Fall In Line

Damian

It wasn’t my intention to ask her out today. If I’m being honest, I don’t usually ask women out, so I’m a little rusty in this department. But standing here on the sidewalk, having her refuse my money, tipped me over the edge and I went for it. No one has ever refused a handout from me before, aside from my mom or brother. It’s a battle to get them to accept anything, even when I make it clear I want to give it. That’s what makes asking Angel out a no-brainer.

Not to mention, her promise to herself has my curiosity piqued. She’s intriguing in a way no one else has been for as long as I can remember. My job is based on deceit and getting ahead. No one stops to consider telling the truth. They flat out tell people what they want to hear. The people-pleasing and brown-nosing intensified to a new level when I was catapulted into my new role in management. Now, more than ever, I crave people in my life to tell it like it is. No pretense. No games. No ulterior motives.

Angel’s pink cheeks in the sunlight make her appear ethereal—angelic. Until her shoulders slump. “I can’t go out with you.”

Her abrupt answer yanks me back to Earth, rather than in the clouds where I was clearly daydreaming about something she doesn’t want. I shouldn’t have been so stupid to assume she was single. She finds me attractive, but that means nothing. “Why? Are you seeing someone?”

She stares down at her feet, kicking a pebble onto the road with her generic black sneaker. “You’re a customer and I don’t know you. It would be inappropriate.”

Despite her lack of eye contact, her voice is clear. Confident. She’s sure of her decision.

“You’re not a therapist. I don’t think there are any laws against it. And that’s the point of a date. To get to know each other.” My response is just as determined.

“You’ve obviously never served alcohol to people after a long day at work. Therapist is part of the job.” She keeps her head down, but I catch a hint of a smile. “It’s not a good idea.”

“What if I promise to never come back? As a customer.”

“Then I’m not sure how I’ll pay your ridiculous tip back. I was hoping you’d return at least forty times so we can break even.”

I step closer to her, unable to stop myself. She has a delicate button nose. Her dark eyebrows set over her deep brown eyes are mesmerizing, and her narrow lips create a perfect picture that is equal parts feminine and fierce. She’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever dated—most notably because they were all lying socialites looking for a merger—and I don’t want to miss the opportunity to learn more about her. “I can come back a hundred times, if that’s what it’ll take.”

“Maybe I’ll see you again next time, then. Have a good day.” She spins and runs back toward the restaurant without sparing me a glance.

The instant she’s gone, I regret how our interaction went down. When I initially walked out the door, I was kicking myself for leaving abruptly, so when she came running after me, I thought it was my lucky day. But instead of capitalizing on that fortune, I’m left with more questions.

Guess I’m going to be her first repeat customer.

I walk past Paxton, who asks if I’m okay when I return to work. A simple nod is all I can manage because no matter what I say, he’ll start spitting out ideas to get me whatever I want. Like I’m some spoiled rich kid who can’t handle being told no. Then I realize, it’s been so long since anyone told me no, Angel’s rejection stung more than I remember. Have I become that demanding rich guy who I despised my entire life? I don’t want to be that guy—the one who uses his money and perceived power to manipulate people into doing his bidding. It makes me nauseous thinking of anyone seeing me that way.

My mother raised me better than this. I might be in charge of this department, but that means failures are my burden to bear. That means I’m the final say before a project goes out, but that doesn’t mean I’m the only say, or even the best one. Somehow I need my staff to see that too. I need them to see me more as an equal and less of a dictator.

I bet if Angel were here, she’d tell me exactly what she was thinking without fear of consequences.

My phone rings on my way home and I groan when I notice the number. In my last few encounters with the woman whose face lights up my bluetooth screen, I was bored to tears as she talked about her pedigree and why we’d make an excellent partnership. She is the type of girl looking for a business deal along with a marriage certificate and a prenup, not a relationship.

I press the end call button on the steering wheel, not in the mood to deal with her, but she calls back seconds later. If I don’t put an end to this, she’s going to keep calling.

“Hello.”

“Oh, Damian, hi! I’m so glad you answered.”

I clench my teeth to resist saying, ‘you didn’t give me much choice.’ I go for a more civil approach. “Hi, Serena. How are you?”

“Better now. I was worried you’d lost my number.” Her sing-song voice makes me grind my teeth harder.

“No, just busy. You know how it is. Can I help you with something?” If I keep this business casual, maybe she’ll take a hint.

She giggles in the phone, making me roll my eyes. She has one of those manufactured giggles that silver-spoon fed people tend to employ when they want to sidestep an uncomfortable situation. It’s condescending, without appearing rude. “You can help with a lot of things, Damian.”

I’ve never heard my name purred before, but Serena Horvath has gone and done it. I’m not a fan.

“Why don’t you pick me up for dinner tonight?”

Not happening. Not tonight; not ever. I resent ever being introduced to her at a snooty fundraiser. People show up to those things just to have an excuse to spend a fortune on new clothes and donate the bare minimum to have people buzzing about how generous they are. If my boss didn’t insist on me attending, I’d give my donations anonymously and be on my way. In my opinion, it cheapens the gesture if you’re doing it for clout. Serena lives for clout.

“Serena, I can’t tonight. I’ve got…” A lot of work? Another date? No. “Food poisoning.” I add in a groan to make my point. It can’t be too far from the truth after my lunch destination if Angel’s reaction to ninety-nine percent of the menu says anything. Nothing puts the kibosh on a date night quite like a bout of diarrhea and vomiting.

“It sounds like you’re driving.”

I’m too far down this path to turn back. “I had to run out to get some stuff from the pharmacy.”

“Aw, baby. You could have called me. I would have brought something over.”

I almost do retch all over the leather interior of my SUV after hearing her call me ‘baby’. Someone could cut off both my legs and I’d still drag my bloody stumps to the nearest pharmacy before I’d call Serena. Our encounters have been that intolerable. “Thanks. Almost home now. We’ll talk soon.” No. Why did I say that? I disconnect the call before I can say anything else stupid.

My thoughts land back on Angel. I should just take a page from her book and be honest with Serena, but it’s not always so straightforward. Is it? The few women I’ve been out with in recent years are eager to date or marry someone who fits in their ideal tax bracket, rather than someone who loves them. That doesn’t appeal to me. I watched my mother spend years recovering from a relationship with a man who chose his bank account over his family. Angel is different, though.

Why did she really turn me down? It can’t just be because I was a customer. If that’s her only reason, I’d have no issues with never returning. Was she put off by the tip I left? If it was something else, wouldn’t she have told me? Whatever her justification is, I want to respect it, but I also want to know why.

I just might end up with food poisoning in my endeavour to find out.