His Secret Love by Ava Ryan

His Secret Love

1

Jake

My phone buzzeswhen I’m about a block and a half from my destination, startling me. Stifling a curse because I’m deathly afraid she’s about to cancel on me, I dart out of the relentless stream of foot traffic here on the Upper West Side, a couple of blocks from the park, and find relative safety at the base of a tree. Like me, my fellow pedestrians are eager to get where they’re going on this balmy Friday evening in early September, and I have no desire to get plowed down as I check the display.

Please don’t let her cancel. Please don’t let her—

But it’s only my buddy Liam Wilder. Breathing easier, I hit the button.

“What’s up?” I say as the picture resolves and reveals him sitting behind his desk at the hospital in his scrubs. “Now’s not a good time.”

“I see that,” he says, frowning as he eyeballs my dark suit and crisp white shirt. “Who died?”

“No one, dumbass,” I say, scowling because he’s hit upon a sensitive topic right out of the gate. Namely that I never know how to dress for these stupid meet-and-greets. Online dating is all well and good until that nerve-racking moment when you cross the line from the cyber-world into the real one and meet someone new for the first time. In addition to the omnipresent fear of being ghosted and the fear of the unknown (sure, she looks good in her profile pictures, but pictures can be filtered and/or otherwise doctored—and she might smell like the moldy gym socks I forgot in my locker back in sixth grade, for all I know), you also need to worry about what to wear. Maybe it’s just me, but I resent all this fretting about being overdressed or underdressed when all I really want to do, as a relatively newly divorced single dad of two and busy orthopedic surgeon, is undress and get laid. But the dating landscape has changed since Marlene and I got together back when I was a resident, and such is my life now.

Not that I’m dating dating. Like I said, I’m in the game for the sex. Nothing more. Divorce will do that to a guy. Not that I’m pining for my ex or anything. Don’t get that idea. Marlene and I have settled into an uneasy peace and a co-parenting routine that works for us. My personal feelings for her currently hover in the indifferent category, but I can envision a day, hopefully in the not-too-distant future, when we become friends again. Which is a welcome change from the excruciating early days right after our split, when I went around with murder in my heart and occasionally wondered if I could find a guy who knew a guy.

So, yeah. I’m in the market for sex, and plenty of it. Nothing more.

Oh, and before you start thinking that I’m an asshole for calling one of my best friends a dickhead, allow me to explain. Liam and our other buddy, Michael Jamison, met as freshmen at NYU fourteen years ago. Now we’re all doctors practicing at the same hospital. Actually, we’re all rich doctors now that Liam sold a medical device he designed in which Michael and I were initial investors. I guess that gives us some gravitas. But I still remember the time Michael got his stupid ass suspended for—what was it?—a week or so because he thought his underwear drawer was an impenetrable hiding spot for his stash of weed during a random dorm inspection. As far as I’m concerned, he deserves any nickname I give him.

“I’ve got a date,” I continue.

Liam’s face registers surprise. “A date?”

“Yeah,” I say, ears burning. “Why don’t you have a date?”

I should mention that Liam recently reunited with his college girlfriend Mia Jamison, Michael’s twin sister and another of our classmates from NYU, after a nasty breakup and years apart. Now they’re engaged and well on their way to happily ever after.

“Fear not,” he says with the smug and infuriating demeanor of a man with mind-blowing sex available at his fingertips for the rest of his life. “I’ll meet up with Mia in a bit. Thought you might want to get a drink.”

“Not tonight. Busy.”

“So what’s this date business? You finally back in the saddle?”

“No big deal,” I say, trying to play nonchalant. I hoped to keep my return to an active social life under wraps for a bit longer. Not because I’m doing anything shady, but because Liam and Michael like to give me shit whenever possible. About anything and everything. The last thing I need is to hype them up about some anticipated hot hookup only for the woman to ghost me or turn out to be a horrible human being or some such. No need for me to give my so-called BFFs additional ammo to use against me. “Just a woman I met on an app.”

I think that sounds plausible, but this SOB narrows his eyes and leans in as though he can register the heat signature from the flush creeping over my cheeks that very second.

“Just a woman, eh? Nothing special about her? Just a standard American woman?”

“Absolutely,” I say, powerless to prevent a cheesy grin from exploding across my face.

And there it is, folks. My personal kryptonite.

I’m excited about this date. Eager to meet this particular woman.

“I see,” he says with unmitigated glee.

“No, you don’t see,” I say hastily, using every ounce of control of my body to wrestle my expression into something less sheepish as my screen goes blank for a second. Always a bad sign. “No big deal. So we don’t need to mention this to Michael—”

“Just texted him.” Liam reappears flashing a pirate’s smile. “We’ll expect a full report tomorrow. Godspeed, champ.”

“Fuck,” I say, but I’m already talking to a dead line.

So that happened.

I just pray that the Dipshit Duo shows some mercy tomorrow if things go south on me tonight.

Putting my phone away again, I resume my trajectory down the street and quickly see the green awning that lets me know I’ve reached my destination with half an hour to spare.

A bookstore.

A real old-school bookstore, by the way. Not one of those big-box deals that sells toys, wrapping paper and lattes and possesses its own two-story ecosystem. This place, I note with satisfaction as I take a deep breath and swing the heavy glass door open to walk inside, features nooks and crannies. A huge fireplace. Leather wing chairs tucked strategically here and there. Shelves towering up to the ceiling, letters on rails to meet them. A little jazz playing. Real jazz, not the annoying smooth stuff you hear on elevators.

I absorb it all, working hard not to smile at thin air. I feel as though I’ve been returned to the secret island of my birth, the only place on earth where people still speak my first language.

This place is, in short, Disneyland for book lovers like me.

“Can I help you find something?” comes a cheery voice from behind the counter. Turning, I discover a pretty young woman with a shrewdly assessing gaze. “A guy like you? With the suit on a Friday night? I’m guessing you’re in the market for either narrative nonfiction or a business how-to. No, wait.” She snaps her fingers and points at my face. “You’re a genre fiction man, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I say, unwillingly impressed. “How did you know?”

“I’m a smart woman,” she says, tapping her temple. “I know my bookstore customers. You look like you’ve got a high-powered career going. Your brain gets tired. You want a relaxing escape. How am I doing?”

“You’re not lying,” I say, making up my mind to both send some business her way whenever possible and to never underestimate her.

“What are you in the market for? Legal thriller? Sci-fi?”

“Actually, I’m meeting someone here. I’m not sure how tall she is, but she’s got red hair. Amazing green eyes. I’m sure you would’ve noticed. Maybe you’ve seen her?”

“Ah,” she says, nodding sagely. “Blind date. So she’s the prettiest girl who showed up in your feed?”

“Yes. Well, no. Not exactly.” I’m not sure why I feel compelled to explain myself to this stranger, but I find myself ducking my head, rubbing the back of my neck and piecing together a clarification. “She’s gorgeous, but that’s not it. There’s something about her. I don’t know. In her eyes.”

“Smart?”

“Yeah. And good sense of humor. I get the feeling she brings the fun with her when she shows up. Anyway,” I say, catching myself and wondering where all this blathering nonsense is coming from. “That’s way more than you wanted to know.”

“It’s okay. I like that,” she says with an indulgent smile. “She sounds like a special girl.”

“Remains to be seen. But she did pick a bookstore for our first meeting, so hopes are high.”

Her grin widens. “Hope she doesn’t ghost you. And I’ll let you know if I see her. Genre fiction is on this big table here. Much more through those shelves to the back.”

“Thanks, but I wouldn’t mind checking out the true crime while I’m here. I’ve been getting into that lately.”

“Back-left corner.”

“Thanks.”

I head off and wander the shelves for a minute.

A special girl.

The words replay in my head as I wander deeper into the store but stop before I get too far. I’m too excited and distracted to focus on books right now. More importantly, I want to see her when she comes in. The worst nightmare scenario I can think of right now would be for her to show up, not see me immediately and leave again while I’m out of sight behind some potted plant or bookshelf looking for a new true crime book.

A special girl.

A tufted leather chair sits a little way back with a bird’s-eye view of the door. I drop into it, my mind shifting to her profile picture in the first time I saw it.

Confession: I swiped left on her initially. Normally I go for brunettes—a habit that you’d think Marlene would have broken me of by now, but I digress. So I kept swiping until, a couple of profiles later, something dinged in my brain and made me frown. Hesitate. I stopped swiping, went back and there she was.

Skye G., 24.

No sultry pose with a trout pout, cocked hip and boobs on display.

Just a woman wearing a green top and minimal makeup sitting at a table with a glass of white wine. Staring directly at the camera with a hint of a dimpled smile as she leans her head on her hand.

Warmth. Humor bordering on mischief. Openness.

As a scientist, I’m a levelheaded guy. I don’t do drama. I don’t get swept away.

But I’m telling you, I stared at that picture for a good two minutes, my heart thumping hard in my throat.

Then I checked her description. I’ve read it so many times at this point that I have it memorized.

Skye G., 24, Upper West Side. Occasionally cranky. Often hangry. Always opinionated. Hater of assholes. Lover of books, Sauvignon Blanc, cookies, animals and adventures—large and small. Like to travel? Let’s go! I’ll take the pics. Fair warning: I steal and hide the remote so I can watch Law & Order to unwind. Swipe right at your own risk.

Oh, I swiped right, folks. I swiped right so fast and so hard it’s a wonder I didn’t break my phone. And then, after the longest three hours of my life, we matched. It took me another three hours to figure out what to say when I messaged her. You’ll be astonished and humbled by my brilliance. Chuckling at myself, I pull out my phone and scroll through our conversation again, amazed that she agreed to give me a chance.

Me: Hey

Skye G.: Hey!

Me: I thought I could handle your challenge, but now I’m terrified of sounding like an asshole

Skye G.: [crying emoji] Alas! Nice knowing you

Me: I’m not giving up that easily. Question: how sick of dating sites are you?

Skye G.: [eye-roll emoji] VERY sick

Me: Worst experience?

Skye G.: One guy sent me a dick pic with a ruler by it and said, let’s cut to the chase. You?

Me: A woman asked me to take a dick pic with a ruler and send it to her

Skye G.: [laughing emoji] We should match them!

Me: You’re not wrong. So what kinds of animals do you love?

Skye G.: All kinds! Especially cats and dogs

Me: Pick one. It’s required

Skye G.: [middle-finger emoji] I refuse!

Me: Watch out for swans. They can be assholes. One attacked a duck right in front of me

Skye G.: But what did the duck do to it?

Me: Nothing. That’s the point

Skye G.: Allegedly!

Me: Not allegedly. I’m an eyewitness. We should meet. Discuss swan atrocities in greater detail. What say you?

Skye G.: I say…yes

Me: Excellent. Drinks?

Skye G.: I have a better idea. There’s this great bookstore near me

Me: Bookstore?

Skye G.: Ideal for meeting. If you hate bookstores and don’t show, you’re an asshole. If you show up and go for muscle magazines or philosophy books in the original Greek, we’re probably incompatible. Either way, I’m home in time to binge a couple of episodes of Law & Order.

Me: What if I show up and we have amazing chemistry?

Skye G.: We shall see…

That’s where it ends, other than a couple of other texts outlining logistics. That’s all I have of her so far. Just a standard e-flirtation. Absolutely no reason for me to feel this adrenaline-fueled surge of blood through my veins or for my leg to jiggle with rising impatience.

But I do. It does.

We shall see.

One of the most exciting phrases in the English language, as far as I’m concerned.

I look up from my phone and glance around, worried I’ve missed her even though I know I couldn’t have. The front door’s bell would have jingled. Sure enough, there are only a few customers browsing nearby, and none with red hair.

I check my watch. I’m still fifteen minutes early. That’s if she comes at all.

By now, I’m strung tighter than Serena Williams’ best tennis racket, which makes it impossible for me to sit still for another second. So I surge to my feet, determined to at least browse until she gets here. I need to do something to pass the time and at least try to stop acting like an incubating nut job.

I turn toward the genre fiction section.

And stop dead when I nearly plow into a redheaded woman who catches me completely by surprise.