It had been a long week. Month. Year.
You had moved to a new city halfway across the country a few months ago for work. The raise had been worth it, leaving behind a dying midwestern town had been worth it, and god knows that being able to see the beach every day was worth it. But it hadn't been easy, and you were still getting used to the pace of a bigger city, a more demanding job, and you were tired.
Which brings us to this Friday afternoon, in a rush to get home after another day spent with your head spinning, trying to convince yet another old white man that you are qualified for this job. Because you are qualified, dammit. But you are also done, and you just want to be home, in bed with pajamas on.
Knocking over an entire display of crackers in the packed grocery store didn't help your plan very much. You're not normally a clumsy person, and you stuff your growing annoyance down as you get on your knees to clean up your own mess.
"Some help?" A low voice to your left, and you're still not even sure who the voice belongs to as you continue picking up boxes and methodically putting them back. Label faces front, four to a row. Quickly, so you can get the hell out of here.
"Some help?" He repeats, and you glance briefly at elegant leather shoes and pressed slacks before flicking your eyes up. The stranger is handsome, in an older way. You guess he's maybe seven or eight years older than your own twenty six years. You make a gesture that's somewhere between a nod and a shrug. You normally take care of everything yourself. You don't need his help. And more than anything, you're not sure how much you like being on your knees looking up at him.
He kneels down despite your less than warm greeting, and by the time all the crackers are back where they belong, you groan a little as you stand. It has been a damn long day.
"Jack," he murmurs, his voice still low, as if he's speaking to a scared animal. You can barely hear him over the clamor of the store, but since he did you a favor and there's no reason to be rude, so your dark eyes meet his icy blue stare.
"Evelyn. Evie." You stick a hand out like you've been taught at work, nice and easy. Politeness is its own kind of weapon. Shake his hand, and then get the hell out of the store. You notice that his temples have just a small hint of gray in them, but if anything it makes him more attractive.
For god's sake, stop thinking about how good looking he is and just get out of here.
But you can't stop thinking about it, as his much larger hand dwarfs your own. You've lived in this new, bustling city for almost half a year, and in all that time you haven't bothered to take care of those needs other than a frantic hand down the waistline of your underwear before bed.
He keeps hold of your hand, and you don't try to take it back. He's dressed for work, clearly, but something about the roughness of his grip says that he's used to some kind of labor.
"Evelyn, are you alright?" His eyes search yours, and you're wrenched back into this moment, his hand holding your palm in all the ways that others hadn't. Soft and firm, dry and warm. You swallow convulsively and pull your hand from his grasp. More reluctantly than you care to admit.
"Yes, thank you. I'm sorry, I'm just tired and I really need to get home. It's been a - "
" - Long day," Jack finishes, and you flush a little. "I get it. But, and I know how forward this is going to sound, I've had a hell of a week too. I could use a drink, and you look like you might as well. There's a wine bar around here somewhere."
Yes. Yes. YES. Your mind is yelling at you to go. But you're not impulsive, and you don't know this man.
"I should probably get these groceries home, " you say instead, holding up your basket as if it was a shield.
"Fair enough," he replies, shifting his own basket. "How about 8pm? Tonight. I'll be at Antoinette's. You can join me, or you can stay home and wonder if it might have been fun."
He walks off without a backward glance, and while something in you is fuming at the presumptuousness in his statement, something else is curling low in your belly.
***
Jack Reynolds cleared out of the grocery store at a pace that was alarming even to him. He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind. Long dark hair, bottomless eyes, the end of a tattoo peeking from the sleeve of her shirt like a puzzle he needed to solve. Just the memory of her kneeling in front of him was enough to set him on fire.
Would she come and get a drink with him? He wasn't entirely sure, but the way her breath had hitched when he walked away had him thinking she might.
Don't scare her off, asshole. She does look tired, and she probably doesn't need a pervert like you looking down her shirt while she has a glass of wine. She might not even come.
He made his way home, through the traffic and the screeching cars and the chaos of the city. His city. Ever since he had arrived in San Francisco for college, Jack had known he didn't want to leave. He travelled for work all the time, but there was something about that bay view and steep hills that made him glad to come home.
***
You didn't know why you had decided to go to the bar. Antoinette's was close to home, you rationalized, and you did need a drink. It was a little harder to justify the dress you had changed into, but you decided not to worry about it.
A deep breath, and suddenly you were inside, the interior of the restaurant dark and a little too cool for you. Along the right side, a polished wooden bar snaked the length of the restaurant, a cloudy mirror behind it enlarged the space. Intimate red booths and little tables with flickering candles reminded you of France, and for a moment you were somewhere else entirely.
Strong hands gripped your bare shoulders, and for a moment your mind went blank as you whirled, breath coming in short gasps. No, no, no.
"Easy, girl. Easy. It's just me, Evelyn." And it was. It was just him, and no one else.
A long breath through your nose, and you looked at his face through your lashes. He was taller, his shoulders were broader, and there was no sickly sweet cologne smell. Another breath.
"Yes, I see that. Sorry. I don't like being touched from behind." He nodded, that same knowing look on his face that he had in the store earlier.
"I should be the one to apologize, not you. I shouldn't have touched you without your permission. Would you like to sit down?" He leads you over to a booth in the far back corner. Despite plenty of other patrons around, it feels like you're alone.
A waiter comes by, and you ask for a glass of red wine, but Jack overruled you and orders the whole bottle. You're not mad about that at all.
The first bottle of wine goes down easily, too easily. He's talking, and you're talking, and before you even know what's happening, you're spilling all sorts of things he probably doesn't care about. You're tired, you're always tired, the move was exhausting and work is exhausting and there is no one who takes care of anything for you. You stop yourself suddenly, realizing how pathetic you sound.
Spilling your guts to a stranger in the back of a wine bar, Evie? Look at him. He's older, handsome, and probably just here out of pity. He doesn't give a damn about any of this. Please stop whining before you make it any worse.
"Evelyn?" Those icy eyes are pinning you to the back of the seat, demanding you attention. "Where did you go?"
"Oh," you start, "I just realized you might not want to listen to me whine anymore." A half hearted shrug. "I'm very lucky to be where I am, and I just realized how depressing I'm being."
