Page 5 of One Last Chance

It might be mostly a stereotype that alphas are always successful, rich, and confident individuals in society, but every stereotype certainly does come fromsomewhereand has some truth to it.

“Sir?”

I blink, quickly shifting my attention back to the host with a polite, tight-lipped smile.

“Follow me, please.”

I’m thankful for not having to face him as he turns and leads me to the back section of the restaurant. Come on, I try to psych myself out in the last moments I have.

It’s not like this is your first date. Or your first date that is most likely not going to go anywhere. It’s fine. It happens—it happens to me more than anyone I know. Should be used to it by now.

Was it the late-night scrolling through the dating app that got me this low, or the melancholy-filled leafing through the family album I progressed to afterward? Sitting on the couch with a bottle of wine at midnight and thinking about how I most likely won’t get to have the family I always wanted probablywasn’tthe best activity the day before this date.

“Your table.” I wasn’t even paying attention to where we were going, so when I blink and look up, the sight of the man already sitting at the intimate table tucked at the very back of the restaurant takes me back.

I just stare at him for a moment, lips parted. He is cute. I know I can’t be too picky, but Mom had set me up with enough guys that were nowhere near my type before to not get my hopes up.This one…yeah, he's handsome alright.

Quicker to act than me, he jumps up to shake my hand. He stands tall, maybe an inch or two over me, but that could be thanks to his polished, expensive shoes. Everything about him is clean, calculated, and just right. From those carefully coordinated dark shades he wears—his suit and the tie that matches his deep blue eyes—to the way his short, wavy hair is swept back and held by just the right amount of pomade. As I run my gaze over his freshly trimmed beard, so perfectly fullmost men would be jealous, I notice his nervous smile and snap into the moment.

“Thanks,” I quip to the host as he’s stepping away, having left two menus on the table. “Hey. Rowland, was it?” I brave meeting his eyes again, this time sounding a little more put-together.

Managing to steady my hand, I reach for him. His grip is firm but brief.

“Yes. Nice to meet you. You must be—”

“Dayton. Nice to meet you too,” I blurt, interrupting him rudely. I curse myself in my head while on the outside, I flash him an awkward smile and take my coat off before we both sit down.

He’s got a glass of what looks like whiskey in front of him already.Maybe he’s nervous, too. God, I hope so.

The table is in a pleasant spot, I must admit. I still hear the commotion from the main area, but the calm, atmospheric music back here takes precedence, creating a comfortable mixture of intimacy and an effortless, social atmosphere.

“Is this your first blind date?” he asks, voice low and somewhat reserved.

Shaking my head, I chuckle. “Oh, no. You’d…think I would get better at this by now,” I say while opening the menu to look busy. Checking if my self-deprecation worked, I glimpse one corner of his mouth sliding up.

“It really never gets less awkward, does it?”

Even though seeing the prices on the menu alone should have made my stomach even more distressed than it already was, the knot in my gut loosens instead. I cautiously raise my eyes up to him. He sounds understanding. Genuine.

Maybe this won’t be as horrible as I thought.

“Yeah,” I say, but the moment I notice he’s studying and judging me as well, assessing my value and compatibility, I feel the dread bubbling right back up in my throat.

“This, umm…it was my mother who made the reservation here. I know it is a bit extravagant. I’m more than happy to pay for whatever you get. Actually, I insist.” Though his voice is deeper than mine and has this glaze of confidence gained by the few years of life experience that separate us, I can tell he’s nervous.

“Thanks. I can afford it, but sure. This kind of place would probably be somewhere I would host a golden anniversary or something, not…a blind date,” I admit.

What am I even mumbling about? Do I sound ungrateful?

Rowland reaches for his drink. “Well, I suppose that’s what you get when you let your mother manage your dating life at thirty-eight.”

He’s trying to be candid, poking fun at himself. I can appreciate that.

Before I think of something witty and conversation-worthy to say back, a waitress comes by our table. “Hello, sirs. May I take your drink order, or have you decided on the meals as well?”

We look at each other, and I get some gin and tonic before we both pick the steak dishes. Unfortunately, once the woman leaves, we are left to our own devices again, and the awkward silence takes root once more.

“I was told you’re a data analyst,” Rowland says. Now that there’s no menu I can use as an excuse, I need to be a big boy and brave the brunt of his undivided attention. His gaze is careful, but something alluring draws me deeper, so I have to remind myself to look away periodically.

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