CHAPTER ONE
“So, tell me about yourself,” he says. He smiles what he hopes is a sweet smile—neither too big nor too small, one that hints at a wry, maybe even offbeat sense of humor that he thinks would appeal to her. He wants to charm her. He wants her to like him.
The young woman sitting across from him at the immaculately set table for two hesitates. When she speaks, her voice is soft, tremulous. “What do you want to know?”
She is beautiful: late twenties, porcelain skin, deep blue eyes, long brown hair, just the right amount of visible cleavage. Exactly as advertised, which isn’t always the case. Usually the photos they post are a few years old, the women themselves older still. “Well, for starters, why a dating app? I mean, you’re gorgeous. I can’t imagine you’d have any trouble meeting guys, especially in a city like Boston.”
She hesitates again. She’s shy, thoughtful as opposed to self-absorbed. Something else he likes. “I just thought it would be fun,” she admits. “All my friends are on them. And I’ve kind of been out of the dating scene for a while…”
“You had a boyfriend?”
She nods. “We broke up about four months ago.”
“You broke up with him?”
“Actually, no. He broke up with me.”
He laughs. “I find that hard to believe.”
“He said he wasn’t ready to be tied down,” she offers without prompting. Her eyes fill with tears. Several escape without warning, clinging to her bottom lashes.
Instinctively he reaches across the table to wipe them away, careful not to disturb her mascara. “You miss him,” he says.
“No,” she says quickly. “Not really. It’s just hard sometimes. It’s more being part of a couple I miss, our friends…”
“Were you together long?”
“A little over a year. What about you?”
He smiles.She’s trying,he thinks. Even though he can see her heart isn’t really in it. Still, some women never even think to ask. “Me? No. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a serious relationship. But we were talking about you.”
She looks toward her plate. She hasn’t touched her food, and he spent hours preparing it, letting the expensive steaks marinate all afternoon, wrapping the large Idaho potatoes in tinfoil for baking, arranging the watermelon and feta cheese salad just so on the delicate floral china, wanting to impress her.Maybe she’s a vegetarian,he thinks, although there was nothing on her profile to indicate that.
He should have asked when he suggested dinner. “Tell me about your childhood,” he says now.
She looks surprised. “My childhood?”
“I’m assuming you had one.” Again, the sweet smile hinting at greater depths.
“It was pretty ordinary. Nothing much to tell.”
“I’m guessing upper middle class,” he offers, hoping to stimulate the conversation. “Comfortable lifestyle, maybe a nanny or a housekeeper, parents who loved you, made sure you had everything your little heart desired.”
“Not really. Well, maybe at first,” she agrees tentatively. “Until I was about six and my parents got divorced. Then everything changed.”
“How so?”
“We had to move. My mom had to go back to work. My dad remarried a woman we didn’t like. We were always being shuffled back and forth.”
“We?”
“My brothers and I.”
“I like that you say ‘I,’ ” he interrupts. “Most people would say ‘me.’ They have no respect for grammar. Or maybe they just don’t know the difference between the subject and the object of a sentence. I don’t know.” He shrugs, sensing her mounting discomfort. Not everyone is as concerned with grammar as he is. “How many brothers do you have?” he asks, aiming for safer ground.
“Two. One’s in New York. The other one’s in L.A.”
“And your mom? Where is she?”