Page 23 of All I Desire

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

“It’s definitely nice to meet you.” Jordan’s eyes roam down my face and land on my breasts. “Somehow I thought you’d be taller. And blonder. You should wear your hair down. Your ears stick out a little.”

My hand goes to my nape, and I snatch it away from my bun. Deep in my body, my stomach churns. “So, how long did it take you to get here?”

He shrugs. “’Bout a half-hour.”

I nod, trying to diffuse the conversation storm that I feel brewing. “You originally from Sarasota?”

“Nah. Ohio. Moved here a couple of years ago.”

“Oh.” I smile, awaiting the usual conversational back-and-forth. When none comes, I try again. “Do you come to Paradise Beach often?”

He blinks. “What is this, a job interview?”

My mouth goes dry. “Um. Just trying to find out more about you. Like people do, you know. On dates.”

He grins, another toothy, dazzling smile. “Dates. Is this a date? I thought we were here to get some food then hit the sack.” He makes a little thrusting motion with his fist. “Just kidding. Where the fuck is the waitress?”

Oh, yeah. This is going down the toilet, fast. My initial instinct to kick him in the balls was the correct one. I narrow my eyes. “You seemed quite different online. Am I at the right table? You’re Jordan, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s me. You think I’m a dick?” he asks in a surly, slightly menacing tone. Eek. Not good.

I glance around, hoping to catch the eye of Dexter. Maybe I can scarf down some oysters and hightail it out of here.

A sigh escapes my mouth. Maybe I’m being harsh. I force a smile. “Let’s try this again. I’m Natalia.”

The corners of his mouth turn up, but he shows no teeth. “Jordan. Nice to meet you.”

I lean forward, inhaling the briny, garlicky, seafood smell. “Tell me something interesting. What have you been doing lately? I recall online that you said something about being an avid cable news watcher.”

Nodding, he drums his fingers on the table. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure out why so many people these days are going nuts and shooting everyone. I think it might be all those popular TV shows. I call it diarrhea TV.”

Oookay. Maybe I can get a to-go bag for the oysters. My eyes dart around the room, then finally out the window at the pretty, blue Gulf water. I’ll say I’m going to the bathroom and try to snag some oysters on my way out.

He continues. “Like Orange is the New Black, Jane the Virgin, Downton Abbey. Diarrhea.”

“What?” I whisper, squinting. That doesn’t even make sense. All of my favorite shows. Is this guy for real? I’m saved from lobbing a snarky comeback his way by the waitress, a clearly overworked woman of about forty. The place is packed and she’s seemingly the only server.

“We’ll have a bottle of pinot noir and the calamari,” Jordan snaps. “And make it quick. I’m starving over here.”

I realize my face is frozen in a squinty grimace, but I don’t bother to relax my muscles. Nasty phone demeanor? Check. Snide comments about my appearance almost immediately, as if he’s trying to tear me down? Check. Arrogant to the wait staff? Check.

It’s like the trifecta of awful male behavior in one ridiculous three-minute span. What attracted me to this guy on Tinder, anyway? I rack my brain, trying to remember. Oh, right. He asked about my cat and didn’t crack cat-lady-spinster jokes.

Lord, that’s pathetic. And sad. Really fricking disappointing, too. Why can’t men be, well, decent human beings?

“I’m the kind of guy who likes to keep current with the news, you know?”

I nod weakly, but offer no response. The squinty grimace is now permanent.

“The waitress better bring us water soon. I’m fucking parched. If she doesn’t, I’m complaining to the manager. I do that, you know. Don’t cut ‘em any slack.”

If there’s something I loathe, it’s people who are nasty to service workers. Probably because I spend so much time working with them at the resort.

I’ll admit that after years of being in an abusive, terrible, dysfunctional relationship in high school, I’m a little sensitive to men who exhibit certain alpha tendencies. Hell, I was so scared and adamant about not being bullied by my ex, Chad, ever again that I took up martial arts.

After Chad, I also vowed to always listen to my gut. Right now, my gut’s screaming that this guy’s bad news. My hand goes to my purse strap, but I want oysters, badly. My dignity battles it out with my stomach over whether I should leave.

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