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“Nope, not one,” I say, confidently, finishing my second glass of wine. “My dad promised us the world, and then he divorced my mom to be with his business partner’s 22 year old daughter. He left all of us and made a whole new family with her. My mom has never been the same.”
Stefan’s eyes bear into mine until I look away. I don’t want him to see the old aches and misery there. Belle and Ella were able to get over dad’s betrayal within a year or so after the divorce, but he’d meant the world to me. I couldn’t forgive him. I still can’t. He’d been my best friend, my confidant, my partner in crime, and my center in that house. He broke my heart before any boyfriends ever had a chance to touch it.
“Now it all makes sense,” Stefan says.
My eyes narrow as the heat of my temper burns red in my face. I open my mouth to respond, but our server comes with our food and more drinks. A steaming plate of grilled salmon in a lemon beurre blanc with a side of grilled asparagus and mashed potatoes is set in front of me. Stefan’s ribeye glistens on a plate with steamed broccolini and a baked potato. The aromas are heavenly. My mouth waters as I pick up my fork and knife completely forgetting what I had been ready to say. The salmon practically melts in my mouth, the smoky taste of mesquite chasing the lemon smoothness of the beurre blanc. Damn, what’s the name of this restaurant again?
“You package your anger with your father into a hatred for all men,” Stefan says in a voice as flippant as if we’re discussing a trip to the DMV as he shakes salt onto his baked potato.
“Trust me, my father isn’t the only man to hurt me and the people I love.” I push images from my mind flushing with ancient anger that always simmers just under the surface.
“I could take the same stand.”
I’m momentarily distracted by the way he licks butter off of his thumb forgetting again what we’re even discussing. He goes on, effectively ignoring my openly horny eyes.
“I could say all women are trash because the only thing my ex brought to our relationship was chlamydia from the ex boyfriend I caught her cheating with before running off with my business partner when he stole all of our investors’ money.”
I choke, coughing on the wine I’d been sipping when it went down the wrong pipe. He hands me a napkin, biting his lip obviously to hold back laughter.
“But if I pushed my pain on all women,” he stops to pointedly look at me before he goes on, “because of what one or even a few did, that would be immature, wouldn’t it, as well as unfair.”
Finally catching my breath, I take another sip of wine wishing now that I remembered to ask our server for a glass of water.
Clearing my throat and holding my head high, I reply, “It doesn’t matter. Women don’t hurt men as much as men hurt us. We don’t even have the power to systematically attack men the way men do us.”
“Yes, you’re right,” he says simply.
“No, you’re not listening. What I’m saying is– wait what?” My mouth hangs open slightly.
“I agree. There are many men in this country, especially those in leadership that abuse their power. There’s no disputing the misogynistic culture and beliefs in our world. It’s unfortunate, but true.”
“You agree,” I say, stupidly. He nods, tasting his broccolini for the first time. The dampness in my panties spreads until I feel it sticking to my thighs.
“My issue,” he continues, “Isn’t with what you’re saying, but how you’re saying it. You say all men. That, little cat, isn’t fair.”
“It may not be all men, but all women are affected in some way, shape, or form.”
“Touche,” he says, saluting me with his glass of whiskey.
There it is again. He agrees. My attraction to him intensifies.
“Have you always wanted to be a journalist?” he asks, seemingly out of nowhere. The question completely trips me up, and it takes me a while to answer.
“No,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I wanted to write books.”
His smile is instant as he raises one brow. “Really? What kind of books?”
My cheeks are warm so I drop my eyes to my food. I haven’t thought about this in so many years. My pride won’t allow me to admit that when I was little, I dreamed of writing romance novels like the ones I used to sneak from my mom’s room and read late at night.
“Just… women’s fiction.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“After my parents got divorced, I had a really hard time coming up with stories.”
His frown draws his brows in. “You should try again. It’s been a long time. You never know.”
“It’s been too long. I doubt I’d be any good.” My blush deepens as I recall the terrible scenes I used to write. I’m not sure I was ever any good.
“If it makes you happy, try it.”
I pinch my lips together as I consider him, his eyes weighted with sincerity, as if he truly lives by that philosophy. He looks remarkably handsome, somehow even more than when we first walked in. God, what am I doing?
