Page 17 of Blind Bite
A smile graced my face as I frantically began getting ready. I only had an hour before this thing started, and I was ready to meet some gorgeous men.
This was the leap of faith I so desperately needed to take.
Chapter Thirteen
Lilith
Maybe this is a bad idea.
Amelie
Bitch, get your ass over here before all the hotties are taken.
What hotties are you seeing back in the kitchen? Are you finally succumbing to Ricky’s charms?
Hell no. Martha told me the place is packed with hot guys. Hurry your ass up.
* * *
I raced down the street, heels clicking against the rough pavement as I headed towards Wither Rowe, the restaurant where Amelie worked. My black dress fluttered around my thighs as I half-jogged, cursing myself for taking so long to get ready. My haste out the door caused me to forget a jacket, the cool fall night air had already settled in, causing a little shiver with every step. The restaurant’s neon sign glowed ahead, promising an evening of awkward five-minute conversations with strangers.
This is growth, Lilith, I reminded myself. We are getting back on the horse.
Pulling open the heavy door, I was hit with the smell of candles and expensive cologne. They had dimmed the restaurant's lighting, creating an atmosphere that screamed “romance” in a way that felt both desperate and hopeful.
A heavenly scent of seared steak and creamy vegetables wafted in the air. The chef was famous for having an exclusive weekly selection, never repeating the same dish twice. If something sounded good, you were shelling out the cash to dine out that week if you didn’t want serious fomo.
“Name?” A woman with a clipboard and a headset looked me up and down.
“Lilith Bensen.”
She checked her list. “You’re just in time. Take a seat at table fourteen.”
I scanned the room, spotting numbered tables arranged in a horseshoe pattern. As I made my way toward table fourteen, I caught Martha’s eye behind the bar. She shot me a thumbs up and mouthed “you got this” while mixing a martini. Amelie surely had brought her up to speed on my most recent crash out.
A woman with a microphone tapped it twice, causing everyone to wince at the feedback.
“Welcome to Wither Rowe’s Speed Dating Night! I’m Veronica, your host for the evening.” She beamed at us like we were contestants on a game show. “The rules are simple: you’ll have five minutes with each person. When the bell rings, the gentlemen will rotate clockwise to the next table. No exchanging contact information during your sessions—if there’s mutual interest, you’ll both receive each other’s details tomorrow. Just be sure to fill out your forms accordingly. So, are you ready to find love in five minutes or less?”
A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd as I slid into my seat, arranging my dress and checking my lipstick one last time. When I looked up to see who my first speed date was, my stomach dropped to my feet.
Professor Holloway stood frozen beside my table, his green eyes widened with recognition before narrowing in displeasure.
“Miss Bensen.” He pulled out the chair opposite me with a sharp tug. “What an... unexpected surprise.”
“Professor.” My voice came out as a squeak. “I didn’t know you were... dating.”
“Evidently.” He straightened his glasses, which somehow made him look even more attractive in his dark blue button-up shirt. Without the tweed jacket, I could see how the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders, muscles normally hidden now showed underneath. I needed to get ahold of myself, quickly. Surely he wouldn’t know if I marked “yes” next to “gentleman 15” on my sheet... unless he also marked “yes” for me... Another glance at his look of disdain had me throwing that daydream out the window. There would be no student/teacher fantasy for me.
We sat in excruciating silence for approximately thirty seconds before he cleared his throat. “I suppose we should make conversation, since we’re stuck here for five minutes.”
“Right. Um... read any good books lately?” I asked, wanting to smack myself for such a stupid question.
His eyebrows arched. “Several. Though I doubt you’d recognize any of them, judging by your class performance.”
A server appeared beside us, placing a pinkish drink in front of me. I blinked in surprise, recognizing a watermelon margarita. Was this a blessing from Martha?
“I didn’t order this,” I said, suddenly embarrassed, though, I had been dying for a drink ever since Holloway came into the picture. Alcohol could surely make this experience better, right?
