Page 36 of Things We Fake
She blinked. “That bad?”
“Too many people call it quits at the first sign of hardship. Or they don’t feel their relationships are worth fighting for. I also think society sets unrealistic expectations—especially through social media.”
That got the eye roll I was expecting.
“Don’t get me started,” she groaned. “At least a third of the kids I teach want to be influencers. When I ask what exactly they want to influence, they say they just want to make a lot of money and travel. None of them mention wanting to have families.”
I shook my head. “Unrealistic expectations at such a young age. But hey, who are we to judge? The previous generation to ours probably thought we had silly expectations, too. We seem to have turned out okay. With the technology we have today, the future generation may do some amazing things.”
“Hopefully they’ll improve interpersonal relationships first,” she muttered. “Dating sucksnowadays. Don’t even get me started on dating apps. I’ve read too many thrillers. And met too many creeps.”
I chuckled, though I knew exactly what she meant. “To be fair, it’s women like my ex who traumatize men about the notion of love, marriage and baby carriage. Once burned…”
She lifted a brow. “Not all women are like that, just like not all men are jerks or serial killers. But I get your point. Neil has made me think there’s no such thing as a good man. However, I’ve watched my mom and dad’s marriage, and I know for a fact that good relationships exist. I just wasn’t lucky enough to have one.”
“Maybe not yet, just like I haven’t,” I said, raising my glass in a surge of optimism. “But let’s not lose hope.”
Chapter Twelve
Cam
Her eyes warmed like whiskey in candlelight. Her smile was a punch to the gut and soothing redemption all at once. I’d never wanted to kiss a woman as much as I wanted to kiss her.
The waiter came back with a flourish and laid two small plates of oysters in front of us. I admired the three oysters on the half shell which had been covered in a butter sauce with finely chopped spinach and breadcrumbs and then broiled.
“I told you the portions were reasonable,” I said.
“We’ll see.”
She picked up the oyster fork like a woman preparing for battle, but the way her expression changed after that first bite was bliss. “Mmm… Amazing,” she murmured, reaching for her wine. “And this is dangerously good, too.”
“Now try them together,” I said, already prepping my next bite. “The wine picks up the flavors in the butter sauce—you’ll see.”
She did as instructed. Her eyes closed and her whole face lit up. God, I wanted to put that satisfied look on her face—and not just by feeding her.
“Okay, that’s kind of magical,” she said. “Where’d you pick up that move?”
I leaned back in my chair, swirling the wine in my glass. “During an Alaskan cruise a couple of years ago. They had this wine-pairing workshop with a sommelier who made food and wine sound like foreplay.”
What I didn’t say was that I hadn’t felt this comfortable with anyone in years. This whole dinner felt like foreplay—slow, intentional, teasing. And it was wrecking my internal firewall.
I stole another glance at her mouth, at the way her fingers lingered on the stem of her wine glass. And suddenly I couldn’t remember the last time a woman made me feel so curious, so hopeful, so alive.
After we’d finished the oysters, the waiter brought another course, a red burgundy with the escargots, and then a merlot with the scallops and salad, the anise flavor of the Pernod working well with the hearty red. Everything was delicious, and the wines were incredibly smooth. I was pleased with my choice, and I could tell Susanne was impressed.
She watched me as I adjusted the position of the scallops on my plate—just a tiny shift, maybe a centimeter at most, so they weren’t crowding the greens.
Her lips twitched. “Should I ask how many millimeters off-center the lemon wedge was, or would that be rude?”
I laughed, suddenly self-conscious at being watched. “You wouldn’t be the first to ask.”
“Do you have OCD?” she asked lightly, sipping her wine, then caught herself. “I’m sorry, that sounded blunt. You don’t have to answer.”
I set my fork down and met her eyes. “It’s okay. It’s a fair question. It’s not OCD, no. I have something called OCPD—Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. Subtle difference, big impact.”
She tilted her head, interested. “What’s the difference?”
“People with OCD usually know their compulsions don’t make sense. They fight them. It’s like their brains are hijacked, and they’re trying to wrestle control back. For me, it’s not like that. I don’t feel hijacked—I feel that I’m following rules that make sense to me. That make the world feel... safer.”
