Page 9 of Tap My TOKTIK

OLIVIA

Run. Run. Run.

My hair is standing on end and there are alarm bells going off in my head. This dude is weird, and most probably an axe murderer. This has dead in a gutter written all over it, but he said he would answer my questions. Maybe I should go to the bathroom and just not come back, I’m sure there’s a back way to get to my room from here. Mr Waters orders a bottle of red wine that isn’t on the wine list, a fillet steak cooked rare with mashed potatoes and a pepper sauce. He seems to know exactly what he wants. He didn’t even have to think about it. Most people take time to decide and umm and ahh before placing their order.

“You going to ask the questions you have written in that little black book, or not?” he prods while the waitress pours the wine and waits for him to taste it. He smells it, and swirls it around in his mouth before he swallows. Mr Waters nods at the waitress, who then pours wine for both of us, and I can’t help but wonder what if I don’t like it? I’m too busy watching him to register what he asked me. “So, questions?”

“Oh, yes.” I almost forgot about them. They suddenly seem trivial because I don’t think Mr Waters dates. “What is your name?”

“Is that on your list? You didn’t know his name?” He feigns shock, and I resist the urge to kick him under the table for mocking me.

“No, I just want to know your name.” I take a sip of the wine and it’s like drinking velvet it’s so good.

“Harlan Waters.” Sounds sophisticated and rich, although aside from his watch, he isn’t dressed like a rich asshole. The list of things I had planned to ask my date goes out the window because Harlan just became the new main character in my book.

“What do you do for a living, Harlan?” I don’t mean to lower my voice a little when I say his name, but like the wine, it kind of rolls around in my mouth.

“I thought you wanted to know about dating?”

“I do. But these are all things I would ask on a date.”

“I work in property development, restoration and renovations.” So, not a suit, but sort of a suit. Interesting.

“What is it exactly that you do, Olivia?”

“I’m an author, I write romance novels.”

He scrunches his nose. “Like Mills & Boon?”

“God, no.”

“So Fifty Shades of Green?”

“Why is it that everyone has only two ideas of what romance is and those are them?” Ugh. “Neither, I write contemporary romance that’s a lot hotter than your mom’s Mills & Boon.”

“Point made, I’ll have to look into it. I’m sure my assistant reads romance on her weekends off.” He has an assistant. “Why romance?”

“Why property?”

“Money, obviously. It’s a good business to be in in this city.”

“Same, sex sells. Romance is the biggest selling genre in the world. If I want to pay the bills writing books then romance is the only way to do it realistically.” Harlan listens with intent, which takes me by surprise. Usually, I say romance and anyone listening, men included, checks out.

Tilting his head to the side, he asks, “So are you a romantic?”

“I think some people fall in love and it’s magic, but more often relationships are just a small phase of our lives. A moment and then it’s gone. Being a romantic means you are open to being hurt — I don’t like being hurt so no. No, I’m not.” I watch him drink his wine slowly, savoring it, and catch myself watching his Adam’s apple bob. Who the hell though that would be sexy? A man swallowing. “Are you a romantic?” I ask, though I’m sure it’s a hard no. He might be easy on the eyes, but everything about his countenance is hard, and impersonable. Quite the dichotomy considering he offered to not only answer my silly questions but take me to dinner too. Talk about a complex character.

“Not at all. I’m logical and practical and sensible and romance is none of those things.” He’s right, of course. Falling in love and wooing someone into a relationship is literally the dumbest thing humans do. Stupid genetics. Literally.

“Do you date?” I ask him, growing more and more curious about him, and less concerned about my questions.

“No, I don’t,” he says matter of factly. “Do you?”

“Not unless it’s for book research, no. I did, and it was just the most soul-sucking exercise ever.” Dating isn’t fun, it’s like a rollercoaster ride and the tracks end mid-air. Fun for ten seconds then you know you’re going to at least break a bone or worst case, die.

“It is exhausting.” He smiles at me, leaning back in his chair. “There are better ways to spend my time.” He crosses his arms, closing himself off. A subtle body langue cue — this topic isn’t something he likes talking about. Noted.

“Like?” I ask, because that’s a bit of a loaded response, and I’m invested now. I need to know.