Page 4 of Finding Haven (Haven #2)

Quinn

I don’t know why I let Becca convince me that going on a date with some random guy from a hookup app was how I should be spending my night. He had seemed nice enough over text, but now I’m pretty sure his charming behavior was just a facade to get me to go out with him.

I reviewed the menu online before arriving and calculated the carbs for my meal to make the night easier.

I pre-bolused for my planned appetizers and drink before walking into the hotel restaurant so that the insulin would begin to work its way into my system in the hopes of avoiding any post-meal blood sugar spikes.

I wasn’t planning on sticking with water tonight, but the way he keeps encouraging me to order a drink and dragging his gaze over my body feels predatory.

He clearly has an expectation about where the night is going, but unfortunately for him, I’m not that kind of girl.

Any kind of intimacy is incredibly personal for me. Letting someone in and allowing them to see all of the chipped and damaged pieces of my mind and body isn’t easy. This guy, Jeremy something, isn’t going to get anywhere near either one.

The conversation between us has been tense and more miserable than all of the injections, pump site changes, and low blood sugars I’ve endured over the last nine years.

It’s become downright excruciating, leaving me no choice but to excuse myself to the restroom.

For a brief moment, I think about walking right out of the restaurant and leaving the hotel, but I can’t do that to someone.

The thought alone almost makes me as uncomfortable as the date that I’m currently suffering through.

I don’t know if this even qualifies as a date.

He’s barely told me anything about himself, aside from surface-level nonsense.

He’s going to school for his master’s degree, but I don’t remember what he said his major is.

Standing in front of the large mirror in the women’s restroom, I take a moment to freshen up my makeup and comb my fingers through my hair.

After quickly making sure that I’m the only one in here, I slip my phone from my purse and position my arm just far enough away from my face to capture my nose, lips, neck, and cleavage, but nothing else.

I intentionally leave my face cut off to keep my eyes from being in the picture.

I don’t carry one of my masks in my purse, though it’s not a terrible idea for when I want to capture more casual selfies for my subscribers.

This date may not be going the way I hoped it would, but the comments from my subscribers on Frisk always lift my spirits.

Some are a bit forward and cringeworthy, which is to be expected.

For the most part, they always leave me feeling confident and desirable.

I’ve never been the type to feel self-conscious about my body, but I still enjoy the compliments.

Plus, each new photo I share tends to bring in at least one special content request, giving me the room to explore and learn more about my body and what I’m into.

Granted, I don’t accept every request that comes in because, let’s be real here, some of them are disgusting.

But I’m not exactly in a position to be turning down extra cash .

I know I can’t hide out in the restaurant’s bathroom forever, so I slip my phone back into my purse and head back to my date. Only to find an empty table with no evidence that Jeremy had ever been there.

Great. He was the one being an asshole, and somehow, I’m the one who gets ditched.

Heaving a sigh, I head over to the bar and slide onto one of the only empty barstools.

Right next to the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen.

His black hair seems like it may have been styled back at some point but is now tousled, a few pieces hanging over his forehead as though he’s been running his hands through it.

Even from his side profile, I can tell his cheekbones and jawline are sharply cut, amplified by the clenching of his jaw.

His eyes flick in my direction as I situate myself on the seat, and I’m suddenly thankful that I opted for the dark-wash jeans that hug my plentiful curves instead of the skirt I’d been considering.

The last thing I need this handsome stranger to see is me struggling to get comfortable as my legs stick to the leather seat.

The bartender approaches me with a kind smile and asks, “What can I get for you?”

“Glass of champagne with a splash of pineapple juice.” I hold out my ID for him to check.

“You got it,” he replies, turning around to make my drink.

Champagne has a reputation for being a celebratory drink, but it also has a fairly low carb count.

The splash of pineapple juice adds the perfect amount of sweetness, and to be honest, I could use the drink after that disaster of a date .

The man beside me makes some sort of non-committal hum as he raises his drink to his lips .

“You look like your night is going about as well as mine,” I tell him, turning to face him with a soft smile. If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s striking up a conversation with random strangers. Even grumpy ones who seem like they’d rather be doing anything else.

“I’ve had better,” he grunts, setting the glass of amber liquid in front of him.

He stares down at the glass as though he’s lost in thought.

I’m almost certain he’s going to blow me off or get up and leave.

It’s not like he’d be the first man to do so tonight.

“Your night not going well?” he asks, surprising me.

My night has most definitely not been going well.

“You could say that,” I say with a scoff as the bartender sets my drink on a paper coaster in front of me, the light bubbly liquid suddenly calling my name.

“Considering my date just up and left after spending the entire time trying to get me to order a drink, I’d say my night can only get better.

” I’m not stupid. I’m well aware that Jeremy’s reasoning for wanting me to order a drink was probably malicious.

“You weren’t enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“Not even a little bit,” I tell him honestly, raising the champagne glass to my lips and taking a sip. The sweet and acidic notes of the pineapple juice combining with the bubbles of the champagne bursting on my tongue.

“Then why suffer through it?”

“I mean, I wasn’t suffering . It just wasn’t what I’d consider a ‘good time.’ I’ve had plenty of nights worse than this one.” I pull my shoulders up in a slow shrug as I set my drink down, slowly swirling my pointer finger around the rim. “What’s making your night not so great? ”

His brows pinch together at my words, his dark gaze focused on his nearly empty glass.

He’s quiet for so long that I almost don’t think he’s going to answer me.

Maybe he doesn’t want to talk, and that’s fine.

Not everyone enjoys talking to new people as much as I do.

Should I tell him that I hope he has a good night and try to find another seat?

Or maybe I should apologize for trying to talk to him in the first place.

No, that would be weird. I should probably just sit here and enjoy my drink in silence.

“I had a disgruntled hotel guest that I needed to handle.” The rasp of his voice takes me by surprise.

I turn my head to look at him, but his eyes haven’t left the glass in front of him.

There’s only a sip or two left of the amber-colored alcohol, but he’s staring at it as though it’s personally offended him.

He seems to be battling some kind of internal war with himself.

If he had a troubling guest to deal with, then I suppose he works here at the hotel.

Maybe he’s some kind of manager. That’s probably why he doesn’t seem to want to talk to me.

Though if he’s working and can’t socialize, he probably shouldn’t be drinking, either.

“I hope everything’s alright,” I tell him softly.

I watch as he pushes his glass away, his gaze finally shifting to meet mine.

“It is now,” he says. At this angle, with the way the bar lights are illuminating his face, I can see that his eyes aren’t as dark as I’d been thinking.

They’re a stunning shade of brown, unlike any I’ve seen before.

Not as dark as melted chocolate, but not quite as light as honey, either.

The weight of his words settles over me, and my thighs clench at the implication.

I get the sense that this man doesn’t let very many people in.

His body posture is cold and guarded, while his eyes hold more warmth than a raging fire.

I want to burn beneath his gaze. The thought catches me off-guard, and I mentally clear the image from my mind.

Taking another sip of the chilled champagne gives me a chance to form a coherent sentence.

I finally ask, “So, what is it that you do here?”

“Head of security.” His response is clipped. His brows pinch together once more before he clears his throat and says, “I oversee all security operations here at the Elysian. It’s my job to make sure everyone is safe.”

Silence sits between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, I feel like I could sit beside this man for hours without a single word being exchanged, and I’d still be far more comfortable with him than I was with that poor excuse of a date.

“What do you do?” he asks. It’s a natural response considering I’d practically asked him the same thing.

I don’t know what answer to give him though.

I’m definitely not going to tell a hot-as-sin stranger that I recently started working as a camgirl on Frisk.

I’m not ashamed of taking that route to make ends meet, but I also don’t think many people would be accepting of that job.

Not that I necessarily need this guy to be accepting of anything about me or my life.

I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me.

Despite the deep feeling in my chest pulling me towards him, we don’t owe each other anything.

I guess the easier answer would be to tell him that I work at a bakery, but then he would probably ask what my favorite thing to bake is, and I’d have to tell him that I don’t actually bake anything at the bakery.

The owner is a bit of a control freak and won’t let me go anywhere near her recipes.

She’s not rude about it; it’s just a clear line in the sand.

If I tell him that I’m a photographer who’s working on specializing in boudoir, will he be a creep and ask to see my work?

Or worse. . . What if he volunteers to be my assistant for a shoot?

I swear I’ve heard that line from men more times than I care to count, and it never fails to throw a red flag up in my mind.

“I’m sorta all over the place,” I say with a laugh.

It’s not really an answer, but maybe he’ll accept it for the nonanswer it is so that we can move on from this topic.

“I tend to get bored easily and end up trying out various side hustles.” His eyes flick back to me as I continue to ramble.

“The past year or so, I’ve been working as a photographer, and I love it more than anything else I’ve ever done. ”

So much for moving on from this topic, Quinn.

I have no idea why I’m telling him all of this, but I’ve never pretended to be a closed book.

I guess it’s my way of figuring out my compatibility with someone.

If they take all the information I give them in stride and don’t flinch, they will have found themselves a new friend for life.

If they react with even a hint of judgement, I’m out.

My life is crazy enough as it is. I don’t have time for people who aren’t going to stick around and put forth the same amount of effort as me.

Feeling the need to quiet my brain, or at least my mouth, I reach for the glass of champagne and take another sip.

I really need to eat something with that pre-bolus of insulin on board, but I can’t afford much more than the drink I’ve already ordered.

This place is so far out of my price range.

I only agreed to this spot for my date because I was under the impression that he’d be paying for dinner.

I didn’t expect him to run for the hills while I was in the bathroom.

I also never anticipated running into a charming stranger at the bar. But it looks like this night is full of surprises.