Page 28 of Can't Stop Watching
I busy myself rearranging bottles that don't need rearranging. "So tomorrow night? I'm off." The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I mentally kick myself. God, could I sound more desperate? Why not just hand him my calendar with all my free time highlighted?
His face doesn't change, but something in his eyes does—a flicker of intensity that makes my stomach drop. Not in fear. In something else entirely.
"Tomorrow works," he says, that steel-gray gaze still holding mine.
His voice is so low I almost have to lean in to hear him over the ambient noise. Bad idea. Leaning in means smelling him—a combination of clean cotton, faint cologne, and something distinctly male that makes my brain short-circuit.
I nod, trying to look casual while my internal monologue is screaming. What the actual hell are you doing, Lila? This is the exact opposite of your "no dangerous men" policy. And this guy? Walking red flag factory.
"I'll text you the address," I hear myself saying, reaching for a napkin and sliding it toward him. "Your number?"
He pulls out a sleek black pen from nowhere—of course he carries an actual pen—and writes a series of digits in precise, angular handwriting. Even his penmanship is controlled. Tessa would have a field day psychoanalyzing that.
"Until tomorrow," Dane says, finishing his whiskey in one smooth motion and standing up. He leaves cash on the counter—way more than necessary, always—and walks out without looking back.
I stare at the napkin with his number, the reality of what I've just done sinking in.
What's the worst that could happen? my brain helpfully supplies. Oh, I don't know—death, dismemberment, heartbreak?
Or maybe just dinner.
LILA
The next day—Friday afternoon—I'm trying on outfit number five in Tessa's walk-in closet, which is bigger than my entire bathroom. For someone who tries to play down her trust fund, my best friend has a ridiculous amount of designer clothes.
"What about this one?" I emerge wearing a black dress that's probably simple by Tessa's standards but costs more than my monthly student loan payment.
Tessa tilts her head, appraising me with narrowed eyes. "Too funeral chic. We need something that says 'I'm sophisticated but could still kick your ass if needed.'"
"Is that the vibe we're going for?" I pull at the too-tight fabric. "Because right now I'm giving 'can't breathe and definitely can't run away if he turns out to be a serial killer.'"
"Lila! He's not a serial killer. There areniceguys out there." Tessa rifles through another rack. "He's just an extremely hot, slightly intimidating ex-military private detective who beat up three frat boys with his bare hands. Like I said… nice."
"When you put it like that, how could I possibly be nervous?" I roll my eyes, stepping out of the dress. Though I can't deny the appeal, my answer to the call of danger.
Tessa's apartment is what she calls "modest", a one-bedroom in East Village with exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Her parents pay for it, of course, but Tessa tries not to flaunt her wealth. She just happens to live like someone who's never had to choose between dinner and electricity.
"Try this." She tosses me a deep green silk slip dress. "It'll make your eyes pop, and it's casual enough that you won't look like you're trying too hard."
I slide it on, and damn if she isn't right. The fabric feels like water against my skin, and the color makes my pale complexion look luminous instead of ghostly.
"Holy shit, Tess. I look..."
"Gorgeous," she finishes, beaming. "Dane Wolfe won't know what hit him."
I stare at my reflection. The dress hugs my curves without being tight, falling to just above my knees. I look like myself, but a version that doesn't have to work doubles on weekends when things get tough.
"Okay, but what exactly does one talk about with a guy in his thirties? My dating pool has been exclusively broke students who think splurging is buying the name-brand ramen."
Tessa hands me a pair of ankle boots with a sensible heel. "Just be yourself. He obviously likes you physically and vise versa, but if you want a true connection, that's the way to go." She pauses, grinning. "Though maybe skip the part where you Google-stalked him at 2 AM."
"I did not Google-stalk him!" I protest. "I conducted preliminary background research. It's called journalism." I found only surface level things about me. The guy doesn't do social media. Not that I'm surprised.
"Uh-huh. And was the forty minutes you spent looking at his LinkedIn photo also 'journalism'?"
I throw a pillow at her head. "I hate you."
"You love me." She dodges expertly. "Just remember, more mature guys appreciate directness. None of that game-playing bullshit. If you like him, tell him. If he's moving too fast, tell him that too."
