Cross The Line

CHAPTER TWO

"Wait, that's what that song is about?"

- Phoebe West, after listening a little closer to the lyrics of Madonna's "Like A Prayer."

Two months earlier...

I set my clutch purse down on the counter with a heavy sigh.

It's been a weird night, to say the least.

That's not much of a surprise, though. Blind dates are probably always weird, even when they aren't at boring business galas full of somnolent speeches and really gross arugula salads, with only a semi-lecherous date to keep you company.

Not that I'd know. My dating experience is limited to watching ten-year-old reruns of FRIENDS on Netflix, while Boo — the only man in my life with whom I don't share DNA — snores gently by my side. (Don't get too excited. Boo is a pure white mini Pomeranian with so much sass, he could intimidate a Great Dane.)

He doesn't even lift his head from the gray sectional cushion where he's sprawled when I cross through the low-lit kitchen into the adjacent living room. The space is dark, but I easily make out the outline of his tiny furry chest, rising and falling with each snore. There's a puddle of doggie drool forming on the $300 chenille throw beneath his slackened jowls, growing larger with each rattling exhale.

For such a small dog, he makes quite the racket.

I brush the bangs out of my hazel eyes and run fingers through my dark brown hair, hoping it might soothe my headache as I plant one high-heeled foot on the edge of the coffee table and begin to undo the straps of my Louboutin.

I seriously can't believe I wasted shoes this hot on a night this lame. Not to mention this dress. The long, flowing white Vera Wang, with its paper-thin straps and subtle embroidery, was made for a night with Prince Charming. It's practically a crime that I wasted it on my dud of a date — Brett spent the vast majority of our evening distracted, more preoccupied with family drama than wooing me. Adding insult to injury, he didn't even bother to kiss me goodnight when he dropped me at my front door.

Lame.

As soon as the skyscraper-high heels are off, I sink my feet into the plush carpet and hum in contentment as feeling tingles back into my pinched toes. I know beauty is pain and all that jazz, but you'd think spending upwards of two grand on a pair of pumps would ensure, as a minimum requirement, that you don't feel like a victim of Chinese foot-binding by the end of the night.

Speaking of Chinese...

I know for a fact there's a carton of takeout lurking somewhere at the back of my fridge.

Immediately, I turn and head for the kitchen, fully intending to gorge myself on days-old lo mein, despite the fact that it's past midnight and my yoga instructor would sincerely disapprove. (Whatever. She wasn't the one forced to choke down that wholly unsatisfying dinner of salad, steamed broccoli, and organic free-range chicken.)

I'm halfway across the living room, face pinched in concentration as I try to estimate the approximate shelf life of crab rangoon, when my eyes catch up to my brain and I register the sight before me. All thoughts of midnight snackage fly from my head. My stomach, only seconds ago rumbling with hunger and anticipation, clenches hard and turns to stone as my feet slam to a standstill.

For a minute, I just stand there in total silence, staring at the man silhouetted in the archway of my kitchen, his muscular frame backlit by the low light and his face in full shadow.