Home > White Nights (White Nights #1)(18)

White Nights (White Nights #1)(18)
Author: Anna Zaires

I’m putting away my phone when Rose, the nurse I stood in for when I ran into Alex the night he took me out to dinner, walks in.

“How are you doing?” I ask, taking in her dejected look and the dark rings under her eyes. She’s lost her mom to cancer, and they’d been close.

She rubs her hands over her face. “Some days are better. Others are harder.”

Laying a hand on her arm, I give a gentle squeeze. “I know it sounds lame, but if there’s anything I can do…”

Her smile is strained. “Thanks. Actually, I owe you a drink for standing in for me.”

“Oh, no. You owe me nothing.”

“Please?” Her gaze is imploring. “As a matter of fact, it will help. It’ll be good for me to get out. There’s a bar not far from here, so we can walk.”

“Oh.” I was planning on going straight home and crashing into bed as I have an early shift tomorrow, but sleep can wait. This is more important. “Of course.”

Her expression lifts a little. “Nadia is also getting off now.” She takes her phone from her pocket. “I’ll check if she wants to join us.”

“Great idea,” I say as I peel off my scrubs.

To be honest, I can do with a drink. My nerves have been in tatters all day thinking about going over to Alex’s house tomorrow evening with the feeble excuse of returning his container. He’s going to see right through me, so I might as well drop the pretense and tell him honestly what the reason for my visit is—that I want to know why he never contacted me, and that I want him to tell me to my face we were never more than a one-night stand. That he lied when he said he wanted to see me again. Or if he hadn’t lied, I want him to tell me why he changed his mind. It’s the least he owes me.

Pushing the disconcerting thoughts aside, I dress in my jeans, sweater, and boots. Then I wash my face and apply mascara and lip gloss. By the time I’ve brushed my hair and pulled on my warm jacket, Rose and Nadia are ready.

We walk one block to a bar I’ve never been to, but Rose says she hangs out there frequently. It’s a cozy place with hardwood floors and wooden panels on the walls. A lamp burns on each table. We take one in the corner and order a bottle of wine and a few tapas that will serve as dinner.

Our banter is light and the mood is uplifting. Rose was right. Sometimes, no matter how tired I am, I have to come out and live a little. Often, especially after a strenuous day, I have to force myself to get ready and go someplace, but once I’m there, like now, I end up having fun. In fact, I’m having so much fun it’s close to eleven by the time we get the bill.

Rose and Nadia live farther away than I do and decide to share a cab while I choose the cheaper fare of the subway. I earn enough to pay the bills and help out my mom, but I have to budget carefully to afford the luxury of a few nights on the town and lunches with my friends.

I’m a block away from the bar, walking in the direction of the hospital toward the Sheepshead Bay station, when the lettering of Romanoff’s shines up ahead. I slow my step as memories of that night rush over me.

I’m curious. What does the place look like on a normal evening when it’s busy? Yet it’s not curiosity but an unfortunate bout of nostalgia that carries my feet in that direction. Instead of turning toward the subway, I walk the remaining distance along a pavement that’s still relatively busy at this late hour. This area of Brooklyn isn’t Manhattan, but it’s lively enough for many people to be out and about in the middle of a weeknight.

I stop at the window, trying to peer inside, but the curtains are closed. Dammit. I want to have a peek at our table, to see if I can spot it in the midst of all the others. I want to experience what I felt that night to make sense of why a single night can hurt so profoundly. How could I have gone from not wanting a relationship to wanting so much more after only one night?

Operating on instinct, I push open the door and enter into the cozy interior. A range of delicious smells greets me—garlic, fried onions, and spices. The place is as opulent as I remember, and the extravagance hits me as though seeing it for the first time. I don’t think I’ll ever grow used to it, no matter how many times I see it. The warm reds and golds melt together. Music comes from the stage where a band is playing a lively Russian song.

A hostess flutters over. “Good evening.” She looks at a clipboard on the counter. “Do you have a reservation?”

The place is packed, every table occupied. The chatter is loud, pierced by occasional laughter. I don’t even want to think about how much money Alex forked out to make sure it was empty for us.

“Ma’am?” the hostess says, impatience slipping into her tone.

I open my mouth to tell her I just wanted to have a look when I spot him.

Alex.

He’s sitting at one of the big tables close to the stage with three other men and a dark-haired beauty pressed against his side.

 

 

10

 

 

I nearly choke on my shock. My words fall to the wayside as I take in the scene. Alex’s dark hair shines under the lights. He lowers his head to say something to the woman, and she laughs.

I go hot and cold, a sick feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. Betrayal. That’s what it feels like, even though it doesn’t make any sense. He owes me nothing. I’m the one who ran away.

Well, at least that explains why he didn’t contact me.

As though sensing my stare, he turns his head. Our gazes collide over the distance. The smile vanishes from his face. Something else replaces his jovial expression—something calculated, something darker.

Humiliation drenches me. Now he’ll think I’m stalking him.

“Ma’am,” the hostess says, her pitch persistent now.

I break my stare-off with Alex to look at her.

She’s watching me with irritation. “Are you meeting friends?”

“N-no,” I stammer, backtracking to the door. “I was just… looking.”

She wrinkles her nose and looks me up and down as if I were a beggar who came inside to drool over the food sitting on the tables in front of the people in their fancy clothes.

And the clothes are fancy. The women are dressed in evening dresses and the men in suits. I glance down at my attire, the very same clothes I wore the night Alex brought me here, like I’m so poor I don’t own a different outfit.

A movement at the stage draws my attention. Alex has gotten to his feet. Tall and broad, he stands out in the crowd. He’s dressed in a tuxedo, the black jacket stretching over his shoulders. The three men at his table turn toward me with frowns. He says something to the woman, who looks in my direction. She’s wearing a black dress with diamante detail on the shoulders. Still, I can only stand there, frozen in place under their scrutiny.

“If you don’t have a reservation, I have to ask you to leave,” the hostess says.

I tear my eyes away from Alex to meet her hostile gaze again. Life flows back into my limbs as the shock turns into nausea. Clutching a hand to my stomach, I say, “I’m going.”

I don’t look back at the table in front of the stage or the five pairs of eyes fixed with curious animosity on me. I spin around and leave, slamming a palm on the door and stumbling into the frosty night.

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