Chat Love

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

My hands are shaking. I am breathing loud and hard, trying to calm myself. I look out of the cab window and see that I have a few more minutes until I arrive at the restaurant. I open my Chanel purse—the purse that I use for every first date—and reach for my makeup mirror. I check to see that my makeup and hair look fine. I put the mirror back and grab a mint, then close my eyes and lean my head against the cab seat, trying to relax. I’m pulled back to reality by the cab driver’s voice, telling me that we have reached our destination. I take out some cash, pay him, and step out of the cab into the cold January weather.

I look down at the ground, trying to avoid stepping in snow and ruining my booties. I stuff my gloved hands into my coat pockets and walk to the restaurant, pulling my coat closer to me and trying to shield myself from the cold. I finally reach the entrance and feel my nerves getting the better of me; my stomach is turning and, despite the cold weather, I feel sweat form on my hairline. Before I open the doors, I turn around and look at the Manhattan sky in an attempt to calm myself.

I take a deep breath and open the doors; a gush of loud voices hits me. Inside I see the bar is filled with the regular Friday night crowd: couples, tourists, older men, and some drunken college kids who seem out of place at such an expensive restaurant. I see a couple of men check me out and my confidence lifts. I walk farther into the bar, searching for a man who looks as if he’s waiting for a blind date.

The restaurant is a cozy Italian place that I have been to a few times before. The bar is decorated with wood furnishings, and the sidewalk doors are closed because of the season, making the bar appear even smaller and tighter than usual.

I scan the bar, the area surrounding the bar, and the hostess stand with no luck. I decide to wait at the overflowing bar, get myself a glass of white wine, and relax.

Before I can take another step, I feel a hand on my shoulder as a deep voice asks, “Excuse me, Lucia Fabbo?”

I take a deep breath and turn around to face my date. I am looking at a man with gorgeous green eyes. “Richard Greenfield?”

He gives me a glowing smile and nods his head. We stare awkwardly at one other, unsure of what to say or do next. Finally Richard steps closer to me and gives me a hug, while I go to give him a kiss on the cheek. Instead, he moves his face and I end up kissing his right ear. We both pull away from each other, laughing.

“Glad this isn’t weird,” he says.

I laugh at his statement and bite my lip. “I’m sorry; I’ve never done this before.”

He gives me another glowing smile, “You have never been on a date before?”

“No, I’ve never been on a blind date before.” I peel a strand of hair from my face and stick it behind my ear.

Richard looks down at the ground and then back at me with a shy grin, “Me neither.”

After a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, Richard asks me if I want a drink at the bar or just to grab a table for dinner. Looking at the packed bar, I decide that I’d rather sit down and eat.

After Richard gives the hostess his name, we check our coats and wait for a few minutes, making small talk about the restaurant. Finally, after our useless conversation, we are led to our seats. My hands are still shaking and I feel a bit lightheaded. So far, Richard seems perfect, but I am just waiting for some flaw of his to show and ruin any positive thoughts I might have.

Peach-colored walls displaying paintings and photos surround the dining room. While walking to our table, I can’t help but fuss with my outfit—a long-sleeved, purple A-line dress with a black belt encircling my waist. We are seated in a peach, cushioned banquette, forcing us to sit next to each other rather than face-to-face. We both sit as far away as we can, trying to conceal our discomfort. The waiter comes over to ask if we want to order any drinks, and we immediately answer yes in unison. We look at each other and laugh as I order a glass of chardonnay, and he a Pinot Noir. After we place our drink orders, we go back to being quiet again, silently studying our menus.

I hear Richard cough and I look up to see him staring at me. “Do you know what you want to order?”

“The salmon. You?”

“The filet mignon.” He leans in closer to me. “You OK? You seem nervous.”

I feel my face heat up with embarrassment as I nod my head. Conveniently, our waiter arrives with our drinks. I pick mine up and take a huge swallow. We order, and as soon as the waiter leaves, we are left with our uncomfortable silence once again.

I steal glances at Richard and am pleasantly surprised at how good-looking he is. He has soft, dark hair, stunning green eyes, a pointy nose, sun-kissed skin, full, soft lips, a chiseled jaw, and a body that appears to be in good shape. He’s tall—over six feet at least—and wears a black suit with a white, collared shirt. I smile when I notice that the first two buttons have been left open, revealing his soft skin.

“You know, Danni was right about you.”

I look at him inquiringly, and he gives me another shy smile.

“You’re beautiful.”

I bite my bottom lip again and offer my thanks.

“I have to ask, though: Why do you need your friend to set you up on a blind date?”

I run my fingers through my hair, smiling at the fact that I often ask myself the same question. For a year now, I’ve been going on these dates with people I meet at bars or clubs, and nothing ever progresses beyond the third date. I know there is nothing wrong with me; I am twenty-seven years old, working for a new and popular talk show, attractive, with plenty to offer a man— and yet I am still single. All I want is someone of quality, and I still haven’t found anyone yet.

I want to say, “I have never been on a blind date before, and I was practically forced into coming.” My friend Danni swears up and down that Richard Greenfield will be my husband.

Instead, I answer, “I don’t know. It’s hard to meet someone, and I’m done trying to meet anyone at a bar or club.” I take another long sip of my wine, beginning to feel a little more relaxed. “What about you?”

He chuckles. “I’m very busy with work and don’t have time to meet someone. Plus Danni would not shut up about you, going on about how perfect you are, how I would instantly fall in love with you, how you own almost every piece of lingerie from Victoria’s Secret…”

I almost spit out my drink while he starts laughing. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had said something like that. He shakes his head. “OK, I might have taken a few creative liberties with the last part. But the way Danni was describing you, I had to meet you.”

With some of the awkwardness gone, the conversation grows easier and I find myself having a good time. By our third glass of wine I catch myself thinking,
Richard Greenfield is perfect
. After all, he is thirty-two, gorgeous, smart, charming, successful, and has a great sense of humor. His family owns a successful construction company in the city that works on just about every building; I have seen his business signs on every street. He is certainly a catch.

Once we finish our entrees the conversation shifts from easy-going, laugh-out-loud jokes to deeper questions about our past relationships. Richard talks about how his company previously prevented him from being able to have a relationship, but how now, due to the company’s growth and success, he has more time for a girlfriend. He is surprisingly open and honest about his past—at least as far as I can tell—even accepting the blame for his failed relationships. I choose to be vague. I don’t like talking about my past relationships because it makes me feel like a failure. I have been successful in every area of my life except romance. I am from a big Italian family with a married sister and many married female cousins. Almost all of them also have children, leaving me the lone single woman. Most of the women in my family were married and popping out kids before they even turned twenty-five, and my being twenty-seven and single leads them to look at me as an old career-woman. My younger sister, Gabriella, is twenty-four and trying for a baby as we speak, with her high-school sweetheart and recent husband. My parents couldn’t be any more proud.

We decide to order the cheesecake to share for dessert. It might be his smile—although it’s probably the wine—but something causes me to start daydreaming of a life together with Richard. A slow-motion montage begins to play in my mind: Richard and I, spending our Sundays walking through Central Park hand-in-hand, throwing dinner parties for our friends, and taking weekend trips to the Hamptons; Richard surprising me with romantic gestures, and sweeping me away to make love in the shower; Richard meeting my father and him telling me that he is proud of me, followed by our destination wedding, with me clad in the Vera Wang dress that I have wanted since I was a little girl.

Our cheesecake comes and I can barely focus on eating it. Every time Richard lifts a forkful to his soft lips, I fight an overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss him. I feel his legs brush against mine, and it makes me giddy. Despite my long year of numerous pathetic dates, I’ve not met someone, until now, that could make my heart flutter. But now I feel butterflies flying around in my stomach, trying to escape. For the first time in a long time, I feel that unmistakable rush of excitement: I am falling for Richard Greenfield.

Dessert lasts twice as long as it should, because Richard and I find every opportunity to flirt with and touch one another. He feeds me forkfuls of cheesecake, and I in turn purposely brush my leg against his. He moves my hair from my face, and I touch his thigh with my hand whenever he makes me laugh. The tension is building between us, threatening to explode at any moment.

After Richard pays for the check, we walk out of the restaurant arm in arm. As we continue down the street, I move closer to him and he puts his arm around my shoulders, taking the opportunity to get closer while shielding me from the cold.

He casually asks, “Where do you live? I can drop you off.”

I know that if I say yes, I will ask him to come up to my apartment. As thrilling as that sounds, I don’t want to start a relationship off with sex again. Fighting my urges, I answer, “I’d better get a cab.”

His face leans in closer to mine and I can feel his warm breath on my skin. “Are you sure I can’t drive you home? I don’t mind, Lucia.”

I lean into him, my forehead touching his nose. I take a deep breath and try to focus. “No, it’s OK. Thank you for offering, though.”

Richard lifts my chin up gently with one finger and leans in closer. As our lips touch I feel my desire for him growing, and I lift up onto my tiptoes to kiss him harder. His lips are soft, and his kiss intoxicating. He pulls away after a minute, leaving me breathless.