Page 11 of Van Cort

RIVER

I text April that it’s done - that I told him where I stood. Or at least told Andre, who I hoped would convey my anger. Because the jerk wouldn’t let me contact him, that’s what I had to remember here. This is on him, not me.

But that didn’t stop the worm of doubt that I didn’t fit into his expensive world from burrowing into my mind and taking up space. And it didn’t stop the latent guilt at mouthing off at Andre. Or being so blunt with him.

This was Everett’s fault.

His.

I grab the vase of flowers on the coffee table and march them to the kitchen to dump them in the bin. It shouldn’t have taken me this long, but they were beautiful. And I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me flowers.

At least it’s taught me to be more cautious. Men like him might appear the knight in shining armour, but they clearly have their own intentions that might not be honourable.

Just like my snake of a boss.

Urghh, I’m surrounded by assholes.

***

I’ve managed to avoid any dealings with Antony – a small blessing – but that won’t hold.

Even with arriving early to work, and with my mood still clouded with thoughts of a certain bachelor who may or may not deign to call, I focus on the numbers.

I trawl through the market, pulling the patterns and turning that into a detailed analysis that will be better than anyone else’s.

Because I am better. I just have to figure out how to make them see me for my skill and acumen, and not just the girl who doesn’t really belong.

Mercifully, I escape from having to deal with Antony for the next day as well, but it doesn’t lift my mood. Deep down there’s someone else I’m more mad at, and not being able to address him personally is eating me up.

So, I seek refuge in the one thing that won’t let me down. Wine.

My hand grips the neck of the bottle, drawing it from the fridge, happy to indulge, and I set about opening it as my phone rings with a blocked number.

The flutter in my stomach has my jaw locking in frustration as I stare at the screen. It might not be him, I tell myself as I swipe at the screen.

“Hello, Andie.”

I know that voice, and I can’t help the little scream of triumph my heart gives that he’s called. Still, I keep my voice flat and indifferent as I respond. “Everett.”

There’s a beat of silence, and I hold my breath, the bottle still in my hand – this is not the time to back down. He’s in the wrong. He called. Let him speak.

“Perhaps I owe you a call. After your… message via Andre.”

“I’m glad he passed that on. Although I would have preferred to have directed those words at you. Second-hand, they might have fallen a little flat.” My hand tips and finishes topping off my glass.

“He was very clear with the conveyance. Believe me.”

“Well, as my words were what it took to get a call from you, I’d like you to pass on my thanks to him.”

“I’ll make sure to pass the message along.”

Another beat of silence.

“Was this all you called to say? It seems strange that I had to go through all of this to get you to call, and then you have nothing to say.” My free hand clenches, my nails digging into my palm, waiting.

“I… enjoyed the weekend. With you.”

“Enjoy is a very polite word, if not a little insulting, given what you did to me in my hall.” My mind flashes to the heat, the urgency and outright sexiness of him taking me against the wall. Like all of what he showed me is pinned or wrapped up under the fine suits and tight tie at his throat.

It felt good to be that free – that daring. Desired.

And then nothing.

After he said he would call.

I pick up my glass and take a sip of wine.

“It wasn’t meant as a slight, I assure you.”

“I think we’re past that, Everett. I’d appreciate the truth. Do you have any intention of seeing me again?”

“That was the intention of the call, actually. To restart, if you like.” I hear the edge to his voice, how careful he’s being with his words.

“Funny, and here I was thinking that was what the coffee and flowers were for. You certainly like to keep a girl guessing.”

“Well, let’s look to change that. You must understand that there are certain parameters to dating me. The phone number, my driver, my schedule.”

“And none of that is a problem. It’s the ghosting and lack of contact after you fucked me, twice, that’s the problem.

I have no idea where I stand with you. Or why I should even continue talking with you if this is just going to end in the same way.

Placate me, sleep with me, and only call when you’re bored or want another fuck?

” I squeeze my eyes shut as my anger presses the words and hope it doesn’t piss him off, even if he deserves it.

He’s in the wrong. He needs to make amends. I repeat the words in my head.

“I’d like to take you out on a date.” Not a question.

“Okay. So, back to wining and dining?”

“Last weekend was… an exception. But I would like to see you again. Dinner?”

“Dinner. And will I be seeing Andre on this date?” I ask.

“No. I’ll pick you up myself. But understand that he will need to be present at times in the future.”

“You understand that for there to be a next time, you can’t ignore me. This can remain casual, I have no intention of wanting anything more given the track record, but that is my condition.”

“I’ll ensure that’s the case. So, tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.” Another non-question from that tone of his.

Before I agree, I offer a slice of my vulnerability, this conversation being the most honest perhaps we’ve had, besides idle chit-chat.

“My head is telling me there’s too much to risk in this for me. You’ve fooled me twice already. And I’d never advise to invest in this.” And I’ll be keeping my feelings well and truly out of it.

“But it’s a yes?”

“Seven-thirty.”

***

Déjà vu hits as I riffle through my wardrobe looking for something for our date, or should I be calling it his final chance? My hand stills on the obscenely short red dress. It was an indulgence and one I’ve only been able to wear once. If he wanted a casual fuck, it certainly screams that.

But that’s not for tonight.

And it’s not me, really.

Everett’s call seemed to suggest he’s back to the formality that I’d first seen in him, so I sack the rest of my wardrobe for something feminine, but sophisticated, and certainly not as casual as the running gear of the weekend.

The pale blue dress I try on works. It’s cut a little short for business attire but delivers the right silhouette for a formal date.

My hair is still shiny, so I brush it out until it gleams, twist it over one shoulder and braid it.

The fine strands will only get in the way of eating and drinking later, and this style keeps it on the right side of formal.

At precisely seven-thirty, Everett knocks on my door. No flowers in hand, the sharp lines of his suit like armour once again. “Shall we?” He crooks his arm in offering.

Just as I go to accept, my body freezes as if warning me to take a second thought. His list of red flags is growing, and all I seem to be doing is ignoring them.

“Are you ready?” Everett checks, knocking me from my final deliberation.

I feign a smile and take a calming breath. “Thank you.”

He leads the way to his car. A sleek, silver Mercedes this time, all business. No hint of the Range Rover from the weekend.

He drives us towards town, and I anticipate a stale and clinical location again, like our first date.

Instead, he takes us closer to the Pike Market area.

It’s bustling and lively, and somewhere that neither of us is appropriately dressed for.

Although Mr Van Cort, I doubt, wouldn’t be out of place wherever he went.

He has that air about him. The same one that rich and entitled people have, born with the confidence that nothing will ever be beyond their reach.

“I didn’t ask where we’d be going tonight, I’ve learned that much,” I muse.

“It’s a quiet but excellent restaurant. Somewhere with some personality. You liked the jazz?” He looks over at me.

He already knows the answer. “I did, thank you.”

He parks up to the curb and comes around to open my door, every inch the gentleman he looks. He opens the front door to the restaurant, we’re seated, and he offers me small, reassuring glances at each step, as if he’s still gauging me – deciding, possibly – if this is a good idea.

Attempting to keep my mask in place is harder than I thought it would be.

After agreeing to this date, I had my own little tantrum with myself for being so fickle and weak to allow him to convince me for a third chance.

I know what my weak spot is when it comes to Everett Van Cort.

It’s not just the way he looks in the fine threads, or his reserved mind, it’s the glimpse he gave me under that tightly fastened button, too.

Also, the fact that he wanted me as much as I wanted him and the wall was the fastest option because he couldn’t possibly wait? Hot.

What will the terms for this date be after that?

“White wine?” he asks as we’re seated.

“Please. But just the glass. I have a meeting in the morning.” Boundaries. I need them all around me and fortified. “At my job. Where I make my own money.”

He snorts. “Of course.” He orders sparkling and still water, and a small glass of wine for me.

My eyes keep wanting to look him over, ever-eager to settle on his face - his eyes, and I’m fighting the urge to speak, too.

I’m not filling in the slightly uncomfortable silence that’s settled over us, no matter how desperate I feel to do so.

The need to please this man has withered and is doing my confidence the world of good.

With our drinks delivered, I’m only too glad to reach for the wine.

“I don’t often see women for more than a few dates,” he states.

The glass in my hand pauses in mid-air as I feel the truth of that statement. “Wow, okay. That explains a lot, actually.” I bring the glass to my lips and drain half of it in two large gulps.