Page 39 of Dancing in the Dark

But it’s already a quarter past eight.

Shaking my head, I pinch the stem of my wineglass between my fingers and pray for the prickles of humiliation in my eyes not to turn into tears. I sip the fruity concoction and do everything I can not to lock gazes with literally anyone else inside this place.

Are they looking at me? Laughing at me? Mocking me?

It sure feels like it.

My phone vibrates with an incoming call that makes my heart sputter and my stomach flip. It makes my movements clumsy, almost toppling my wine as I snatch the device up, but then disappointment becomes a living, breathing succubus gnawing at my soul.

Anderson Markum.

Not Charlie.

At least half of my brain screams, ‘fuck off, Anderson! I’m off the clock’. But the other half, the insecure, low-self-esteem, mommy-issues half, clings to the lifeline of not being quite so alone inside a romantic restaurant anymore.

Answering his call with a fast swipe of my thumb, I straighten my spine and push my chin higher. It’s what every dance teacher I’ve ever known drummed home in every class I’ve ever attended.

Shoulders back, elongate your neck, own that stage.

Confidence fills the gaps that skill can’t.

“Hello?” I slow my shuddering breath and swipe my cheek. “This is Seraphina speaking.”

“Sera?” Anderson’s smarmy, too-casual, too-pleased use of my name instantly sets my temper on edge. “Hey. I know it’s getting kinda late, but I had a quick question about the… the…” He hesitates for a beat, silencing as though to listen to the buzz of chatter on my end of the line. “Where are you?”

“Out.” I snag my wine and take another sip. “You had a question about what?”

“Out where?” Refusing to be derailed, he drags me back to the topic I don’t wish to discuss. “With the Chinese delegates?”

“No.” Relax. No one is forming a cool kids’ club without you. “Not with the delegates.”

“But you’re at a restaurant. I can hear the plates and stuff.”

“So? People go to restaurants sometimes. Jesus. What’s your question?”

“You’re on a date?” His voice turns impossibly gravelly. Possessive in a way he has no right to be. Not anymore. “But you took my call, anyway.” He chokes out a taunting chuckle. “He’s a dud, huh? That sucks.”

“No,” I growl. “He’s running late, which is why I had the time to take your call. He’ll be here shortly, which means I’m about to cut you off. Speak quickly, Anderson.”

“Late?” He refuses to be diverted. It’s the lawyer in him. “Oh, honey. He stood you up?”

“No, he⁠—”

“Tell me where you are, and I’ll join you.” I catch the sound of his shod feet on his hardwood floor. I see him in my mind, inside his living room. His kitchen. Headed toward his front door. I could draw his apartment from memory, every drawer, every cupboard, every painting on the wall and scuff on the floor, if only I possessed a modicum of artistic ability. “What a douchebag, huh? I would never leave you sitting at a restaurant all alone.”

“Right.” I swallow the bitterness on my tongue and wash it down with a mouthful of twenty-dollars-a-glass white wine. “You would never stand me up. You prefer having your cock sucked by a boobalicious television reporter while you pretend not to have a fiancée at home.”

“Sera—”

“Ma’am?”

I startle and wrench my phone away from my ear. Glancing up at a server in a crisp white shirt, pleated black slacks, and a spotless apron tied around narrow hips, I swallow my aching dread as he wrings his hands and nervously glances toward Charlie’s unused chair.

“I-I’m so sorry, madame. I was wondering if your guest will be arriving soon?”

Kill me now. Put a knife in my heart and stop all the nosy, beady-eyed stares from the happy, loved-up couples surrounding me.

“W-we have another reservation for eight-thirty.” Shamefaced, he drops his gaze to the floor. “Perhaps if your guest is still on their way, you might be more comfortable at a balcony table?”