Page 13 of Sin Wager
"I'm not being kind. I'm being honest. Most women I meet care more about appearances than substance. You're different."
She fidgets with the hem of her jacket. "I don't think I'm that special."
"Then you don't see yourself clearly." I slow for a red light and study her reaction. "When was the last time you went on a proper date?"
The pink deepens to red. "It's been a while. Months, actually." I can see embarrassment tinge her cheeks. Having drinks with me was hardly a real date. This poor woman needs a social life, and she spends her waking hours working her fingers to the bones to care for her brother. Such a pity too—she has beautiful fingers.
"Sometimes, I think I'm just not built for relationships. I'm better at taking care of horses than talking to men." Her explanation seems to cause her more nervousness. She squirms in the seat and wrings her hands.
"You're talking to me just fine."
She laughs, but it sounds nervous. "You're different. Easier to talk to than other men."
"What did you expect me to be like?" I chuckle warmly. It's one thing I've never been accused of—being easy to talk to. In fact, it's downright opposite of that.
"I thought you'd be more… I don't know. Intimidating, I guess."
"I can be intimidating when necessary. But not tonight."
The light turns green. I accelerate through the intersection and take the turn toward her neighborhood. The buildings grow older and more cramped as we drive deeper into Altufyevo.
"You can drop me at the corner if it's easier," she says as we approach her street.
"I'll take you to your door. It's getting dark."
"Thank you. That's very thoughtful."
I pull up in front of her building, a concrete block structure that's seen better decades. The windows facing the street show patches of mismatched curtains and the occasional flicker of television light.
She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn't immediately reach for the door handle. "I really appreciate the ride. And the conversation. It's been a long time since someone called me thoughtful instead of boring."
"Anyone who finds you boring lacks imagination."
Her smile transforms her face. The wariness disappears, replaced by genuine warmth. "You're very good at making a woman feel special."
"I'm only telling you what I see." I reach across the space between us and brush my thumb along her jawline where a strand of hair has escaped her braid. "You are special, Vera. More than you realize."
She goes very still under my touch. Her breathing changes, becomes shallow and quick. I let the contact linger longer than necessary before drawing my hand back.
"I should go inside," she whispers.
"Of course. But first, let me ask you something. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? Somewhere better than the local bar."
Her eyes widen again. "Dinner? Like… a date?"
"Exactly a date."
"I don't know if that's a good idea. You're so much older than me, and my father?—"
"Age is just numbers on a calendar. What matters is connection, understanding, respect." I lean slightly closer. "You're mature beyond your years, intelligent, responsible. Most men your age wouldn't recognize those qualities or appreciate them properly. They'd waste your time with games and empty promises."
"You think so?"
"I know so. You deserve someone who sees your value, who treats you the way you should be treated. Someone who understands that your loyalty and dedication aren't weaknesses to exploit, but strengths to cherish."
She bites her lower lip, considering. "Where would we go?"
"There's a restaurant in the city center I think you'd enjoy. Quiet, elegant. Good food and better conversation."
