines of his face, makes my heart beat wildly in my chest. “But I’m sure there’s more to you. I just need the chance to find it all out.”

I take a breath, but before I can say anything, the server comes back to our table. He has my chicken salad sandwich in one hand, and he looks at my new lunch date, raising an eyebrow.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

“A water, please,” the man says smoothly. “And I’ll have—” he glances down at the menu. “The steak and gouda melt. Thanks.” He hands the menu back to the server, and I take the plate with my sandwich; my appetite fled. I don’t know how I’m expected to eat in front of this man. My stomach feels like it’s in knots.

“What’s your name?” It’s the simplest, safest question that I can think of, until I can get my head straight again.

“Ivan Vasili.” He smiles. “Very Russian, I know. But my family is very traditional.”

“I’m Charlotte.” I reach for my glass of water, my mouth suddenly very dry. “Charlotte Williams.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte.”

I still can’t decide if I should get up and leave. If I should be offended that this man has decided he can come and take over my lunch hour, just because he wanted to meet me. But being attracted to someone isn’t a crime, and neither is talking to them. He’s done his best to be polite about it, even apologetic about the parts of his approach that have been, admittedly, rude.

And he’s gorgeous. I can’t be upset about him leading with his opinion of my looks when at least three-quarters of the reason I haven’t asked him to leave or gotten up to leave myself is because of how handsome he is.

The other quarter is because I’m curious about him, too.

“So tell me something about yourself.” That smile is still on his mouth, and he takes a sip of his water, his expression openly curious. “What do you do?”

“I work just down the street. In their IT department.” I’m not sure I want to give him the actual name of my workplace yet, even though that would be a relatively easy thing to find. He could just look me up on LinkedIn. But if this man is going to dig for information on me, I at least want to make him put in some effort. “What about you?”

“I’m an independent contractor.” He grins. “Which is just a fancy way of saying I’m not good with routine, but I like money, so I’ve learned to be my own boss. I mostly deal with tech stuff, too. Some financials. A lot of it is locked behind NDAs, though, so I can’t tell you too much.”

The evasiveness makes me nervous. But it’s not unheard of. There are parts of my job that I can’t talk about. Sarah, another one of our friend group, works for the FDIC. She can’t tell us about most of her job, and she has a laptop that she’d go to prison if anyone but her looked at it. There are plenty of legitimate jobs that can’t just be talked about freely. I can understand the need for confidentiality when it comes to that.

“Tell me something more interesting than just what you do for work, though,” he adds. “What about—hobbies? What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“I—well, I go to the gym. Yoga, cardio, that kind of thing. Nothing all that unique. I have a standing Sunday brunch date with my girlfriends. I like to read.” I realize, with every word out of my mouth, just how dull my life sounds. No talk about travel or trying new restaurants or anything even remotely exciting. I wouldn’t blame him if he just got up and walked away.

“A quiet life.” He smiles. “That sounds relaxing.”

I narrow my eyes at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s making fun of me. It doesn’t sound like he is.

“What do you like to read? I’m partial to mysteries, myself. I like a good paranormal thriller.”

I can’t help the slight shudder that runs through me at that. “I’m easily scared,” I admit. “And I don’t like books that are really tense. I read a lot of—I guess women’s fiction is the genre. Stories about families, generational plots, that kind of thing. Low-stress.”

“Is your job particularly stressful?” He looks at me curiously.

“No,” I admit. “I guess I just—don’t like to feel anxious. I don’t like tension.” I don’t know this man well enough to explain the things I’m realizing about myself to him—that I’m anxious all the time in my daily life, that I always want to please others, to be the good friend and partner and employee that I feel I’m supposed to be. That the thought of pushing myself, of feeling tension or fear in my hobbies, makes me nauseous. That when I’m alone, I just want to feel peace.

Except—

I didn’t feel peaceful at Masquerade. I felt out of my comfort zone. Shoved out of it, really, like a baby bird learning to fly. Terrified, quite frankly. But by the end of it?—

By the end of it, I felt like a lifetime’s worth of tension had been wrung out of me. Like all that buildup, all that tension and nervousness, was worth it for the exquisite pleasure that I’d felt at the end.

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