Page 10 of Just for Tonight

I remind myself that this dovetails perfectly with my own plan. I didn’t tell him my real name. I pretended to be French. I wanted to be in disguise that night – but still. But still. He wasn’t supposed to show up in Empire anytime soon. That was fine, but now that he’s here, I can’t believe he doesn’t recognize me.

How dare he?

I tell myself it’s probably for the best. So much simpler. I should be glad he’s forgotten.

But I’m not.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been haunted by our night together. It was just too good. There was a moment that keeps me awake at night. It was the second time and he made this little purr of satisfaction when we came together, a hum that I felt right to my toes. He was bracing himself over me, so very close, his eyes really dark as he studied me. I felt seen. I felt like he could read all of my secrets. I felt caught and it wasn’t a bad thing. Then he smiled, just a little, and murmured “hi.”

Hi. Or more like, ‘imagine meeting you here’ or ‘there you are’. I don’t know. It was recognition. Certainly connection. Intimacy of the very best kind.

“Hi,” I breathed back, forgetting to be French, and he touched his lips to the corner of my mouth in a gentle sweet kiss. His beard tickled my skin. My tears rose, then he did the same on the other side, then his mouth closed over mine as if he’d never get enough of me.

I still get all shivery when I remember that moment. (It’s happening right now.) I daydream about showing up at his door, French accent intact, and seducing him all over again. (Oh yes, I remember exactly where he lives.)

Now I see that he’d probably shut the door in my face, considering me a stranger.

I want to compel him to remember. Now. Even though that’s not my style. I want to back him into a wall and kiss him senseless, watch him blink in wonder, then murmur ‘Ah, Isobelle. I’ve missed you.’ Right after that, he’ll kiss me back. Mmm.

There I go again, fantasizing about something that’s never going to be.

Huh. As far as Jake Cavendish is concerned, maybe that night never was.

The man has a gift. He can make me see red without even trying, and it’s not like I want any kind of relationship.

One and done, I remind myself fiercely.

I spare a glance at him, chatting with Sylvia, turning on the charm as she brings him the bill. Maybe the bonus of not remembering your partners is that every time could be the first time.

How dare he – what? Make me feel something when he clearly didn’t? Yes, that is the ultimate crime. I don’t want to feel anything emotional when I hook up with someone. It’s all about sensation. No more and no less.

But tonight, I want to crumble something. Tear my napkin to shreds.

No, I want to smack Jake Cavendish.

Maybe he’d like it.

I wish I had the nerve to find out.

The truth is I’d rather kiss him breathless, drag him into the back room and have him all over again.

But I’d never do that. I sip my drink instead and pretend to be oblivious to him. That’s easy. I ask Daphne about Luke’s proposal again, how it felt to be invited onto the stage at his band’s reunion concert. She smiles, radiant, and I’m glad she’s so happy. She’ll tell this story every Wednesday night forevermore and love every minute of it.

It was romantic for Luke to propose to her that way.

I had dinner here with Daphne, but Willow and Cameron arrived later for our regular Wednesday night girls’ night. We’ve started meeting at the café, and Cameron invited Merrie and Sylvia to join us. Once Jake goes, Merrie will lock up and join us.

I should cut Jake some slack. His dad, Patrick Cavendish, died this morning and everyone in town already knows about it. Jake might be devastated by the loss, but I doubt it. His dad’s passing is probably why he’s here, though. I wonder why he’s alone at such a time, but refuse to feel sorry for him.

I don’t want to feel anything.

I don’t want to look at him either.

Cameron has one of her fierce colourful cocktails in front of her. It’s orange at the top and deep purple at the bottom with a chunk of fresh pineapple stuck in it. Daphne called it Death by Alcohol Poisoning when Cameron shared the recipe, which made Cameron laugh. She ordered a charcuterie platter when she arrived, supposedly for the table, but has cleaned out a third of it already. She just came off a twelve-hour shift at the hospital and probably hasn’t eaten all day.

I have a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from a Niagara vineyard I admire, just checking out the competition. This one was a winner, after all, on that night of nights and I have to cede that the award was deserved. I’m making it last, as I always do. Daphne had the same, following my lead, but she’s on her second glass.

Jake comes past our table on his way to the door and I think he’s lucky the steak knives have been removed from the table. Even so, I could stand up, deck him and walk out. It would be spectacular, like something out of a movie.