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Drake is waiting in a booth for me when I arrive. He waves and stands as the hostess leads me to our table. As I stifle a chuckle, his eyes drifting down my body. He’s unimpressed by my outfit, which is exactly what I wanted. I chose a frumpy old Target dress and paired it with leggings to keep my legs warm. I look like dog trash compared to his nice suit and tie. As I shrug my jacket off, I slide into the booth.
″You look nice,” he says.
″Thanks. You too.”
The menu looks great, but it’s expensive. Twenty bucks an appetizer, and forty to fifty an entrée. We’re about to foot a two hundred dollar bill if we order alcohol. I’ve never been on a date before, but I don’t feel right letting him pay, if that’s what people still do. And it’s not just because I don’t want to be here. It feels wrong.
″How was the rest of your shift?” His gaze remains on my eyes, narrowing as he inspects me. He is staring right at my black eye.
″It was fine,” I say. “What about yours?”
″It was good.”
Drake orders us a bottle of red wine, and I refrain from ordering something stronger. Mindful habits. I have to decide to stop, no matter how badly I’m craving it. The first ‘no’ to ending my binge is always the hardest.
I choke down some bread, tapping my leg nervously. Conversation flows smoothly, and at first I can see myself being friends with Drake, but soon catch myself getting irritated with him easily. Like how the way he clears his throat makes my skin crawl, and I decide I’m better off without him in my life at all.
Time to order something stronger to get through this shit fest.
Dinner arrives, and I remember I haven’t eaten all day. I’m starving and my lobster is so good that I don’t leave a single bite of it left.
I split the bill so that there’s no miscommunication this evening. This may have been a date that I agreed to, but it wasn’t a successful one. I don’t have any feelings toward him. I don’t even let him walk me out, and instead rush to the bathroom, hiding until I think he’s long gone.
The air is frosty against my cheeks when I step outside. I didn’t bring a heavy jacket because I’d forgotten the temperature drops in Boston when the sun sets. I lift my shoulders to my ears, in a vain attempt to cover my neck as I stuff my hands into the pockets of my spring jacket.
″Where’s your jacket, lass?”
Already, I know it’s Callum. His voice is the only one I’ve ever heard with an Irish accent. Even if it wasn’t, I couldn’t mistake the gravelly sound for any other.
I spin toward the sound of the voice. The dark shadow leaning against the brick of the restaurant comes into focus. He pushes off the brick wall he’s leaning on, and stalks toward me. I gulp as he towers over me, my neck craning to look up at him.
His seafoam eyes bore into mine, and scrunches his eyebrows together when he notices my black eye. Callum grabs my chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting my head to the side for a better look. His warm fingers on my face send the chill away. Heat travels down my spine, and the callouses on his thumb are rough against my soft chin. It tingles the flesh, and I shiver, the sensations overwhelming.
I bite the inside of my cheek and stand completely still. This is so unlike me. Why am I letting him touch me?Move, Haley!
My brain doesn’t cooperate and my feet remain planted to the ground.
″Did that copper do this to you?” He nods towards my face, his brows forming a frustrated wrinkle. And I think I catch a rough tone like agitation. “Did he punch you? That fucking pussy.”
My body catches up with my brain and I step backward. I shake my head from his grip, ignoring his questions. “Wow. If you and I didn’t just meet a week ago, I’d say you’re the one who’s been stalking me. Why are you here? How did you find me?”
″You have a stalker?” His voice softens, as if he is concerned, which is a shocker considering this guy is a total douche towards me. He still calls me a little girl, ignoring that I’ve told him it’s rude and I don’t like it. Fucking prick.
″You didn’t answer my question.” I step back again, creating more distance between us. “Why are you following me?” My hand clutches the purse dangling from my shoulder as I try to figure out how I can open it and reach for my gun without making Callum aware. I may not know a lot about him, but Idoknow the most important thing. This man is dangerous.
He walked into my Emergency Department and I helped him with a bullet wound illegally. Now he is tailing me. I stop to consider the probability that it could have been him outside of my window. I didn’t meet him until after the Peeping Tom started, but Paddy knew I moved to town. Maybe they were planning to hire a doctor to their payroll. Maybe they were watching me to see if I lived with someone.
″When did Paddy tell you about me?” I ask. I make my way toward the alley way so we’re out of view from bystanders. I don’t want any witnesses when I pull out my gun.
He follows, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “What do you mean?”
Heart racing, I reach into my purse, pull out my .380 and point the barrel to his face. “Why are you following me?” I growl, teeth clenching. I will not be a victim again. I am not a fucking victim. He will not hurt me.
The fucker snorts, and steps closer, as if I’m not pointing a loaded gun at his head. “What is that? A .380? What damage will that do to me? Don’t you remember you just pulled out a .22 from my arm last night?”
″Yeah, that was in your arm. I’ve got this pointed between your eyes. And let me get something straight. I. Don’t. Miss.”
″Put it away,” he commands.
