Page 2 of Taking A Chance

“Goodnight,” I say, opening my car door and throwing my purse in the passenger seat.

I learned some time ago it’s shitty to give false hope. So I don’t tell him we should do this again. I don’t tell him to call me. I don’t even insinuate I will call him only to ghost him later. It’s the mature thing to do.

I head home, blaring my “Another Dud” playlist I curated specifically for the drive home after a shitty first date. The fact that I was in deep enough to feel the need to do that could be pathetic. Or awesome. It depends on your perspective.

At home, I unenthusiastically walk up three flights of stairs to my apartment. The building is old and there’s an elevator, but I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any elevators for that matter. To say moving into this place was a nightmare is an understatement.

I push my key into my door and hear the door across the hallway behind me begin to open.

Great. Probably my jerk neighbor escorting one of his ladies of the night out. I’m not even sure he catches their names; I only know that he and I have a very different approach to being single and dating. He casts a wide net, and pretty much drags in anything it catches. I use very specific bait in an effort to attract a very specific fish. My problem is, all the other fucking fish get to my bait first.

I hear him whisper something inaudible and look over my shoulder just in time to see him kiss a blonde on the cheek. I can feel her blushing from all the way over here. I roll my eyes and pretend to have trouble with my key so I can eavesdrop longer. I’m nosy, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

She steps into the elevator at the far end of the hall, past the stairwell, and my neighbor watches after her, smiling. When the elevator doors close, he turns toward me, leaning against his doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. I turn back to my key, all the while feeling the heat of his gaze on my back.

I’ve lived in this building for three years. Declan Walsh was already here when I moved in, and I only know his name because it’s on the mailbox downstairs. And because of the one interaction I’ve had with him.

A package addressed to him was delivered to my door. So, being the good neighbor I am, I walked it over to his apartment and knocked on his. He then proceeded to answer it—shirtless. I explained about the package, he took it from me. And then he stared at me, his eyes sweeping up and down my body for way too long. Then the jerk proceeded to ask me to come in. And I don’t think it was for a glass of lemonade, given the way he perused me. I called him a jerk, told him I’m not that kind of woman, and that’s quite literally the only time I’ve spoken to him other than occasionally muttering “jerk” under my breath in his presence.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says as I open my door.

Oh, right. He still continues to try to talk to me.

I huff and slam my door, as is my customary response to him.

Not that I’m complaining about the comfort of my own apartment, or the pajamas I slip into as soon as the door is locked behind me. It’s not even that I hate watching FRIENDS reruns or the bowl of popcorn perched in my lap. I love all of those things. Really, I do.

But the fact is, I’ll likely allow myself to fall asleep here on the couch, thankful I don’t have to work tomorrow. It comes down to one sad truth: I have grown to hate being alone, sleeping alone. I refuse to compromise and bring just anyone into my bed. I make self-deprecating jokes about my loneliness and dating life frequently. But mostly it’s to mask how sad I find it, how I long, how I yearn—yes, yearn—for someone.

Forthe one.

2

Cora

Letthe record reflect his name is Ian. And while we’re not exactly ziplining or picking fruit, he is taking me miniature golfing. It doesn’t quite get my blood pumping, but it’s not nearly as stuffy as dinner and a movie. As a matter of fact, he apparently has an entire day of activities planned. Normally I wouldn’t make such a lofty commitment on a first date, but what else was I going to do all day?

I lock up my apartment and meet him in the lobby downstairs. He’s not bad, not bad at all. Ian’s taller than me by a couple of inches, and standing at five-nine myself, you’d be surprised at how often that doesn’t happen. He’s also well-dressed but casual, has thick brown hair, and sparkling blue eyes. The longer I look at him, the more promising this feels.

A wide smile spreads across his lips as I approach. “You must be Ian,” I say, extending a hand.

“And you must be the beautiful Cora,” he says. Okay, laying it on a little thick, but I can stand to have my ego stroked a bit.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

He takes my hand in his and twists it at the wrist, bringing it to his lips and pressing a chaste kiss on top.Not bad, not bad.

“Are you ready for a good time?” he asks.

I nod, and he proceeds to open the door and wave me on.Wow, okay, holding the door open.Chivalry might not be dead after all.

At the miniature golf counter, he lets me pick my color ball first. I go for black, like my soul, and he raises an eyebrow at me as he picks up the red ball.

“Is darkness your friend?” he teases.

“Sometimes it’s my only friend.” I shrug and smirk, doing my best to be flirtatious. I’m not going to lie, flirting isn’t something I’m super skilled in, but I seem to do well enough to land dates.

He guides me out to the first hole with his hand on the small of my back, and I don’t mind. It’s actually nice. I take note of the warmth of his hands. They’re not clammy or sweaty. Believe it or not, as many dates as I’ve been on, that’s actually something I have to check for.

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