Page 48 of The Opposite of Romance
By the evening, I’m fairly certain that the cramps have been successfully prevented. I’m also certain I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol tonight. Maybe I shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery, either, judging by the sheer number of pills I had today. Just the thing to make this sexless, talkless date better.Now it’s also sober!
Fuck, I’m already giving Jaxon a run for his money in grumpiness.
I push my feet into low, open-toed heels and squeeze my bloated belly into black high-waisted jeans. Skinny jeans, of course, I’m too old for the wide-legged shit.
Pasta will do wonders for these pants!
My brain comes up with another sarcastic remark, obviously on a roll. He’s taking me to an Italian restaurant, and though my stomach aches to stuff itself with carby deliciousness, my brain has a need to shit all over my mood.
I should’ve canceled tonight.
But as the sound of the doorbell echoes in my entryway, I realize it’s too late to do that.
Luckily, the sight of the long-haired Alexander Skarsgård at my doorstep is enough to snap me out of my funk.
“Hi.” I shoot him a hopefully cute smile.
He dips his head in a greeting.
Oookay. We’re off to a great start.
I spend the drive to the restaurant, which is somewhere on the way from Ocean’s Harbor to Seattle, pumping myself up for this.
I had two horrible dates, but third time’s the charm, right?
He fills the space of the car with his massive presence, his shoulders covered in a leather jacket, although there’s no actual need for it tonight. That’s the only thing he fills, though, because you can hear crickets with the loud silence.
“So,” I attempt a conversation. “Had a lot of work today?”
“Always do.”
“It must be an interesting job.”
“Hummpft.”
There he is.
I embrace the silence rather than trying to push this awkward conversation, and soon, he’s shifting the truck in park. He doesn’t open the door, but he comes around to my side to help me get out of it. The truck is so tall I practically jump into his arms, but he doesn’t even flinch.
The restaurant is a cute place with a large flashing pizza sign and red and white checkered tablecloths. The scent of garlic and herbs invades my nostrils and suddenly, my mood is better. Jaxon greets the host with a serious nod and heads right inside.
The server brings us menus and I feel myself salivating in anticipation of the delicious food.
“Sorry, I’m not much of a talker,” he says. “Your car ok?”
“Yes. It works great. I also feel much safer now that I know everything works properly.”
“Hmmpft. You should really have it checked regularly.”
“Oh, I will.”
“What do you do?” He takes a sip of his scotch after a skittish server brings us the drinks.
“I’m a writer. I write books.”
His eyes widen in awe. “What kind of books?”
Here we go. While I’m massively proud of what I accomplished, people often play it off like a joke because it’s romance. Like that makes it a childish hobby instead of a serious career. It used to bother me in the early days, but now I shrug it off. It’s their own prejudices toward women and things we like that bother them. My success has nothing to do with it.
