It’s crazy how much can happen in three years.
“Run out of illogical arguments?” Roger chuckles.
“I… excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.”
He picks up a slice of pizza and takes a giant bite, offering a shrug.
I walk into the bathroom, wishing I was anywhere but here. I avert my gaze the moment I catch my reflection. Paula said I looked beautiful in the black dress and the heels, but now I feel stupid. Like I’m playing dress-up, pretending to be a pretty girl.
My breathing comes far too quickly as I hide in one of the bathroom stalls. There was something about the way Roger talked at me and not to me, his indifference to my chosen field of study… It reminded me of Declan. He’d often smile as he said and did horrible things, always leaving me to wonder if I’d imagined it. And gaslighting the heck out of me afterward.
As I take out my phone, my mind returns to the memory of Asher. I know I need to stop doing this.
He walked us around the Lincoln Memorial three years ago, and we never even spoke. I’ve thought about calling him over the years since I still have his phone number in my contacts. He gave it to all of us just in case we got separated.
But of course, I haven’t called.
What would I say?
“Hey, Mr. Alexander, just want to let you know I’ve been fantasizing about you since the day we met. What do you mean, who am I…”
I stifle a laugh as I pull out my broken phone. The last thing I want to be is some crazy lady giggling to herself in a bathroom stall.
My phone is just another item on the list of ‘Stuff I Need to Replace’, but between working and college, I don’t have the spare cash for it. The screen is cracked and, for some unknown reason, it freezes every time I open up the messages app. I have to scroll down through the contacts every time I want to send a message, and then read any incoming messages through the notifications tab. It’s a hassle, but I know I don’t need to read the reply to this one.
Paula has never let me down.
Help me! This is getting really bad. Please, PLEASE save me.
Who says Paula has to be the melodramatic one all the time?
After firing off the text, I return to the restaurant with a soft smile, thinking of Paula reading my over-the-top text. Roger has demolished almost the entire pizza, as though he wants to get out of here as quickly as possible. Even if I’m not interested in him, it still causes my heart to clamp tightly.
It’s just more proof no man would want me…Well, except twisted and sadistic ones like Declan, who wanted me for reasons I hate thinking about.
“So where were we?” Roger says.
“I think you were telling me how my dream job is a complete waste of time.”
I mean for my tone to come across as joking, but it’s anything but. It comes out flat, sucking any goodwill immediately out of the conversation.
Roger frowns, shaking his head. “Sorry, Autumn, but it sounds like you’re being overly sensitive to me.”
“Is that so?” I murmur.
I want to snap at him, the way Paula would. She’d know the right words, in the right order, to make this man show her some respect. But confrontation is so painful and awkward for me.
I’d rather nosedive into a box full of calculus books and never come out.
“I’m not saying you can’t have fun studying history. It’s entertainment, like watching a movie. But as far as usefulness is concerned, it’s low tier. That’s all I’m saying.”
I’m about to reply, but my words falter as my gaze lands on the restaurant window. It’s a busy evening, families chattering, with light snow falling outside.
And standing at the tall glass windows of the restaurant is…
I can hardly even think it.
It’s Asher Alexander, wearing a nice-looking jacket buttoned to the top, at least two or three heads taller than the pedestrians walking around him.
Am I going crazy?
Maybe I’ve visited his Wikipedia page one too many times. Or my eyes are seeing things.
But then our eyes meet for a second, and then he begins to make his way toward the door.
CHAPTER TWO
Asher
There are lots of ways to study history, but I’ve always taken a scientific approach. Or as scientific as I can get.
I like to be methodical, gather data, put said data into models, and study the results. I like to do away with superstition, even if many of the people I study were superstitious in the extreme.
But there’s no way I can explain this. Except to say it's fate.
What are the chances I’d be just around the corner, running an errand?
There she is, sitting at the table with her brown hair flowing down her back. Wearing a tight black dress as if she knew we were going to meet tonight. Her body makes my manhood pulse, as I imagine tearing that dress and freeing those big juicy tits.