Page 5 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Just filling the empty spaces, Miss Grey.”

“They paid me to change the sign. Almost ten thousand dollars. And,” I stress, “they paid my legal fees too. It would’ve been counterproductive to continue the fight. I won.”

Jordan smiles. He’s one of those dashing men. Tall, square jaw, nice suit, expensive watch and shoes. Always put together. Brimming with confidence. Old money. “Indeed you did, Issy.” He lifts his glass in a toast. I clink it, more to get that first swallow of wine down than to celebrate. I don’t know what it is about Jordan Wells, but he’s always made me nervous.

If I were one of my clients I’d say it’s probably because he’s so handsome. So bold. So self-assured. And even though I sell bold self-assurance right along with kickboxing and jujitsu classes, it’s a show. It’s always a show. People are people, and ain’t no one figured out how to be in control all of the time. They just learned how to fake it better than most.

I’m an excellent faker. So no, that’s not it. His looks and arrogance aren’t what make me nervous.

“Anyway,” Jordan says, cracking open a briefcase sitting on the empty chair next to him. “Business, huh?” He takes out a tablet and starts tapping on it.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Your application.”

“I didn’t apply.”

“Chella did that for you.” He looks at me over the top of his tablet. “You know that. That’s why you’re here with me on Valentine’s Day and not out with… who would you be out with if you weren’t here?”

“Fuck you,” I mumble, then take a long gulp of wine.

Jordan just chuckles to himself.

Why am I even bothering?

You’re bothering, Issy Grey, because you really don’t have plans tonight. And at least you’re out somewhere. And there’s wine. And a handsome man to look at across the table, even if you do want to punch him in the face right now. And Chella will bring us dinner.

And all that sounds a whole lot better than going home and binging Netflix while I drink wine in the bathtub tonight.

“OK.” He sighs, like my application might be giving him a headache. “Let’s just go through the questions to see if you’re a good candidate for a game.”

I blink at him. Three times. Slowly. To exaggerate the fact that this whole thing is ridiculous. “I never said I wanted to play a game. Chella did.”

“But you’re here,” he says. “And you sat down. And you’re drinking my wine and, presumably, going to eat dinner with me. So… you’re interested.” He pauses for a beat. “Correct?”

“I’m curious,” I say, feeling defensive. “Possibly intrigued. That’s it.”

“Am I wasting my time?”

“Jesus Christ, Jordan. Just get on with it, OK? I’m not gonna play a game with you at this table. I’m tired. If you’ve got something interesting for me, something that might put a new spark into my life, then let’s fuckin’ hear it.”

He looks back down at his tablet, smiling.

I roll my eyes and sigh. Loudly.

“So you’re interested in our Panic Game Package?” He’s still looking down at his tablet.

“What? What the hell is a panic game?”

“You know,” he says, tapping away on his tablet like this is no big deal. “You need to be pulled out of your comfort zone.” He raises his eyes to meet mine. “Choking. Strangulation. Domination. Stuff like that.”

“What? No!” I actually laugh. “Who the hell—”

“Lots of people, Issy. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed. I’m aghast at how you could’ve gotten me so… wrong!”

“Oh,” Jordan says. “Well, this wasn’t me, remember? This was Chella.”