Page 44 of Endless Obsession

“None of those things make you boring,” he continues. “I’m inclined to think that it just means that there hasn’t been anyone who made you feel comfortable enough to try acting differently, without fear of how they’ll react if it doesn’t go entirely right. If you don’t like your food and want something else, if you end up disliking the place you chose to go on a whim. That they’ll accuse you of ruining the fun instead of finding ways to make it enjoyable anyway—or just cutting the plans short.”

“What would you have done if I didn’t like the food here?” I look at him curiously. “You planned this whole date so carefully. Wouldn’t you have been offended?”

Ivan chuckles. “No. Not at all. We would’ve left and found somewhere else to go.”

I’m startled by his response. I take a bite of the tender quail, wanting a moment to think about what to say in return. Nate would have berated me for not being adventurous enough, for not appreciating his effort. “I think I might just be a little bit of a homebody,” I admit. “Or at least someone who really likes their routine. I tend to do the same things every week. Lunch at the same cafe, happy hour with my friends once or twice a week, brunch on Sunday.”

Ivan shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying staying at home. I happen to really like my house, myself. And I like my time alone.”

I think about that as I finish the dish, wondering if maybe I’ve been too hard on myself all of this time. If maybe Ivan is right, and I just need a partner who won’t make me feel small and lesser if I don’t enjoy the leaps I might try to take.

After all, isn’t that what happened at Masquerade? I took a leap with Jaz, knowing that if I didn’t like it or if it was too much, she’d take me home and never make me feel bad about it. It makes me wonder what it would be like to have a partner who didn’t make me feel bad, either.

The last course is brought out to us—a delicate piece of honeycomb with vanilla ice cream and a puff of spun sugar, served with a sweet port. I’m surprised to see how quickly Ivan digs in, and it makes me laugh a little.

“You have a sweet tooth.”

He looks up at the observation, that same smirk at the corners of his mouth. “That surprises you?”

“Well—yeah.”

One eyebrow slowly rises. “Why is that?”

“I—-” I feel guilty for saying it, suddenly, like I’m judging him. “The tattoos,” I say finally. “I don’t know—I just thought you wouldn’t like sugar as much as you clearly do.”

He laughs, and I’m relieved to see that he doesn’t seem to be offended. “I’m different to you, aren’t I? Different from the men you usually date.”

Now I feel a little judged, but I can hardly say anything after what I just said to him. “Yeah,” I admit. “You are.”

“Well, now you know the two aren’t mutually exclusive.” He sips at the port, clearly still amused. “Here’s to a night of new things.”

I blush a little. I don’t think I’m missing the innuendo in that sentence. “I loved all of this,” I tell him honestly. “But you really didn’t have to do all of this to impress me. I’m much easier to please than this. I mean—” My blush deepens, as I realize all of the ways that sentence could be taken.

“Well, I know I said it was just dinner, but—” Ivan pauses. “I also have tickets to a show for us, if you’re up for that. I don’t know how you feel about the theatre, but Les Misérables is playing at Chicago’s Broadway right now, and I’ve heard it’s good.”

I laugh, shaking my head at him. “You’re right, that isn’t ‘just dinner.’ But I’m more than happy to continue the night for a little while.”

“Good.” He looks pleased. “I like spending time with you, Charlotte.”

“I feel the same way about you.” I bite my lip, feeling nervous at the admission. “And I like—all of this.” I look around at the restaurant. “But I really am just as happy with simple dates. I want you to know that. What I want is—” I hesitate, wondering if this is too much. If I should be telling him what it is I want when, just a little while ago, I made sure to emphasize how much I wasn’t looking for anything serious.

“What do you want?” He looks at me keenly, as if I’m on the cusp of telling him something vastly interesting, and I’m not sure how that makes me feel. I don’t think I’m really all that interesting, and I can’t help wondering if he’s faking the interest to get me to go home with him. It’s clear that he finds me attractive, but what I can’t figure out is why it would be more than that.

“I want someone who wants to spend time with me,” I tell him simply. “No matter what the date is. I want someone who’s just happy that we’re together.”

His gaze doesn’t leave mine, even for a second. “What is your preferred date then, Charlotte?”

He hasn’t tried to shorten my name once, I realize. It’s yet another thing that makes me like him more than I probably should.

I feel pretty certain that as soon as I tell him the truth, this carefully-crafted interest of his is going to start to fade. But I reason that that’s what I would want. I don’t want lies and pretense. I don’t need promises of forever, not right now, but I do need someone who will tell me the truth. So if he thinks my idea of a fun afternoon is silly, wouldn’t it be better to know now?

It’s a test, but I think it’s one worth giving him. I don’t think he’s the type to want to go on a casual, ordinary, get-your-hands-dirty kind of date, not when he drives an Aston Martin and takes me out to one of the most expensive dinners in the city, but now I want to know.

“It’s fall—my favorite season—so if I were choosing the date, we’d go apple picking,” I tell him. “And then we’d take them home and try to bake something together with them, and we’d get changed afterward and go to a movie. Just a normal movie, at a normal theater.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look put off. He grins—a real, wide grin, and nods. “Alright, then. That’s our next date. Apple picking, baking—which I’m very bad at, by the way, so plan to either put me on dish duty or for the pie to be inedible—and a movie. I’m all yours.”

That last sentence sends an entirely inappropriate flood of heat through me. “I’m not—” I start to say, and Ivan chuckles, interrupting me.

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