Romance Test

Bon Appetit

A month later...

Emilia steps into the empty lounge of the club, pushing her hand-written notes into her messenger bag. You're so old-school, Milly, her inner voice scoffs. And by the way, I properly disagree with this new dress code you've adopted. Since when 'dull and dowdy' is an acceptable style in a sex club?

It's one o'clock; and I've just had, basically, a therapy session, Emilia bites back. There has been crying and talking about my childhood trauma. I can wear whatever I want.

A velvet 'pardon' comes just a millisecond after she bumps into someone large and wide and hard – and she recognises the voice right away. Unlike the last time, she immediately feels flustered and shrinks away from him.

"I'm sorry," he says earnestly. "I have spatial awareness issues. And I did try to avoid you."

See, he's been trying to avoid you too, Kate jeers. 

I wasn't avoiding him! Emilia screams internally. She wasn't! It's not like her making appointments with Mistress Eva in the first half of the day was solely because she was petrified by the thought of running into him. 

Yeah, sure. 

Emilia works from home and has a flexible schedule. She can see her sex therapist at any time of day. 

What is this smell? That's Emilia's pants smouldering.

"It's alright," she answers with an awkward laugh. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

She finally lifts her eyes. Oh god... How did she manage to forget how good-looking he was?! In the harsh light of day, without liquid courage sloshing in Emilia, and less distracted by the surroundings - she suddenly wonders if she'd imagined him giving her his card. Or maybe, he just meant something completely different by giving it to her?! Oh, wait, he did mention 'practical research for her writing.'

He's dressed in a three-piece suit again, no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt unbuttoned. Emilia catalogues the details for her writing. She probably shouldn't make her next male protagonist a restaurant owner, though. Too much on the nose, really. Although, the chances of him reading it or even checking out the back cover of her novels are non-existent. He doesn't even know her name.

"Are you here for lunch as well?" he asks.

"No, I had a session with Mistress Eva," she answers, and he slowly raises his eyebrows. "We talk. For research purposes," Emilia explains, feeling her ears starting to burn.

"I see."

The pause stretches. Emilia's mind thrashes in panic. He's not leaving. Why isn't he leaving?

"I'm glad you're getting the support you were looking for," he says in an odd monotone. "Well, you have my card if you ever want to—" He clears his throat. "Have lunch, or... dinner."

What?! 'Lunch or dinner?!' What happened to 'practical research?!'

Wait... what?! Is this, gods forbid, the second invitation?!

Emilia is 90% ready to bolt – but there's a small part of her brain that's dying of curiosity. Why? Just... why?! He can't possibly be asking her out. That's just not possible. She's dressed in the softest baggiest top in her wardrobe; her favourite baggy tapered trousers, which are more comfortable than stylish; and what's called a waterfall cardigan, which is supposed to drape in the front and distract public attention from her bosom; but it just looks – you guessed it! – baggy.