Page 1 of A Shot in the Dark
Chapter 1
Something is definitely wrong with me. Standing at the foot of the massive bed and staring at one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met as he sleeps, I realize that I am completely and utterly broken. I slip another gold bracelet onto my wrist and steady my breathing. His expression peaceful, Jonathan Ridzler has no idea what hell I’m about to rain down on him—regardless of the fact I wouldn’t wish him any harm. He’s one of the kindest and most powerful men in the international business community and he’s pursued me relentlessly for the past three months. He’s wined and dined me and done everything and more than expected of a man in his position pursuinganywoman.
He treats me like a princess. No, a queen. Ours should’ve been a whirlwind romance. I should feel more than just impressed by his pursuit: the dinners in Paris and breakfasts in Milan, the private jets and extravagant cars, Fiji, Bali—shopping sprees to put Cinderella’s magical ballgown and coach to shame. Fucking Dubai.
I should feel some emotional attachment.
Somelove.
I should fly to pieces in ecstasy in his powerful arms and sleep more deeply than ever before curled beside him in the afterglow. That’s how I know I’m broken: because even with all of the wonderful things making him who he is, and everything he provides for me, regardless of how much I try, I feel nothing beyond a passing fondness for him.
It’s not that anything obvious is wrong. On paper, we’re a perfect match. In bed we do okay, too: everything works and everything fits and feels fine, but he doesn’tdoanything for me.
There are no fireworks.
The lack of them has got to be my fault.
It’s nothing new—it’s like this all the time for me. No matter how much I believe the person is the right fit, I never feel that spark— that magic— that we’re all promised in fairytales and romance novels. It only makes me believe more firmly that I’m not designed for a permanent, committed relationship.
Before Jonathan, I’d come to the conclusion that it was simply a matter of me being unable to commit. I tried. I dated all the “right” guys, even engaged a professional matchmaker as unmarried women of my social standing sometimes do. I went on every date and attended every mixer that she assigned me.
It resulted in some pretty good sex. There was never that connection I hungered for, and finally she explained that I was the first client she would not renew a contract with. “You can’t be matched,” she said. Talk about being a loser in love.
The more often I try to find my “one,” the more I think she must’ve known the truth about me before I came to grips with it. Something’s wrong with my wiring, something stopping me from being able to connect permanently with anyone. Maybe it’s because of some unresolved childhood trauma. Maybe knowing that my parents died in a horrible car crash stuck in my brain and broke my heart too much for it to ever connect right to anyone else.
They had been a perfect match, never wanting anything more than each other. They called me their “bonus.” They deserved long lives and a well-earned happily ever after. Maybe that’s my issue—if they couldn’t have forever, what’s the point in me even trying?
Laryssa claims it’s my “Goldilocks complex.” Nothing’s quite right for me, no man is good enough. No one truly fits.
Everyone my age who wants someone seems to have already found their special someone. Leaving me faced, once again, with the awful reality that, for me, a special one may not exist.
When Jonathan came into my life, I had the audacity to hope it could work after all.
Damn my occasional battle with optimism. If I could just let go of my expectations and settle for Jonathan, things could be so…nice? Simple? Easy.
Uncomplicated.
I can’t. It wouldn’t be right or real.
Or true.
So now I have to break some poor guy’s heart because it’s unfair to keep stringing him along when he thinks there’s more to this than I can ever provide. It’s better if it’s fast and fierce. Like ripping off a bandaid. It’s better if he hates me than for him to think there’s anything to return to. Hate’s empowering, and strangely, the one kindness I can do is to give him that.
When he wakes he finds me already packing.
Quickly.
“Hey you,” he mumbles as he lifts himself onto one elbow. “We’re in Dubai three more days.” He yawns. “Where do you think you’re headed?” he asks as a sleepy smile stretches across his face.
For a heartbeat I reconsider. I could do this, couldn’t I? Keep pretending to be someone I’m not? Fake it ‘til I make it?Something in my stomach sours at the thought. I’d be faking it forever because I’ll never feel what Jonathan wants me to.
It’s not in me.
With me out of the way he can figure himself out and find the love of his life. He deserves that. Everyone deserves that forever love—even if some of us are fated to never find it.
Shit. Better get it over with. “I’m heading home.”
He rubs the sleep from his eyes, clearly confused.
