Page 91 of Female Fantasy
“Allow me to ask you again,” Nix muses, humor in his voice. “When does the Prince of Atlantia plan to strike?”
The water is at my neck now. I am gulping down all the air I can. Why did I not spend more time practicing holding my breath when I had the chance?
And that is when I realize the siren’s true aim.
But it is too late.
All I can do now is close my eyes and pray for mercy as Nix begins to waterboard me.
Chapter Nineteen
I follow Ryan Mare to an American restaurant in the East Thirties, careful to stay ten steps behind him, in constant fear of being caught. The entire walk, he speaks quickly into a wireless earpiece, punctuating his words with cackles and exclamations of “My man!” When we reach the door of the eatery, he checks the time on his phone. Satisfied with what he sees, he strolls in and waves to the hostess, a robust woman in her thirties whom he calls sweetheart. She blushes as he takes a seat at the bar and orders his what he calls his usual: a pint of beer and a Caesar salad with extra chicken, no anchovies.
A few minutes later, I take a deep breath and enter the restaurant after him.
The hostess greets me, color still staining her cheeks. “Table for one?” she asks, peering behind me.
I shake my head. “Any chance I can grab a seat at the bar?”
She hands me a menu, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” I wink at her. “I’ll need it.”
But despite my false air of confidence, my palms are sweating.
Breathe, Joonie.
You’ve got this.
But holy shit.
I’m about to meet Ryan Mare.
MyRyke.
This is the moment. The one we might someday tell our children about.
I slide onto a stool next to him, smiling at the bartender in an attempt to mask my discomfort. He asks me if I’d like a drink, and I open my mouth to request a Shirley Temple, but instead I hear myself say the wordChardonnay. I guess my subconscious needs a little bit of liquid courage?
And besides, Ryan Mare is drinking at noon on a random weekday. Why the hell can’t I?
The bartender pours my wine while studying me, but my eyes are glued to Ryan Mare’s profile. The movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows down his IPA, the gold pendant that hangs from a delicate chain around his neck, the flex of his jaw as he checks his phone.
All so familiar, yet so novel.
Ryke.
I’m working up the nerve to say something to him when the waitress interrupts. “What do you want?” she asks, her tone a bit clipped.
“Um.”
To fall in love.
To meet my soul mate.
To know that I’m worthy of a happy ending.
“Tuna club, please?”
