Page 21 of Rooke
My drinking problem never really came to a head. It just fizzled out slowly, along with the rest of me. After so much time fighting to even get out of bed in the morning, finding the energy to drink just became too hard.
I don’t seem to be having any problems now, though. I only stop pulling at the bottle when my head begins to buzz on the inside. I screw the lid back onto the bottle and put it back into the cabinet, then straighten out my dress like nothing ever happened.
The doorbell rings at five minutes to seven. He’s early—a good start. I answer the door, trying not to stumble and roll my ankle in my heels. Rooke’s dressed all in black—ripped jeans, another smart button-down shirt with a black crest stitched onto the breast pocket, and a pair of highly polished black leather shoes. His eyes are dark and stormy when they meet mine; I can’t decipher his expression beyond the fact that he looks angry. He holds out a small, understated bunch of flowers. Nothing so obvious as roses. The blooms are simple and pretty, wild flowers, the kind that would be really hard to get in the middle of winter in New York.
I take them from him, holding them absently to my nose—they smell beautiful. I don’t even know when I last had flowers in the house. They remind me of funerals. These, however, are too fresh, too innocent to bring back memories of the grand lilies, irises and orchids people had delivered to our doorstep when Christopher died.
“I’ll put these in water.” I head quickly to the kitchen, placing the flowers in a tall glass and filling it with water. Rooke follows me into the house. I can feel him standing behind me, his presence searing at my skin. I know he’s watching me; I can feel his eyes burning into my skin. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“You look beautiful, you know,” he says quietly. “So fucking beautiful. That dress…”
I turn around, leaning back against the sink, taking a deep breath. I need to calm my nerves. “It’s nothing special,” I say.
Rooke gives me a critical look. “Oh, but it is.You’rewearing it.” He’s looking at me like he can see right through the damn dress, which makes me shift uncomfortably.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that. It’s not part of the deal.”
“The deal where you get through the next few hours, and then you demand I never contact you again?”
“Yes.”
Rooke sighs quietly, looking around the kitchen. “You and I both know that deal is bullshit. You’re going to see me again, Sasha. You’re going to want to see me again real soon.”
Oh, he’s going to be sore when he realizes I’m serious about that deal. I keep my mouth shut, though. It’s just dinner. Like he said, I can get through the next few hours. I can. Just because he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on doesn’t mean I’ll be dropping my panties for him and waiting for him to call me every day. I’m sure that’s what he’s used to, but not this time.
Rooke’s voice is even and calm when he speaks. “Bring a coat. I’ll be walking you home, and it’s cold out.”
“You’re not walking me home.”
“I fucking am.”
“I can get a cab.”
“I know you can, but you’re not going to. I’m walking you back, and I’m going to kiss you right here before you invite me inside for coffee. We both know coffee means sex. From the look on your face, you obviously don’t think that’s going to happen, but I can guarantee you…itwill.”
I have to bite back stunned laughter. “You aresofull of yourself. How did you end up like this? So damned sure of yourself all the time?”
He shrugs, scratching at his lip. The action makes me focus there, on his mouth; I know my eyes linger a little too long, but I can’t seem to force my gaze in another direction. “Experience,” he says slowly. “Lots and lots of experience in getting my own way. I’m a spoiled rich kid, after all.” He licks his lips, and I can feel blood rushing to my cheeks. He did that on purpose.Asshole. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
”Sure.” I’m not. I have a belly full of vodka. Vodka and butterflies. The bitches are drunk.
“Good.” Rooke crosses the kitchen, then offers me his arm. “You know how this date thing works, right? You don’t shout or scream at me in public. We enjoy a nice meal together without you trying to sabotage the night at every turn.”
It would be so easy for me to snipe back with something caustic and awful right now, but he looks like he’s one hundred percent serious. “I know how to behave on a date,” I say.
“Great. Feel free to swoon over me. I know I look good in black.”
******
ROOKE
The restaurant I direct our cab driver to isn’t one you’ll find on Yelp. It doesn’t have a website. You can’t call and book a table. Even the president of the United States himself wouldn’t be able to get a reservation unless he knew someone who knew someone. There are no huge, grand signs on the outside of the building. There are no doormen standing out in the cold with their collars popped, waiting to tell you that the place is full.
There is only a small blue neon cross lit up on the side of the dark, shadowy warehouse of a building, higher up than the average person would ever look, and a small metal grate in a heavy steel roller door. Sasha looks nervous as we climb out of the cab and into the rain.
