“What is pathetic about it?”
She laughs sharply. “What is pathetic is that I fell, once again, for a man who is unavailable. I trusted him too, you know that? I trusted a stranger and he broke my heart. If I ever see him, you know what I’ll do?” she asks me.
“What?” I ask. “What will you do?”
“I’ll punch him in the face and kick him in the balls. It’s a shitty thing to win a girl over only to walk away.”
I run my hand over my beard. “And what if this guy apologized, came clean, tried again?”
Ava Grace picks up her vodka, shaking her head. “No way. I am done with forgiving. All it does is leave me hurt. There are no more second chances. He had his chance and he blew it.”
I swallow, my entire fucking game plan is screwed.
So, maybe I don’t tell her the truth. Maybe I just try to take what I’ve learned over the last month and remain open. Not closed up. Maybe I try to earn her love, but this time without any barriers.
“Did I blow it too?” I ask, smiling softly at this woman who is honest and genuine and incapable of holding back.
She frowns, her face so fucking sad in that moment and I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her close and tell her she is perfect. That she makes me laugh and that Bon Jovi is terrible taste in music but that I don’t care, because aren’t we all just living on a prayer?
“My heart can’t handle another man taking me for granted.”
“Then let me take you out, not for granted —but on a date,” I tell her.
“Are you just looking to get in my pants, Samson? Because—”
“No,” I tell her, cutting her off. “I am asking you out on a date.”
13
The next night Samson picks me up, at seven o’clock on the dot.
I asked my sister to get the inside scoop before the date—obviously—and she found out that Samson was just here for one more night.
She made me swear that I wouldn’t get all crazy for a man who wasn’t available, and I crossed my heart.
But last night at the club Samson looked different, sounded different too than I remember. Like he was more present, more genuinely interested. I don’t know much about him, but I guess tonight I am going to find out.
“Wow,” he says, walking in my condo with a dozen pink roses wrapped in brown paper, tied with a white grosgrain ribbon. Basically, the most perfect bouquet ever made. “You look beautiful, Ava Grace.”
Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I hide a smile, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.
“You clean up pretty nice yourself.” I take the proffered flowers from his hands, drinking him in as I do. He is in dark denim and a flannel shirt, but it’s slim fitting, tight on his biceps, and rolled up at the sleeves. He looks freakin', insanely hot. His hair is slicked back effortlessly, and his beard taunts me, -making my ovaries explode as I imagine it between my legs like it was before.
Like I have dreamed about so many times since.
“I made reservations,” he tells me as I fill the vase with water, adding the roses.
“Oh yeah? Where? I’m starving.”
He smiles at that, and then answers. “An Italian restaurant, Little Mia Mia, I hear it’s fantastic.”
“Ohh, that’s my favorite restaurant. You’re going to love it. Do you like meatballs? They have the best meatballs ever.”
He grins, as if unable to resist joking like a thirteen-year-old boy. “You like balls, huh?”
I smirk, grabbing my jacket, gloves, and purse. Samson follows me to the door and I lock it behind us. “Oh, I love balls, Samson. Big, juicy balls.”
He laughs, deep in his belly, and opens the door of the rental car. “Good, because you can have as many balls as you like, sweetheart.”
I squint my eyes, looking at him before he closes the door. Sweetheart? “If I remember correctly, you only have two. What if I want more?”
He laughs again, “Guess you’ll have to order some extra off the menu to take home.”
On the drive to the restaurant, I point out my stomping grounds. “That shop has the best coffee, and this park is where I play Ultimate Frisbee in the summer. Though I’m terrible at it. But it’s still fun. Oh, and that is where the farmers market is on Sundays.”
“You really like it here, then? Could you ever imagine leaving?”
We pull up to Little Mia Mia and let the valet take the car. Sitting down at the table—a corner booth, white linens, candlelight—I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I’m not nervous or trying hard to be something Samson will deem attractive or worthy.
With him, I feel like I can be myself, so I bask in the romantic ambiance of the restaurant, and tell Samson I’m ordering for us both