Dating and Other Dangers

‘Oh, Ethan,’ she wailed at him. ‘We liked her.’

Ethan gritted his teeth. ‘So do I. So send the damn things, will you? And say I’m sorry on the card.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘None of your business. But get them to her now.’

‘So it isn’t over?’

‘It will be if you don’t get them organised.’

‘Okay.’

The doorbell rang. Nadia saw herself in the hall mirror as she went to answer it and swore at her panda eyes. Still, at this time of night it could only be a telecoms salesperson or something—so what did it matter.

It was a courier. He handed her the biggest bunch of flowers she’d ever seen.

Nadia took them without a word and slammed the door. The card was typed in an old-fashioned typewriter font.

I’m sorry.

She tossed the flowers on the table and tore the note in two, then three, and chucked the bits like pity party confetti.

How had he managed to get them out at this hour? Florists didn’t work this late. He must have planned the whole thing hours ago. Days ago. In fact she now figured he’d totally set her up. She’d been the one to suggest another date. He’d got her in the palm of his hand just as he’d wanted and now he’d crushed her.

Her eyes were drawn back to the bright mass of blooms. Yes, they were beautiful, but she hated them. The flick-off flowers. Just as the women on WomanBWarned had said. She wiped away more scalding tears and sniffed. Why had she been so stupid as to expect anything else?

There she’d been, actually feeling something like sorry for him—trying to figure out why he avoided everything: emotional intimacy, relationships, conflict. Thinking she understood more after seeing his family the other day. But he’d so taken her for the fool she was. He was an all out jerk with not a shred of sensitivity. And right now he was laughing at her something awful.

Furious, she had to do something—anything—to feel better. And that didn’t include talking to honeymoon-happy Megan. She didn’t want anyone she knew to know what an idiot she’d been. But she had to vent to someone. She went into her WomanBWarned admin database and hunted. Ten minutes later she’d fired off e-mails to the other women who’d posted on the original thread. She wasn’t going to put this up on the internet, but she was so having a private rant with them. She’d bond with others who bore the wounds—the humiliation—of being an Ethan Rush conquest. She’d snarl and moan and gnash her teeth, but not with anyone she knew.

First she just asked if they were who she thought they were, and what other info they wanted to share.

She glared at the flowers, tempted to put them in the rubbish, but she put them in Megan’s room instead. Marching back, she clicked ‘send/receive’ ten times on her e-mail but nothing landed. She stalked to the bathroom and ran a super-hot shower, getting rid of the hair product and the panda eyes and the floral scent of her favourite perfume. She yanked on one of her WomanBWarned tee shirts and some boxers. Not that she was going to bed—sleep was impossible now. Instead she did a final check on the forums and stepped away from the computer. She’d hear the ping of e-mails from the computer if those sisters replied. There was only one thing left to do. Drink wine and watch movies. Horrors—a corpse-fest, with scary music and evil, evil monsters. She’d work her way through the all the Nightmares on Elm Street. To put things into perspective.

She’d watched a ton of gory numbers with her brother and initially she’d been stoic through them so as not to be the ‘scared little girl’ he’d expected. Now she just plain liked them. Things could be so much scarier and worse than real life. And she’d eat eye-watering chilli with it—to terrify her tastebuds too. Provide an extreme sensory experience to overwhelm the extreme agony inside.

She was twenty minutes into the third instalment when her doorbell buzzed again. Way too late for a salesman this time. Or anyone. Nerves fluttered and she paused the movie, telling herself not be scared by something Hollywood had invented. Just because it was almost two in the morning it didn’t mean there was going to be a disfigured guy with knives for fingers on the other side of the door.

She opened it a fraction, and then let it swing wide.

‘What are you doing here?’ The strangest cocktail of feelings flooded through her—a heady mix of disbelief, relief, pleasure and uncertainty.

‘I just got into Gatwick.’

‘You really were stuck on a plane?’

‘You didn’t believe me?’ His bag thudded at his feet. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I got Polly to send the flowers. But you still didn’t reply.’

‘I figured if you were in a plane you wouldn’t get a text anyway.’

‘No, you just don’t believe me. Or trust me. Or—’

‘Or what?’ Her defensiveness reared. ‘You sent me “see ya later’ flowers.’

He frowned. ‘The note was supposed to say I’m sorry.’

‘It did.’

He closed his eyes and breathed deep. ‘Okay, I shouldn’t have come here now. It’s late and we’re both grumpy.’ He picked up his bag.

‘No.’ Recovering from the shock, she grabbed his arm. ‘You look shattered. Come in and have a coffee or something.’

She’d so go for the ‘or something’, but he really did look shattered—unshaven, red-rimmed eyes, crumpled clothes, pale.

He didn’t move, even though she was using most of her weight to tug his arm. ‘You didn’t make other plans when I cancelled?’

‘Sure I did.’ She tugged harder. ‘I’ve got movies loaded and a huge amount of icecream.’

He stepped in, the thinnest gleam piercing the dullness of his eyes. ‘So there isn’t anyone else on your sofa?’

‘Is that what you were worried about?’ She dropped his arm. ‘That’s what you’re checking up on?’

‘You told me this wasn’t exclusive.’

‘What did you expect me to say?’ She shut the door behind him. ‘I have some pride, you know.’

‘I’m well aware of that.’ He finally cracked a grin. ‘So what’s the movie?’

‘A horro r.’

‘I hate horrors. They make me feel sick.’

‘I’ll hold your hand in the scary bits, if you like.’

Ethan managed another smile, but he was seriously out on his feet. He shouldn’t have come, but somehow when he’d got into the cab at the airport, hers had been the address he’d given. Now he was here the tiredness had hit him—right when he didn’t wan

t it to. But, oddly, it was relief wiping out the last scrap of energy—relief at seeing her wide green eyes fill with the sparkle of promise, pleasure, desire.

Her sofa was fantastically big and he sank into it. He wanted her, but he couldn’t even move. Could hardly keep his eyes open. Everything overwhelmed him.

‘I didn’t sleep,’ he mumbled.

‘You spent the whole time awake?’

‘Lots of work.’ And that was true. They’d worked crazy long hours to close the deal. And in the few short hours he’d had to catch some ZZZs, all he’d done was toss and turn and think about Nadia. The more he tried not to, the more he had. In the end he’d decided to see her again and get her out of his system. Somehow.

‘You mean you were in German lap-dancing bars twenty-four-seven.’

He laughed. It turned into a groan because the energy required was too much. ‘I’m sorry. I’m rubbish company. I’m too tired.’ He should go home. He didn’t want to. Nor did he want to let her down any more—and he was already.

‘Shut up,’ she said, sounding bored. ‘I’m watching the movie.’

As if to prove it, she turned the volume up a notch.

Even though his eyes were closed he grinned, loving the way she was being so nice to him—in her fashion. He just needed a short snooze and then he’d be all over her. Oh, he so would.

‘Ethan?’

Nadia stared down at him in amazement. He’d hooked his legs up on the sofa, his feet dangling off the end, and he’d lain down, using her lap as his pillow. Which was nice. And frustrating. Because now he didn’t answer. How could anyone fall asleep during a horror film? In less than three minutes?

She lifted her hand and tentatively stroked his jaw with the tips of her fingers, enjoying the rough stubble. Ethan Rush was an exhausted man. She sat back, scrunching a little deeper into the sofa so his ‘pillow’ was smoother.

An hour later the film had finished and she still wasn’t remotely sleepy. Nor had she watched much of the movie. No, she’d been completely tragic and watched him sleep—the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the long lashes shadowing his cheek. She was absurdly pleased he didn’t snore—it wasn’t as if that was relevant. It wasn’t as if she was going to spend the rest of her nights sleeping beside him. Even so, she was happy. And concerned. Because he was going to get a crick in his neck if he stayed like that much longer.