Page 38 of Her Dark Salvation

My love life. Boring and predictable. Just like my career.

“And that’s how I ended up with mysecondNational Academy of Engineering award.” David’s eyes settled on my face with his declaration, and I tore mine away from the marsala-drenched mushroom to smile and nod.

At least Mr. DeVita had been genuinely interested in me. We’d only known each other for a week, and he’d already asked about my family, my heritage, and my career. Meanwhile, I’d been seeing David for over a month, had known him from running club even longer, yet I was pretty sure he had no clue where I was from, much less that I was Italian. Thankfully, the server appeared to clear our dishes and gave me a moment to figure out my next move.

On paper, David was everything I should have wanted in a partner. He was successful, intelligent, and kind. We shared a similar education and career path. We both liked to run. He was handsome in an unassuming, traditional way. Healthy and fit. He had nice teeth.

Really, Anna? Nice teeth?

In reality, we had little in common and even less to talk about. And I’d just put his teeth in the “pro” column. Not to mention the orgasm-less trip to the bedroom after our last date. He may have had a PhD in chemical engineering, but there was absolutely zero chemistry happening in that bedroom, not with his vacant stare, stilted grunts, and robotic thrusts.

When he first asked me out, I’d been so hopeful. I was desperate to find connection, romance, and passion. But all I’d found with David were one-sided conversations, outings I’d rather have spent with Jeff, and unremarkable sex. A relationship with him was headed straight to nowheresville.

“Would you care for some dessert? Coffee?” David reached across the table for my hand.

Mr. DeVita held out his hand to help me out of the Range Rover. The image was quickly replaced by a closeup of his angular jaw. A muscle there twitched when his dark eyes settled on my breasts. A shiver went down my spine, and I blinked myself back into the moment.

God, I’m a horrible person.

David was being so sweet, trying to respect my boundaries. Ironically, that was part of the problem.

“No, thank you,” I said and carefully pulled my hand away.

He turned to the waiter. “Just the check, please.”

“Of course, sir,” the man replied and walked away.

The bend of David’s smile was sad but resigned. “This isn’t working, is it?”

“No,” I said with as much regret as I could muster despite my relief. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded and trailed his finger along the base of his water glass. “I thought you might say that.” He lifted one shoulder and gave me a half smile. “It was worth a shot though, right?”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “I think so.” I scrunched my face. “I hope it won’t be weird at running club.”

He laughed. “No. It won’t be weird. I promise.”

I believed him. He was too kind and too boring to create any sort of drama.

Horrible. Person.

The waiter returned with our check, and David paid, waving me off even as I reached for my purse. We walked out of the restaurant, and he kissed my cheek, thanking me for a pleasant evening. Then, he stepped to the curb and hailed a cab.

Apparently, my midlife awakening wasn’t taking any prisoners. Tonight’s lackluster dinner had put an exclamation point on the fact my career wasn’t the only thing in need of a makeover. In terms of dissatisfaction, my love life came in a close second.

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and took off in the other direction, cursing myself for not wearing gloves. The crisp night air felt clean and refreshing against my face, like I’d broken free from another shackle holding me back. I wanted to soak in the freedom. My condo in Harvard Square was only two miles away. At least I wasn’t wearing heels.

I loved walking through Cambridge at night. It was so much quieter than during the day when students carpeted the sidewalks like ants and cars raced and honked their way from one university to the next. It was peaceful at night and gave me a chance to reflect and enjoy the city’s old-world charm.

Old-world charm. Mr. DeVita wore old world charm like cologne.

This was starting to become a bad habit, but I couldn’t get the images of him offering me his arm out of my mind. Or how we’d connected in the backseat of the Range Rover. He’d understood me on a level I knew went deeper than the shared experience of people our age. I wanted to know more, but he’d thrown up his walls almost as soon as they’d come down.

And the undercurrent of danger that followed in his wake? It zipped through me like electricity. His unfiltered intensity was as sexy as it was intimidating.

Something tickled the hairs on the back of my neck. I snapped my head around to look over my shoulder. The street was empty aside from a handful of pedestrians and cars. But half a block later, I still couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched. My paranoia snowballed, and I darted across the street, speed-walking for Mass Ave, constantly checking my back.

The lights, traffic, and Saturday night bar crowd on the busy street eased my paranoia but didn’t take it away. My overactive imagination had me on high alert ever since Don Valenzano had walked off the elevator with his meathead bodyguard. The visit to city hall and Siobhán’s talk about “connections” hadn’t helped. Despite assurances to the contrary, Mr. DeVita exuded mafioso, or at least, what I imagined was mafioso based on the movies.

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