Page 128 of Hate You More

“That’s like the chance encounter, only less poetic.”

“There’s room for both,” I suggest.

“There are a lot of strangers in this world. And some of them stranger than others.”

My gaze skates away at his sensual threat.

We take turns recounting the rest. Some we laugh at; others make us fall quiet in anticipation. A paid date at your beckoning. In other words, an escort. Sex in a car, though we’ve been there, done that, and almost got caught in the past. Batman and Robin. That one was mine. I said that if he vetoed my handyman porn, I’d settle for superheroes. Art model and painter. Tickling brushes. Professor-student. Sexual favors for better grades. CEO with a very bold job candidate.

“I like the idea of that one.” His eyes burn with encouragement.

“Lucky for you I have a lot of interview experience.”

“Not the kind I’m gonna give you.”

The assumption. I’m not even mad about it.

We fold the papers into anonymous squares, then place them in the jam jar and screw on the lid.

As I stare at it, my insides seem to hold a small riot. Or maybe a celebration.

I can’t help but wonder if my plan will work or if I’m just fooling myself.

I guess only time will tell.

It isn’t long until I’ve unscrewed the lid, though I bend the rules by texting Troy a picture of the unfolded square before he gets home. He texts me immediately, and we begin a back-and-forth exchange.

Troy: Is this what I think it is?

In response, I text him the address. Then spend the afternoon in a state of panic.

At 6:00 p.m., I enter the place and look around. Then decide I’ve made a mistake.

I should’ve gone with a five-star hotel. This place is a little more spit and sawdust than I imagined. Maybe I’ve been missing the atmosphere of O’Rourke’s without realizing.

The bar is also louder than I’d expect anywhere to be on a weekday night. Music, glasses clinking, laughter, and the sharp kind of screeching you hear when girls hit the town. I lean my elbows against the bar, and something wet and slimy catches the sleeve of my shirtdress.

Ew. Poor bar staffing. Sloppy work. I check under my purse, but it’s fine. I place it down again and tap the top, safe in the knowledge that my beautiful wedding ring is tucked inside. I wasn’t about to slip it off at the bar, because the thought of anyone seeing made me sweat like I’d caught a nasty illness. I’ve spent enough of my life being judged. And I guess I’m tired of being defined by the mistakes I’ve made.

I order a drink—a glass of wine that would strip paint—and drink it slowly as I watch the door in the bar’s mirrored wall. And while I’d like to say I feel Troy before I see him, like an extrasensory perception born from our connectivity, it’s not true. What happens instead is the gaggle of noisy girls suddenly shut the hell up. So I turn.

Called it.

I think one or two of them might need to pick their jaws up from the floor as they stare at him as he plays his part so beautifully. His jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture loose in a way that it is when he’s being himself. Our eyes meet, and a frisson runs through me—an aesthetic thrill. A skin orgasm, I heard Chelsea describe it as once.

Sounds about right, I think as I turn away from the sight of him, from the amusement in his eyes. From the heat.

The bar itself isn’t busy. Just a couple of guys at one end and me at the other when Troy takes a seat between us.

My stomach gives a little twist. How on earth is this going to play out if he’s sat all the way down there? I bet he gets hit on first. And then I’ll have to step in, and get territorial, then our little interlude will become . . .

I realize he’s staring at me, cocksure and confident. He gives a jerk of his chin. What’s up?

My attention snaps back to my glass, butterflies fluttering inside me with wings as sharp as blades. This is part of the game. The hunt. The master at his work.

A chance encounter with a mysterious stranger.

I give in to another little shiver.