If I Were You [FEATURED]

8 - Alexandra

I. Hate. The. Cold.

Two weeks ago, Florian left my apartment in a hurry. I first thought this was an elaborate plan to create a need, but he gave no sign of life since. No thank-you-for-last-night texts, no I-miss-you calls. Sure, he doesn't have my number, but this never prevented any of my conquests from trying to reach me. He could've stashed an item in the penthouse, providing him with an excuse to come back, yet he didn't. It's as if he didn't intend to see me again.

I chase the thought away with a snort.

Remembering how the poor boy was agitated when I revealed the events at the club, I decided on leaving him a couple of days to process the fright. A couple of days turned into a week, then two. In my opinion, a fortnight is a bit long to fuss over something that did not happen, but men are such sensitive creatures.

In the meantime, fall officially and effectively swept over Montreal. Trees turned red, leaves blanketed the ground, and torrential rain--similar to the one battering my car at the moment--took possession of the skies. Even the approach of Thanksgiving couldn't convince it to let go. As a consequence, temperatures have dropped, and I'm fucking freezing inside the convertible. With a groan, I turn up the heat and place my palms over the vent.

While I grumble against the cold, my gaze falls on the passenger seat and the manila folder the private detective delivered yesterday. I've read it so often I now know it by heart.

Florian Emory Fletcher. Born July 11th, 1998. Age 22. Engineering student at Concordia University. GPA 4, Outstanding.

A proud smile stretches my lips. There's an admirable brain behind this pretty face of his.

Lives on-campus with fellow student, Taylor Dussault.

Taylor better be a boy, otherwise I'll have to pull a few strings with Concordia's chancellor.

Waiter for Helgadottir Caterer and grocery clerk on Saturday mornings at La Joyeuse Fruiterie.

Aforesaid fruit store doesn't exude joy. Along the canopy, pumpkin string lights hang miserably, hovering the fruit stalls so low any client could bump their head against them. Fortunately the shop is empty.

There's not much else inside Florian's file, but it's enough to understand we have nothing in common. His parents live in Quebec City. The mother's a banker, and the father works in a kindergarten. They look happily married, from the photos Florian posts on his social media accounts--among an insane number of kitten pictures.

But nothing in common isn't an obstacle. On the contrary, it's refreshing not to be dealing with yet another empty-headed jetsetter or actor.

With Florian's upbringings and our age difference in mind, before coming, I shed the business-woman cloak for a more casual outfit--blue jeans and plain white T-shirt. After a quick fifteen-minute ride, I stopped in the parking lot facing Florian's job and started straining my eyes through the windshield.

While I wait for the deluge to calm down, I rehearse my pick-up speech. "Hey, fancy seeing you here. Yes, I love doing the grocery shopping myself. It allows me to stay down-to-earth. Is your shift almost over? Want to have lunch together? I know a place that serves scrumptious hot chocolates..."

He'll blush all the way up to his adorable nose, giggle in agreement, and we'll stroll under a shared umbrella, roaming the Plateau Mont-Royal arm in arm.

That's, if he doesn't break his neck first.

"What the hell?"

Florian is scrambling through the store with a ladder under my worried stare. Why doesn't he wait out the shower?