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Authors: Julie Johnson
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finally took a breath. “You know, some people aren’t like me.”
What, you mean not everyone is a total narcissist? Well, thank the lord for that.
“Some people aren’t lucky. Not everyone gets to travel to fifty countries in two years,” Earl prattled on, entirely unaware of my thoughts. He smiled at me with a faux-humble grin he’d no doubt been perfecting since his boarding school days, and I tried my best not to gag. “Not everyone has a trust fund, either,” he added.
Jesus. Was this guy for real? Did women actually find this shit appealing?
Actually, given the fact that he was self-enrolled in a speed-dating service, I was going to assume the answer to my question was hell fucking no . I cast my eyes heavenward and prayed for divine intervention. Maybe a merciful lightning bolt would strike him — or me — dead. Because Earl was match number six, and, so far, he was the best of the bunch.
The first two guys had essentially stared at my boobs until the bell rang. The third had at least attempted conversation, not only revealing that he’d been traveling the world on a religious pilgrimage for the past eight months, but also attempting to convert me when I told him my parents had raised me without any formal religion — all in five minutes or less, mind you. Number four had been so shy, I’d initially wondered if, like me, he’d been forced into this situation by his friends, so I struck up a scintillating conversation about how beautiful the park was at this time of year. It seemed like an innocuous enough topic.
Huge mistake.
As it turned out, match number four was horrified to learn of my ignorance concerning the indigenous bird species that had been driven from their habitats due to overcrowding and excessive tourism. He used his five minutes to educate me quite thoroughly on the issue.
By the time date number five arrived, I was thinking things might finally be on the upswing — he was attractive, well-dressed, and I’d seen him engaged in a lively conversation with Margot only minutes before. And yet… he seemed totally disinterested in me from the moment he sat down, glancing at his cellphone every few seconds and casting several unsubtle looks at the girl at the next cocktail table rather than making conversation.
Talk about an ego boost.
Hell, considering the other options, Earl was shaping up to be the most eligible bachelor of the evening.
A surreptitious glance at my watch informed me that there were still three minutes left until the bell rang. I’d spent a hundred and twenty seconds with Earl, and I was ready to jab my eyes out. I didn’t know how much longer I could last.
Thankfully, he was so enamored with himself, he didn’t seem to notice that I was no longer paying attention. My eyes drifted down the bank of the lake and, in the fading twilight, I saw an artist packing up his easel for the day. He’d been sketching the rowers on the water, his canvas streaked with the red-orange hues of sunset. His back was to me — all broad shoulders and defined muscles. He wasn’t huge, like those roid-ragey, neck-less, body-builder types who were always grunting at the gym, but there was something in the way he held himself, even from this distance, that spoke of tightly coiled power, of lithe energy and a deceptive amount of control.
I should’ve recognized him, but I didn’t.
He turned slowly, as though he felt the weight of my eyes on him. When his face lifted and I realized it was him , my stranger, I nearly had a heart attack right there at the cocktail table.
His eyes locked onto mine. Hands frozen midair, canvas hovering half-stored inside his portable easel, he stared across the expanse between us. Our eyes held for five unblinking seconds, and I felt a slow, disbelieving smile spread across my lips. My mind blanked except for one word.
Fate.
I should’ve been embarrassed to be caught staring. I should’ve looked away, as this fleeting glance between strangers
What, you mean not everyone is a total narcissist? Well, thank the lord for that.
“Some people aren’t lucky. Not everyone gets to travel to fifty countries in two years,” Earl prattled on, entirely unaware of my thoughts. He smiled at me with a faux-humble grin he’d no doubt been perfecting since his boarding school days, and I tried my best not to gag. “Not everyone has a trust fund, either,” he added.
Jesus. Was this guy for real? Did women actually find this shit appealing?
Actually, given the fact that he was self-enrolled in a speed-dating service, I was going to assume the answer to my question was hell fucking no . I cast my eyes heavenward and prayed for divine intervention. Maybe a merciful lightning bolt would strike him — or me — dead. Because Earl was match number six, and, so far, he was the best of the bunch.
The first two guys had essentially stared at my boobs until the bell rang. The third had at least attempted conversation, not only revealing that he’d been traveling the world on a religious pilgrimage for the past eight months, but also attempting to convert me when I told him my parents had raised me without any formal religion — all in five minutes or less, mind you. Number four had been so shy, I’d initially wondered if, like me, he’d been forced into this situation by his friends, so I struck up a scintillating conversation about how beautiful the park was at this time of year. It seemed like an innocuous enough topic.
Huge mistake.
As it turned out, match number four was horrified to learn of my ignorance concerning the indigenous bird species that had been driven from their habitats due to overcrowding and excessive tourism. He used his five minutes to educate me quite thoroughly on the issue.
By the time date number five arrived, I was thinking things might finally be on the upswing — he was attractive, well-dressed, and I’d seen him engaged in a lively conversation with Margot only minutes before. And yet… he seemed totally disinterested in me from the moment he sat down, glancing at his cellphone every few seconds and casting several unsubtle looks at the girl at the next cocktail table rather than making conversation.
Talk about an ego boost.
Hell, considering the other options, Earl was shaping up to be the most eligible bachelor of the evening.
A surreptitious glance at my watch informed me that there were still three minutes left until the bell rang. I’d spent a hundred and twenty seconds with Earl, and I was ready to jab my eyes out. I didn’t know how much longer I could last.
Thankfully, he was so enamored with himself, he didn’t seem to notice that I was no longer paying attention. My eyes drifted down the bank of the lake and, in the fading twilight, I saw an artist packing up his easel for the day. He’d been sketching the rowers on the water, his canvas streaked with the red-orange hues of sunset. His back was to me — all broad shoulders and defined muscles. He wasn’t huge, like those roid-ragey, neck-less, body-builder types who were always grunting at the gym, but there was something in the way he held himself, even from this distance, that spoke of tightly coiled power, of lithe energy and a deceptive amount of control.
I should’ve recognized him, but I didn’t.
He turned slowly, as though he felt the weight of my eyes on him. When his face lifted and I realized it was him , my stranger, I nearly had a heart attack right there at the cocktail table.
His eyes locked onto mine. Hands frozen midair, canvas hovering half-stored inside his portable easel, he stared across the expanse between us. Our eyes held for five unblinking seconds, and I felt a slow, disbelieving smile spread across my lips. My mind blanked except for one word.
Fate.
I should’ve been embarrassed to be caught staring. I should’ve looked away, as this fleeting glance between strangers
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