Page 2 of Everything She Wanted

I sit for a while, taking it all in, when I feel eyes on me. I glance around the room, and that’s when I see him casually looking my way. Cool with a hint of something I can’t put my finger on. Self-assurance, maybe? He looks grounded and unbothered, like he doesn’t have anything to prove to anyone. He knows who he is.

At first, I think I’m imagining it, but then our eyes meet and he smiles. I quickly turn away to take another sip of my drink, but find my glass almost empty. I sit there awkwardly but try to act casual. When I glimpse him moving closer from the corner of my eye, my heart races.

Dressing up like someone special is one thing, but acting like that empowered version of me is a whole other thing.

“Can I get you a drink?” He stares at my glass and gives me a breathtaking smile as he leans on the bar next to me. He’s hot as hell, and I freeze. I can’t glance away from his piercing blue eyes, and I stare for longer than is socially acceptable.

I catch myself shifting uncomfortably while trying to look like the picture of elegance, and I turn toward the bar as he takes the stool next to me. I catch a whiff of his cologne as he sits down, and the scent is intoxicating: musky, with notes of dark pine and sandalwood, like a forbidden forest. He smells like a delicious mistake I want to make.

“I, um, sure.” Act like her. I criticize myself silently. It isn’t every day you get to reinvent yourself.

The bartender materializes as if on cue.

“What can I get you?”

The beautiful stranger gestures for me to speak first.

“A gin and tonic, please.”

“I’ll have the same.”

He turns to face me, and I take in more of him. He’s striking—the sharp lines of his jaw frame his symmetrical face. His hair is a soft golden blonde, but his eyebrows and lashes are darker, adding intriguing dimension. His skin is smooth and radiant, like I’m staring at a face online with a filter. Sun-kissed like he just got back from a tropical vacation, with a hint of stubble forming. It’s a face that belongs on the cover of GQ and not seated beside me. A slight smirk plays on his lips—he knows the effect of his presence.

“You’re new here.”

A statement, not a question.

“Yes, I guess I am,” I start. “I haven’t been here before.” I stop there, not wanting to let on I’m still new to this city, to this life, to this me.

He oozes a confidence and luxury that can’t be faked. I catch sight of his Omega Seamaster watch and look down with what I hope is a casual glance, taking in his tailored pants and immaculate shoes. It’s his presence and deep gaze that reel me in most. He looks at me like he sees me, and a part of me wants him to. Not just Fantasy Nisha, but the real Nisha too.

“What lights you up these days?” He leans in and looks at me expectantly, like it’s the most normal thing to ask.

“Oh.” I look away and hesitate. “I’m not sure how to answer that.” I don’t like small talk, but jumping straight into something deeper? I’m not used to that either.

He smiles. “Let me try again. What are you working on that you’re passionate about right now?”

“Well, I work at a tech start-up in marketing. I can’t say too much, but we’re working on some exciting things with AI.” I make up a half-truth, not used to talking so openly to attractive strangers in bars. The city is sprinkled with hundreds of start-ups, so I know it isn’t too unusual. I hope he won’t ask me which one.

“Is that what you really want to be doing?” he asks.

“I’d love to be in investor relations. I’ve prepared so many pitch decks, it would be nice to present them.” He nods encouragingly, and he makes me want to open up. “It’s fun to see the impact right away of what you’re creating.”

He gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, then asks, “If you could create anything, what would it be?”

I pause, thoughtfully. No one has ever asked me anything like this, and it’s nice for a change. More than nice.

“Tech tools that support people, no matter what their background.”

He shifts closer to me like he’s thinking and wants to ask more, but he says nothing. He’s taking whatever I’m willing to give him. Not pushing me or wanting more than I have the capacity to give.

“What about you?” I move the attention away from myself, unnerved by his direct questions.

“I’m an IT consultant. Short-term contracts with whoever needs me,” he shares modestly, but I can tell by the way he’s dressed that he commands big dollars.

The bartender comes by with our drinks. I lift my glass to his, faking confidence.

“Cheers.”