Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I stopped him by catching his hand. That unexpected contact seemed to startle both of us.
When I searched his eyes, I saw some kind of strong emotion churning in them. Without thinking about it, I ran my thumb over the back of his hand in a tiny caress, and his lips parted. My heart began to race, and I very nearly leaned in and kissed him.
But I had no idea how that’d go over, so I pulled my hand back and took a moment to regroup. Then I remembered what we’d been talking about and said, “It’s not just the money. We’re already understaffed, and if I couldn’t find someone to cover my shift, it would make things harder for the other servers. Thank you for the offer though, Mr. Volkov.”
“I don’t want you to call me that.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean—”
“No, you misunderstand. My name is Aleksei.”
I murmured, “That’s a beautiful name.” A few moments ticked by. It seemed like we were both waiting to see what the other would do. Finally, I asked, “Would you like to come in? I could make us some tea.”
He was tempted to take me up on my offer. I could see it in his eyes. But he said, “It’s late, and I should get home.”
I thanked him for the ride and climbed out of the car, and I watched as he drove off. Then I just stood on the sidewalk for a while, replaying our conversation and trying to make sense of what exactly had just happened.
3
Aleksei
I’d never had any intention of becoming one of those men. It was such a cliché, the middle-aged guy with someone half his age on his arm. They always seemed ridiculous to me.
And yet, here I was at forty-four, pining for a gorgeous young man who must be close to my son’s age. Not that I was usually attracted to people in their twenties. It was just him—a fascinating, dark-haired waiter named Timothy, with the face of an angel and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.
It was absurd that I stood at my office window every day at four-thirty, waiting to catch a glimpse of him as he went to work. But it brought a spark of joy to my otherwise drab afternoons, so I allowed myself this small indulgence.
This had all started three weeks ago. I’d been returning from an appointment, and as I left the town car and began to cross the crowded sidewalk, he almost collided with me. He’d been running, and he paused just long enough to make eye contact, smile at me, and say, “Oops, sorry.” Then he’d darted into the street, crossing illegally before disappearing into the restaurant directly across from my office building.
It was nothing really in the grand scheme of things—a tiny moment. Two random strangers colliding like atoms, then resuming their trajectory. But when I looked into his eyes, I’d felt something. A lot of it was attraction, since he was breathtakingly beautiful, although there was something else, too…a spark. Something in me reacted to something in him.
And that tiny moment was actually huge for me, because I hadn’t felt much of anything in a very long time. When I was younger, I’d felt everything far too deeply. I was like an exposed nerve, raw and vulnerable. My father had called me sensitive, spitting it out like it was a dirty word.
He made it clear I had to change, so at first, I’d learned to hide my emotions. Then I learned to shut them down. It was easier that way. Less painful. Better to feel nothing than to feel everything. Eventually, that became a way of life.
But all of a sudden, on a random weekday on the sidewalk outside my office, I felt something. It was a little jolt of electricity, just enough to wake me up.
I’d followed that beautiful man across the street and discovered the restaurant wasn’t open yet. So, I went back that evening and tipped the hostess twenty bucks to seat me in his section.
But I was shy and awkward and couldn’t think of what to say to make conversation. Meanwhile, he was as extroverted as I was introverted. One night, I couldn’t help but overhear as he carried on an animated conversation with two young women in the booth beside mine. They were visiting from Australia, and he was so excited about that. He asked a million questions, and then he told them he’d visit their country one day, as soon as he had enough money saved up. He didn’t say he wanted to, but that he was going to, and that stood out to me.
Now, three weeks later, I ate at that restaurant five nights a week, which was how often he worked. Somehow though, I still hadn’t managed to talk to him, besides telling him my food was fine when he asked. That was completely ridiculous, but the more time that passed, the more awkward it became to try to initiate a conversation. I had to do something about that, and soon.