She doesn’t belong with a man like me.
I reach for the door, needing to get home more than anything else. Away from the pain of being so fucking close to the thing I want, yet realizing it is further away than ever.
“I’m sorry, Imogen,” I tell her as I leave, unable to look back. She said I was emotionally unavailable and I’m just putting the nails in the fucking coffin.
Have I learned nothing since Margene died? Apparently not.
I get home, emailing Grace from the agency the moment I walk inside.
Ms. Grace Graham,
Please delete me from the database.
I am no longer in need of your assistance.
—Neil Johnson
I shower, hating the thought of washing her sweet cream off myself. The hot water pours over me and I close my eyes, my head resting against the pristine white-tiled shower. How the fuck was I so close but so far away?
I wake the next morning and try to push away thoughts of the gorgeous woman who sat across from me, sipping wine and laughing— lighting up the whole damn restaurant. I see her when I brush my teeth, make my coffee, when I get in my car and drive to the office.
The moment I step inside I wish I’d taken sick day — something I never, ever do.
“So … how did the date go?” Linsey asks, a big grin on her face. She’s so damn chipper every day and it makes me wish I weren’t quite so rigid in the office. I never ask how she is, inquire about her weekend plans. I am here to do my job, nothing else — yet Linsey is working tirelessly for me. She is in her early twenties, sweet as can be, and I am exactly what Imogen said: emotionally detached.
I hate the scowl on my face; it isn’t helping, and I hate that I want Imogen here. With me. Right now. She would know what to say to Linsey, to explain the disaster of a date. Imogen is so expressive and I’ve got as much creativity in my bones as her pinky finger could hold.
Linsey is still here, smiling. Waiting for a reply.
“It wasn’t what I hoped,” I tell her.
“Oh? Really? I thought … I just assumed it went great.”
“Why is that?”
Linsey frowns. “Because Grace called and was so happy, saying the match worked. Anyways,” Linsey says, faltering as my scowl intensifies. “She left a message. Wants you to call her right back.”
I thank her, telling myself that I should do something nice for her. She’s been with me two years, ever since she graduated from community college. She deserves a bonus, considering she’s been putting up with me.
Closing my office door, I pull my phone from my pocket and call Grace. “You called?”
“Oh, Neil, hello! So good to hear that you are off the market! I knew my success rate was 100%, but one date! My goodness, talk about a match made in heaven!”
I run a hand over my jaw, trying to catch up. “I don’t know what you mean,” I tell her bluntly.
“Your email, it said you were no longer in need of my services. I assumed …”
“You assumed wrong. The date was a disaster. I want to be deleted from the database because I’m not going through that again.”
There is silence on the line.
“I realize this is challenging, that dating after losing your wife is daunting. But you contacted me because you were lonely, plain and simple. Has that changed?”
I laugh sharply. It sure as fuck changed last night when Imogen was in my arms. Breathing her in, her sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon, erotic and so damn sensual… I need to be careful or I’ll get another hard-on here at the fucking office.
“I know men,” Grace says. “I know that they get scared when they see what they want.”
“I’m not scared. She said I was emotionally unavailable.”
“Oh?” Grace’s voice has a lift to it. “Then why are you running away?”
“I’m not running,” I say, scoffing at her insinuation. But even as I deny it, I know the truth. I did run last night. “Her mother filled out the application, the woman I went out with is nothing like the woman I requested. She is wild and brash and artistic. Loud and talks so damn much. She is gorgeous, too; way too pretty to be with a man like me. A man who is set in his ways. Who likes order. Routine. A plan. Imogen doesn’t even have a job.”
The words are so true enough in my head, but when I say them out loud they are absurd.
Who the fuck cares about a job? I make plenty of money — I can buy her all the goddamn paint she wants, let her run her paintbrush anywhere she likes too, for that matter. She doesn’t need her parents to fork over the cash — I can take care of her. Hell, if I were her man she’d be more than taken care of. She’d be fucking satisfied.