Chasing Wishes (19 page)

"So, any advice at all, or are you just going to make fun of me?" I ask. "I can go call myself names in the mirror all afternoon long without running up my cell minutes, you know."

"What’s there to advise? Just be yourself, be confident, and have fun, Irene," she answers. "I mean, seriously now. There’re a million girls who’d kill to trade places with you right now for all the wrong reasons."

"Um... can you be any more cryptic there?"

"They’d be all excited to have a date with Mister Moneybags," explains Cassie, "when what you should really be excited about is that he
can’t see you
."

"Why is
that
exciting?"

I honestly don’t get it. Why is dating a blind man somehow going to be better? Cassie goes off the rails sometimes, and I suspect that this is one of her moments. She’s probably about to say something really dirty and kinky about him coming pre-blindfolded or something awful like that.

"Because if he wants a second date," she explains slowly and clearly, almost as if speaking to a five-year-old, "it means that he liked your personality and not your tits, my adorable little dorkling."

For the first time since we met, Cassie has blown my mind in a good way.

She’s right; Terrence has absolutely no idea what I look like. He’s been nothing but nice to me since I met him, and it can’t be because of my appearance. Not that my appearance is much to write home about—I’m closer to a tiny Hispanic elf than a supermodel—but it means that looks can’t have played a role in his request for a date.

"Cassie? One more question for you..." I trail off, staring up at the ceiling.

"Go for it, slutface."

"Is it weird that I panicked over a date and called you?"

"A little," she affirms. "You’re kind of channeling your inner high school drama queen right now, honestly."

I sigh and close my eyes, and Isaac’s beautiful greens gaze lovingly back at me from behind my eyelids. Except, they’re not his anymore... they’re Terrence’s eyes now. A sudden pang of guilt hits me, as if I’m somehow being unfaithful to Isaac by thinking about Terrence, but I push the feeling away.

Focus on the present
, I tell myself.
Isaac’s gone and I need to forget him.

Yeah... fat chance of that. I’ve been telling myself that for nine years.

"Irene? Are you still there?" asks Cassie.

"Yeah, sorry—was just thinking."

Cassie starts to say something but then stops and bursts out laughing instead.

"Irene," she gasps between fits of giggling, "Mike’s holding up a sheet of paper that says ‘pay attention to me’ and he’s not wearing pants now. I have to go. Good luck on your date tonight, and seriously—just be yourself, okay?"

She hangs up and leaves me to my thoughts. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out as I lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The wind howls outside and rips leaves from their branches, dashing them against the glass panes of my bedroom window.

I can’t do it. I can’t just be myself, no matter how easy it sounds. Cassie has no idea who I really am—or who I was, at least. She just thinks I'm Irene and has no idea about Nina.

"It can’t be a date," I whisper to myself. "He’s my boss and this can only end badly."

Even if ‘just friends’ means anything but that, I have to make sure it stays that way.

****

"S
o, where am I taking you tonight?" asks Terrence as I guide him down the stairs.

He’s wearing black slacks with a white button-down shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and his muscular arms are downright drool-worthy. I’ve never been big on beefy guys, but Terrence hits the perfect balance in the middle. I can totally imagine him effortlessly sweeping me off my feet and into his arms, but he’s trim and fit unlike the roided-out muscle creeps that flirt with Cassie all the time at the gym.

"If you’re taking me out, shouldn’t you be deciding?" I ask, winking at him. It’s a wasted gesture, of course, but he looks so handsome that I can’t help it. He’s even combed his hair tonight, and between his good looks and that gorgeous smile, I’m feeling weak-kneed and we haven’t even made it out the front door yet.

"Believe it or not, I don’t get out much these days. The chef gets offended if I miss too many of his dinners."

"Oh, my heart bleeds for you," I tease.

"Hey, it was that lame excuse or admitting I can’t read the menus," he says, grinning as I hand him his coat and then guide him to the door.

"How about Ollie’s?" I suggest. "It’s just off the main highway back in Groton, about half a mile from my old apartment."

"Sure, what’s the specialty?"

"Booze," I answer, and I lock the front door behind us. The limo is waiting for us at the curb—that is to say, about two-hundred feet away across Terrence’s pointlessly huge ytleanswer, aard. "Well, booze and tiny plates of delicious things, really. Tasty appetizers, strange salads, you know. That sort of place."

"You had me at booze, Irene," he says, and then adds uncertainly, "Just to make sure... I’m not overdressed for it, am I?"

I pretend to debate his appearance and take full advantage of the excuse to ogle him for a bit. His well-fitted, white button-down shirt makes his muscular chest and shoulders look absolutely delicious, and I don't know how I missed it before, but
my God
, he fills in a pair of slacks nicely. He has a butt to die for, and it's a good thing he can't see me right now because I can hardly tear my eyes away from it. It’s so unfair that the sexiest guy I’ve met in years just happens to be my boss.

"Nah, you’re fine. Don’t worry yourself. The limo's a bit much, though," I finally answer, ripping my gaze away from his ass and back up to his face. It doesn't help much, though—his eyes have a strange way of making me feel all wobbly, too.

"Even if the limo's overkill, let’s show up in it anyway just to confuse the hell out of everyone," he says, rubbing his hands together and grinning mischievously. He really doesn’t get out much at all, does he?

Our limousine pulls up out front Ollie’s Restaurant ten minutes later, and as we emerge from the back seat, the crowd out front immediately starts gawking at us. Despite what I told Terrence, we’re both totally overdressed for the restaurant. It’s a good restaurant with a phenomenal bar, but it’s a still a very casual place at its heart. I’d fit in just fine wearing slacks and a blouse, but instead I’m wearing the gorgeous outfit Cassie picked out for Terrence’s presentation. Terrence, meanwhile, wouldn’t have been out of place at all if he’d opted for jeans and a polo shirt instead of his slacks, button-down shirt and sport-jacket.

Everyone’s eyes are on us as I loop my arm through his and guide him to the door, and I’m surprised to catch a smile drifting across my face. I never expected this, but I’m actually enjoying the attention we’re getting. I never liked being the center of attention at work and I outright hated it when I was still in school, but it’s somehow different tonight. Tonight, I feel like I’m on top of the world and like everything’s going my way—I’ve never felt like this before and I bet that’s the difference.

They’re not staring because I’m poor anymore—they’re staring because I just stepped out of a fucking limousine, arm in arm with the sexiest guy in town. Stick
that
in your pipe and smoke it, Woodbridge!

Jesus, cool it already
, I scold myself. Woodbridge Academy was a long time ago, and I need to get over it.

"Curb in three steps," I warn Terrence, and I grin in satisfaction as he makes it onto the sidewalk with no difficulty. I’ve figured out his stride and am finally getting a feel for this whole assistant thing.

We grab two seats up at the bar, and Terrence takes off his coat and tosses it over his stool while the bartender brings us the drink menu.

"Okay, they have a wine list, a beer section, and a whole page of martinis," I start, but Terrence quickly shakes his head and cuts me off.

"I’m not going to make you read the whole menu to me. Surprise me."

"Seriously?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. "Want to at leaWan">"I’st pick a category?"

"Nope," he answers, flashing me a quick smile. "Pick what you think I’ll like."

"One goat cheese martini over ice, garnished with herring, please," I pretend to tell the bartender, and Terrence stiffens in his chair.

"What, you don’t like herring?" I ask innocently, trying not to laugh.

"Irene, did you really just..."

I can’t hold back my laughter anymore and I start to giggle.

"I hate you," Terrence groans, and he lays his head on the bar and starts laughing.

"Did you think that was real? Come on—a goat cheese martini?" I gasp in between fits of laughter.

"Yeah, I’m a dope. Just rub it in a little more," he says.

When the bartender makes his way back to us, I instead order two of the seasonal special—gingerbread pumpkin martinis—alongside crackers and a cheese platter. There’s no way I’m letting Terrence go home without a little goat cheese after falling for that ridiculous drink order.

"Wow... fantastic drink," he whispers, almost sounding in awe as he sips the martini. "It tastes like a goddamned pumpkin pie."

"Yep. It’s pretty much an alcoholic pie in a cup, pretty much the best thing ever."

"Mind if I order another after this?" he asks, and I quickly catch his hand before he puts his drink down on top of the goat cheese, guiding his glass instead to the safety of his coaster.

"Hey, it’s your money," I answer. "You’re not driving, so order as many as you want."

"Oh, now you've gone and done it," he says with a wide grin. "Start up the tab!"

I order Terrence's second drink when the bartender comes back around, but I also throw on another for myself as well. It’s good start to a great night. Terrence sighs contentedly and leans his elbows against the bar. He's grinning from ear to ear and looks so happy to be out on the town with me that it's making me smile as well. He may own a mansion and run his own company, but something about his personality is so down-to-earth—so
normal
—that I feel like I can still connect with him. He's so easy to talk to that I don't know whether the conversation or the alcohol is flowing more freely tonight.

"So tell me," I ask, well into my second martini and starting to feel its effects, "what brings a classy dope like you to a town like Groton?"

He laughs for just a hair too long—the martini is working its magic on him, too—before answering.

"This classy dope," he says, pointing at himself, "goes wherever the hell there’s science to be done."

"You
do
science?"

"Yep," he slurs, downing the rest of his drink. "But only the best science, and only the type I can steal for my own projects, too."

Man, he gets drunk easily. I’m getting a bit woozy myself, but I’m a full foot shorter than him. He probably has fifty pounds on me, too, and the drinks are hitting him like a truck.

"But anyway," he continues as his voice begins to slur, "Verta hired my company to come redo the design we gave them two years ago for the neural interface. We used to work with them up in Boston, but they moved the pry mheight="1oject down here to Groton."

"And what about that whole stealing thing?" I tease, but he only grins back at me, puts his fingers to his lips and then downs the rest of his martini. God, he's drunk. I roll my eyes at him and then order myself another drink—this time, a spiced apple pie martini. Autumn is truly the best season.

"Can I ask you a dumb question?" I ask, taking a sip of yet another martini. I've long since lost count of my drinks. Terrence nods and munches on a slice of brie as my brain tries its best to jam words together into coherent sentences.

"There's a book on a shelf in your bedroom," I start. "Braille for Beginners or something like that. How do you... I mean, how on earth can you—"

"How can I read the fucking thing to learn it in the first place?" he finishes my question for me.

"Exactly!"

"I can't. The book's complete bullshit and I'd hit the author upside the head with it if I could," he answers, smacking the bar with the palm of his hand to accentuate his reply, and I nearly choke on my drink in a fit of laughter.

"So how the hell are you supposed to learn Braille then?" I ask once my martini has stopped burning my nose.

"There are training programs for people who go blind, believe it or not," he says. "I'd go for up to six months to learn how to live normally again, or..."

He interrupts himself to down the rest of his drink.

"Or what?"

"Or I could just take the easy and unhealthy way out, convince myself that I'm too busy running my company, and just pay people to do the other things for me," he answers with a grin.