Blind Date

by Bella Jewel

Genres: Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

After the death of her husband four years ago, Hartley Watson is finally ready to meet someone—and maybe even have a second chance at love. But then, just as her dating life seems to be getting started, Hartley is struck with a horrifying realization: Someone is watching her. Entering her home. Even knows the intimate details of her life. How else to explain the strange deliveries, or the sudden appearance of mementos from her dead spouse—ones that she had kept for so long in storage?

If only Hartley could know for sure whether what is happening to her is real or if her grief is making her lose touch with reality. Those around her aren't convinced that she's being stalked, nor is the wonderful, supportive man Hartley's started dating. The exciting new life she has created for herself is slowly becoming a nightmare . . .

How can Hartley seek protection when nobody believes that she's at risk—and the only one in the world she can trust is herself?

Release date: August 1, 2017

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 304

Sample

ONE

Hartley


“C’mon, Hart, it’s been four years. You can’t keep hiding away, avoiding the world.”

I glance at Taylor, my best friend and a royal pain in my ass, and grimace. “Maybe so, but going on a blind date hardly seems like the ideal situation to get back out there. I’ve read about those—they never end well.”

Taylor raises a pretty blonde brow; even giving me a sarcastic expression she looks gorgeous. Blonde, tall, lean, and fit. She doesn’t need to worry about finding a date—she has them lining up. “How would you know? You’ve never been on one. You were with Raymond for ten years. When was the last time you even knew what it was like to meet a new person?”

The mention of my husband’s name has my chest constricting, though it’s not as bad as it used to be. During those first few years after I lost him in a car accident, there was a stabbing pain every living, breathing moment. I don’t think I went a day without that pain cutting through me. But over time, it turned into a slow ache—some days bad, some days barely there, but always a constant, in one way or another. A continuous reminder that he’s gone, and that I’m still here without him. At least I can wake up without tears running down my cheeks now. That was a big step.

That was when I first felt like I was finally healing. That was six months ago.

“I don’t want to meet any new people.” I shrug. “Not by forcing it, anyway. It seems wrong…”

Taylor keeps that eyebrow raised, and crosses her arms, causing the purple blouse she’s wearing to crumple up at the front. “Look, honey, I know you might not want to be ready, or even want to think about it, but it can’t hurt to go on a date. It’s not like you have to marry the guy. You have a few drinks and if you don’t like him, you leave and never have to see him again.”

I study her for a moment. She’s stubborn. She doesn’t budge when she gets an idea in her head. Those hazel eyes hold mine without hesitation, without even flickering in a different direction. She won’t back down, and I damn well know it. When Taylor is in one of her life-changing moods, nobody can tell her no. Nobody.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I mumble, turning my attention away and squinting as I try to feed a piece of thread through a needle so I can sew a button onto my favorite green blouse, which I’ve probably far outworn but can’t part with. It’s comfortable, so incredibly comfortable. And it was the last thing I wore when Raymond was alive. The last thing he touched. The last thing he saw me in.

Taylor makes a little sound in her throat, bringing my full attention back. “Hart, you’re young and you could be out there, getting all the love you deserve. Can you just do this for me? Please? Go on a few dates, and if you hate them I swear I’ll never ever mention it again. I’ll leave you to sew buttons and stay huddled up in this apartment for another four years, wasting away.”

I give her a foul look, and she blinks innocently at me.

Damn her. She’s good. She knows how to push my buttons and get beneath the surface to stir me up and get what she wants. We’ve known each other too long—that’s the problem. She might as well be my sister, my other half, basically a part of me. And she can read me like a damned book.

“One,” I say, looking back down to feed the needle through the button and then through the material of my blouse. “One date, and that’s it.”

“Five.”

I snort. “One.”

“Four dates. C’mon, Hartley.”

She puts her hands together in a pleading gesture, those big eyelashes batting as she looks at me like some sort of desperate kitten.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Two.”

“Three and we’ll call it even.”

I sigh. “I don’t know why I have to go out with three men. Can’t I just go out on one date and be done with it? I’m not interested in seeing anyone. I’m not sure I’ll ever be interested in dating anyone again. Honestly.”

She’s already smiling way too big, because she knows she’s won. She knows it and she’s thrilled with it. “You don’t know until you try, and hey, you might even just find a friend out of it. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend at the very least?”

I squint at her again. “Last time I checked, that’s what you are.”

She smiles prettily. “Yes, but I mean a male friend. One who might make you laugh. Who might make you feel good again.”

“You do all of that,” I mumble, putting the needle between my lips as I adjust the button. I know what she means but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Stop arguing with me, and just do as you’re told.”

I giggle, and the needle drops from my lips. I know what she’s doing, and I know it’s probably time I give in and start getting back out there, but the very idea of dressing up and going on a date makes me cringe. I don’t think it’s because I don’t want to. I mean sure, one day I do want to meet someone, I guess it’s just the fear of being that … open with someone again.

I never really dated Ray. We met through mutual friends when we were in our early twenties and we just sort of starting talking—he made me laugh, I’ll always remember that. During our first conversation, he had me in hysterics. One thing led to another and before I knew it, we were together. Sure, we went out after that, but there was never the awkward first date moment, where the possibility of getting stuck with a stranger for at least an hour is high.

Then there is the issue of trying to figure out something to say. I groan inwardly, honestly not sure I’m cut out for this. I’ve never been good with new people, let alone small talk, but Taylor is right, it has been four years and I’ve held myself back. I can’t do that forever. So maybe enduring a few dates is, at the very least, a step in the right direction. I don’t want to be alone forever—I truly don’t—but I won’t deny that the idea of stepping back into the terrifying world of dating does frighten me a little.

“Fine,” I give in, and sigh. “Three, but that’s it. When it doesn’t work out with any of them, and it likely won’t, then you leave me alone and mention nothing of the male species again.”

She claps her hands together. “It’s a deal, but you have to at least try. I don’t want to hear you showed up on your worst behavior and ruined things before the men even got to say a word.”

I huff. “You just ruined my plan. I was going to wear my ugliest jeans, and dribble while I ate.”

She slaps my arm as I grin up at her.

“Don’t be smart, Hartley. Trust me, this is going to be good for you.”

I grunt. It’ll definitely be something for me, but whether “good” is the word I’d use is to be determined. “Where, dare I ask, are you going to find these three eligible bachelors?”

She grins mischievously and rubs her hands together. I don’t want to hear her answer, not when she’s giving me a look that screams she’s been up to no good. “I’ve already found them.”

She. Wait … what? How in the hell could she have found three men, in such a short time?

“Taylor!”

She puts her hands up in self-defense as I throw the nearest item at her, which happens to be a roll of thread. It bounces off her shoulder and trails across the floor, leaving a long line of string in its wake. Great. That’ll take forever to roll back up.

“Come on, you didn’t think I would get you to agree without having this all ready to go, did you?”

I scowl at her. That’s exactly what I thought. I figured I had at least a few weeks or maybe she’d move on to something else and forget about it entirely. Besides, where in the hell does she get time to find three men for me, as well as work, and basically attempt to run my entire life?

She rolls her eyes. “Stop scowling, Hart. You need to start using that beautiful smile to attract these gorgeous prospects.”

I roll my eyes right back. “Where did you find three men?”

“I found five, actually, but I can narrow them down to three. And there is this singles website, it’s actually called blind date. It’s really super cool. You put in all your details—what you’re interested in, right down to the way someone looks—and it sends you matches. You ask them for a date, they agree or disagree. If they agree, you set up a location and meet. It’s kind of mysterious, don’t you think?”

I wouldn’t go as far as “mysterious,” but I can think of at least ten ways that could go wrong. I mean seriously, it’s like a website created for all the crazies of the world to lie and then to meet on dates. I don’t know how the creator thought it would be a successful idea. Although, obviously it is successful because Taylor has found me not one, not two, but five men. Thank God I only agreed to three. “If I get sold as a sex slave, it’s all your fault,” I say, wagging my finger at her.

She laughs. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re far too mouthy for that. They’d sooner chop you into a thousand pieces before using you as a slave—you’d drive them crazy in a day.”

I flip her the bird, and she winks at me.

“The first date is tonight, by the way. I have a dress for you.”

My eyes pop wide open. She’s kidding, no? Tonight? My heart clenches in a strange way—nerves, maybe? It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything even remotely like the anxious feeling bubbling in my tummy. Am I truly ready for this? I guess I’m not getting much of a choice. “Taylor, seriously…”

“You’re welcome.”

I pout at her. “There will be revenge for this. Sweet, sweet revenge.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She flicks a hand dismissively. “You better finish sewing on that button, because we need to find you some shoes to wear—oh, and some jewelry.”

I haven’t been on a date in over ten years. I’m nearly thirty-four. That’s a big gap. A lot has changed since I was twenty-four. Am I even what men are looking for these days? What is the norm for a woman? Should I be blonder? Thinner? I wouldn’t even know what to talk about. Will it be awkward? What if I hate the person and can’t escape? This isn’t the traditional way of meeting someone, and that makes me nervous.

Suck it up, Hartley. Eventually, it has to happen.

“What’s going to happen if I don’t like the guy, like I mean really don’t like him?” I ask.

She nods, like she’s got every scenario figured out well in advance. “Simple. You send me a text, and I’ll call you pretending to be your pregnant sister who has just gone into labor.”

“Not original at all.” I roll my eyes.

She shrugs. “Well, it’ll work. Now, let’s find something we can do with your hair.”

I pout. “Do I really have to do this?”

She crosses her arms. “If you ever want to be left alone, yes.”

I grind my teeth. “And this is the only option?”

“You could always go and ask that gorgeous neighbor of yours.”

I raise my brows. “Ace?”

“Mmmmhmmm. He’s fine. I’d tap that all the way out of this apartment building.”

I laugh. “Ace is a dick. He won’t even say hello to me when I wave. He’s so … brutal. Seriously.”

She shrugs again. “He’s a cop. That’s what they do.”

I raise a brow, like that explanation is supposed to let him walk around thinking he’s better than the rest of the world. Manners should be a part of everyday life, no matter what your profession is. “He’s a detective, actually, and manners aren’t exactly hard. Surely he has to deal with people in his everyday life. I mean how hard is it to say hello?”

“Maybe he didn’t hear you,” Taylor offers, quirking a brow.

“Oh, he hears me. I waved right in his face once, and he just stared at me.”

She wiggles her brows. “Well, the silent types usually have a wild side beneath the surface. You could skip past all the dating and just go right in there for the time of your life. Maybe that’s all you need.”

I snort. “No thank you. I’d sooner poke my eye out then hit Ace up for anything.”

She laughs. “He is hot though. Even you have to admit that.”

Ace Henderson—detective, jerk, and moody asshole—lives right next door to me. He has that tall, dark, handsome, broody thing going on. Yes, Ace Henderson is fine. Any woman with two eyes and a beating heart would admit that.

He’s also a prick.

“I never said he wasn’t easy on the eyes, but no. Let’s stick to your blind dates.”

Taylor claps her hands together. “I’m so excited.”

Lord help me.

* * *

This is a bad idea.

A really bad idea.

I should turn around and go home, right now, before this random stranger arrives. Maybe I can fake a stomachache, to keep Taylor off my back. I don’t know what I was thinking. This could go wrong on so many levels. I don’t know if I’m ready to meet another man, even if it is just to be friends. I fidget and stand awkwardly out front of the restaurant-slash-bar. I try to look inconspicuous, but I’m sure I stand out like a sore thumb.

The wind tickles my cheeks, calming me down. I focus on the couples sitting at the large outdoor tables, covered by big black umbrellas, and I feel at ease. It’ll be okay. It will be great.

My phone buzzes in my purse, distracting the crazy mess of thoughts in my head, and with fumbling fingers I pull it out, seeing a text from Taylor flashing on the screen.

T: Don’t even think about running, and no, your excuses will not work. This will be good for you.

Damn her.

She’s a mind reader.

H: I hate you. If this date is a creeper, you’re going to pay.

T: Love you!

Shaking my head, I tuck my phone back in my purse just as a smooth voice says, “Hartley?”

It’s a nice voice. Masculine, thick and deep. I exhale, feeling a little better. I’m being overdramatic, I know this. I need to get myself together and relax. I won’t enjoy myself if I’m wound up this tight. So I turn and gaze at the man behind me.

It takes all my strength to hold in my gasp.

For a few moments, I just stare. I’m not a judgmental person. I don’t take people on face value and I’m certainly not shallow, but this man is a good fifteen years older than me. Taylor briefed me on this date, telling me Greg was only five years older than I was, so I know right off the bat he has lied.

I think that’s what shocks me the most. Not that he’s not my type, but that he lied. What else did he lie about?

This doesn’t make me feel secure. At all.

In front of me is a man, well into his forties, with a balding head and not much else going for him. His sky blue eyes are surrounded by bushy brows, and he’s slightly overweight, which shows in both his body and in his rounding face. He’s wearing a pair of clean black slacks and a button-up gray shirt. At least he’s well dressed.

“Ah,” I finally squeak, trying to control my shock and find my manners. “Yes.”

“I’m Greg.”

Greg.

Don’t be judgmental, Hartley. That’s a fine name. At least he didn’t lie about that. He’s probably a really nice man, even if his smooth, masculine, sexy voice does not match him. At all. How does that happen? How can his voice scream sex god and be so completely off? God. What am I doing? I’m being a terrible person. I haven’t even had a conversation with the man.

Perhaps he could make a good friend.

Yes. A good friend. There. I feel better now.

Kind of.

“Hi, Greg,” I say, exhaling the breath I was holding in my lungs.

It was starting to hurt.

He smiles sheepishly, showing his straight white teeth. He seems like a nice guy, and my guard drops just a little. He’s probably just nervous like I was, so I should go easy on him. “Look, before we go on, I’m sorry I don’t really fit the description I listed on my profile. It’s just really hard to find a date these days, people judge someone before they even meet them. I know I wasn’t completely honest.”

I’m that person.

Judgy bitch.

I need to give myself a solid talking to. I didn’t even want to go on a date and now that I’m here I am judging this man because he’s caught me off guard. I’ve barely let the man speak and I’ve already dismissed him. That’s unfair.

I smile, even though I’m still a little uncomfortable. But it would be unfair not to at least have a drink with him. It won’t take long, it’s polite—the right thing to do, even. “Do you want to go inside and get a drink?”

He seems to relax a little. “Of course. After you.”

I turn and walk into the bar, letting Greg follow behind. He’s a little too close for comfort, but I don’t say anything. I just sit down on a barstool, and he takes the one directly next to mine. If I study him, really look, I can see that in his younger days, he was probably a nice-looking man. Maybe even enough to match that voice. But age has clearly caught up with him. It seems like he’s spent a lot of time in the sun, which has probably prematurely aged him.

But I’m still thinking he may be closer to fifty. Unfortunately, no matter how great of a guy he may turn out to be, I know it won’t work. I really don’t think I can get over the age difference. I can do friends. Yes, friends. God, I’m going to kill Taylor. Kill her, and then bury her body in a shallow grave. Something completely unclassy.

But, if I’m going to get back into dating, I need to practice being in these types of situations. Besides, I wouldn’t want someone to be rude to me if I wasn’t their type. It’s nerve-racking enough to be on a date, let alone to be rejected. I’m not that cruel. I can make conversation. I can be friendly. At least I’m out of the house, right?

“So what brings a beautiful girl like you to a dating site?” Greg asks me.

“I lost my husband four years ago, and I wanted to get back out there again, I guess.”

To give him credit, Greg doesn’t flinch, freak out, or take a staggering step back at the news that I lost my husband. I’ve not had many men try to talk to me since I lost Raymond, but the few that have seem to lose interest quickly when I mention that I’m a widow. I don’t understand why, but it’s like something in their minds just switches off and they do an instant retreat. Greg’s eyes soften as he says, “I’m sorry to hear that. That must have been very difficult.”

See? He’s a nice guy.

I smile, and relax my shoulders just a touch, trying to take deep breaths and get comfortable. I realize I’m nervous, regardless of my lack of attraction to Greg. “Thank you. What about you, Greg? What brings you into the dating world?”

He shrugs and holds my eyes with his. “I just want to meet someone, get my life together. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living alone. I’d like a family. The universe wasn’t presenting someone to me, so I figured I’d take a step and see what was out there.”

Aw. He’s kind and he seems smart. I don’t know why he would have to lie to get a date. I’m sure there are plenty of lovely women out there in his age range who would like a chance with someone like him.

“That’s a good goal to have.”

This still feels a little awkward. If Greg notices, he certainly doesn’t show it. His posture is relaxed, he’s got an easy smile on his face, and he’s sipping his drink like he’s quite comfortable.

“Yes, I think so too,” he continues. “I’ve been on a few dates, but all the women in my age range just aren’t up to my standard. So I’m finding it really hard to find someone to connect with, you know?”

Silence.

Dead silence.

I blink.

Did he just say not up to his standard?

“Not that I’m picky,” he says quickly, clearly seeing the horrified look I just presented him with. “But I just have a type. It’s hard when you know what you want, but have to twist things around to get it. I don’t want to come across as sleazy. We all have a picture in our mind, don’t you think?”

I blink again.

He’s kidding me, right?

No. I must be reading him wrong. Surely he did not just say those words and mean them. I must be misunderstanding him. Because, if I’m not, it all suddenly makes sense. The lying in his profile. How comfortable he is around me, considering his age. No. I must be wrong.

“And your picture is?” I ask, my voice a little horrified.

He looks sheepish. “I prefer someone younger than myself, pretty is a must, slim in build, funny, stable job. Just the usual things a man looks for. You don’t think that makes me shallow, do you?”

Yes.

Yes I freaking do. I’m horrified. If he had just said he wants a successful woman, no problem. Or a funny woman, totally okay. But a young, skinny, pretty woman … not okay. Never okay. That is bordering on shallow, and I don’t appreciate shallow men. And here I thought I was being superficial when I first saw him. That was nothing compared to him.

Swallowing the insult I want to throw at him, I say through gritted teeth, “There are plenty of lovely, pretty women in your age range though, right?”

His eyes dart to the left, then back to mine. “Yes, but as I said, I prefer the younger ones, at least ten years my junior. I don’t think that makes me a bad person. Please don’t think I’m a horrible man. I just figure we only get one good shot at it, might as well go for what you know you want. I mean, I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone because they weren’t my type and I was just with them to avoid ‘being honest’ with myself.”

He. Did. Not.

I stare blankly at him. I can’t fathom his words. I honestly can’t. I understand having a type, I also understand not going for someone who doesn’t work for you because you don’t want to hurt them—like this situation, for example—but this man is being … he’s just being … an asshole.

“Please don’t think I’m awful,” he says, putting his hands up. “Gosh, I always do this. Put my foot in my mouth. I don’t know why. I just figure, you only get one life, you might as well not settle for less than what you want. I’m not attracted to women my own age, I find them unappealing. It wouldn’t be fair of me to lead them on, when I know they’re not what I want. Nobody should date someone they’re not attracted to.”

Oh my god. He’s making it even worse!

This guy seems to think he’s Christian-freaking-Grey.

“And what you want has to be not only young but also attractive. You don’t think that’s a little … well … above your limit?”

“You’ve taken me wrong,” he says, but I know I haven’t.

I know now why he’s single and on a dating site. He’s picky, and not only is he picky, he thinks he’s entitled to be picky. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are good men out there who don’t have the looks but don’t let it get to them, and do the right thing. This man, he doesn’t have the looks, and yet he still thinks he’s entitled to make women the same age as him who aren’t as hot as he wants them to be—or as young as he wants them—feel like they’re less.

“No,” I say, collecting my purse. “I think I’ve read you just fine. I’m sorry, I think you’re too old for me, anyway.”

His mouth drops open. “You haven’t even given me a chance.”

I give him a firm look, making sure I hold his eyes when I speak in a low, snippy tone. “You think you’re better than women your own age, and your reasoning is that you prefer younger women, but not only that, they also have to be attractive as well. Why? What makes you think you get such a choice? Let me give you a piece of advice—unless you’re Brad Pitt, you don’t get to be so picky. It’s shallow, and it’s unattractive, and if you want a decent date, perhaps you should try adjusting your ridiculous standards and maybe try being a decent human being.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

I don’t give him the chance to say anything more. I turn and walk out, not even offering him money for the drink. The dick can pay for it himself. I move quickly out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, wave down a cab and climb in, and pulling out my phone the second I’ve given the driver my address. I text Taylor right away.

H: You and I are having words. That man was horrible!

T: Oh dear. Was it that bad? Was he at least good-looking?

H: If you call old and balding good-looking … then yes.

T: OMG. His profile said he was young, with dark hair, I swear!

H: We’re having words about this. Not only was he all those things, he was a shallow jerk, too.

T: I’m sorry. I promise the next one will be better.

I shove my phone back into my purse and huff the entire way home. When the cab arrives at my apartment complex, I pay the driver and climb out, walking through the front doors to the elevator that’ll take me to the second floor, where my apartment is. It isn’t high up, and I could probably use the stairs, but the elevator is always just right there, and I’m not a fan of stairs. Just as I step in and the doors are about to close, a big hand swings in, stopping them in their tracks.

Detective Ace Henderson steps in.


Copyright © 2017 by Bella Jewel