Renata
Blink once, you're alive, but blink twice, you're fully awake.
I snap awake, wondering where on earth I am. I blink, taking in the extravagant decor surrounding me.
As I turn my gaze, 360 degrees, I realize I'm in some restaurant—or a bar, if you want to get technical.
Crystal chandeliers wink at me, casting a flattering glow on the sleek, polished surfaces of the walls. Plush, velvet armchairs in a deep, rich burgundy hue beckon me over, arranged around low, gleaming tables like they're ready for a gossip session worthy of the tabloids.
Beside me, someone clears his throat, and I whip my head around to see a bartender clad in all black, looking like he just dropped in from a fashion magazine. A large white napkin drapes across one hand while his eyebrow arches as he takes me in. "What would you like to order, ma'am?"
I lick my lips and open my mouth, but nothing comes out. What should I say? I don't even know how I came to be here in the first place. It feels like I just woke up from a ten-year nap and decided I'd drop into a wine bar.
My head is buzzing from something non-alcoholic, which is great news. If I cup my hands around my breath to check—will Waiter boy think I'm a bit loopy? Probably.
Best not to find out.
I stamp on a shaky smile as my frenzied gaze roves around the bar. I probably look like a deer caught in headlights as my gaze wanders. Soft music spills from the hidden speakers—a little too warm and inviting for my taste. I'm about as relaxed as a cat in a room full of laser pointers.
Everyone else seems to be either throwing back drinks or cavorting with their dates. Am I just here, suffering from a severe case of temporary amnesia while waiting for someone?
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog and settle on that theory like a blanket on a chilly evening.
I plaster on a smile as I lock eyes with the Waiter boy once more. "I'll order when my date arrives."
As he nods stiffly and walks away, I wonder why I have a French accent. It doesn't resonate with me. Coupled with the fact that I don't even know what my name is, nor how I came to be in this bar, things aren't exactly looking rosy for me.
I glance at my hands and sigh—thank goodness, no ring. No messy marital drama to explain to some oblivious husband and children. What a relief!
I shake my head and chuckle to myself. At least I can find humor in this delightful disaster.
Someone to my right coughs, breaking my reverie. Really? Is the Waiter boy deaf or just an expert in ignoring me?
Did I not already tell him that I'm waiting for. . .?
I look up, and the thoughts in my head immediately scramble. I try to focus on one, but they are like tendrils being scattered by the wind.
My gaze clashes with dark green eyes and I know I'm not the first woman to lock eyes with him and lose her heartbeat.
He's tall.
About six feet two. . .
Six, three. . .
Maybe six, four?
I have to crane my neck to drink him in.
Something familiar about him strikes a chord in my heart, but it's gone before I can lay a finger on it.
"Ma'am." His voice is buttery. "Is this seat taken?" Seductive.
Tanned skin. Thick black hair styled to perfection. Cheekbones you could chip ice off of.
His stare is just as likely to give me frostbite, too.
"Um. . ." I'm still trying to assemble my words when he straightens.
"Never mind, I'm not interested."
I blink. "I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted." He straightens further, flicks off invisible flint from his expensive-looking suit, and walks to the empty chair adjacent to mine.
I shake my head as I try, but fail to get my erratic heartbeat under control. Ten, maybe twenty seconds - tops. And this man has me feeling toasty.
I close my mouth and force myself to look away. I sigh, roll my neck from side to side, - unladylike - but necessary, and turn around to study my environment.
A black purse lies on the table in front of me, so I pick it up and rummage through it. I bring out a phone, but scrolling through the contacts doesn't jog my memory, so I toss it back inside the bag.
Maybe if I look around, it might do something for my runaway memory.
The walls of the restaurant are adorned with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, seemingly stretching on forever, giving the illusion of a spacious, luxurious lounge. The atmosphere is alive with the gentle hum of muted conversations, the clinking of ice in glasses, and the smooth, sultry strains of jazz music floating through the air.
Behind the bar, a stunning, backlit display of premium spirits and fine wines sparkle like a treasure trove, tempting people to indulge in a little luxury. The bartender, a young man with a charming smile, moves with effortless ease, shaking and stirring cocktails with the finesse of a master craftsman.
Through it all, I'm acutely aware of the imposing man sitting directly opposite me. How can I not? He practically fills that chair like it's a throne, and I almost half-expect him to demand a royal title any minute now. The waiter who initially approached me bows his head to serve him a bottle of wine as if he's presenting a trophy.
As the man's large fingers curl around the bottle, I roll my eyes and take a deep breath. I shift my gaze around the room, but quickly realize that my surroundings have become boring compared to the visual feast of this man.
I can't help but glance at him again—he's like a delicious dessert I know I shouldn't have but can't resist. He's typing away on his phone, and I bet it's a long one. Yeah, but who texts with such intensity? My eyes flit between whatever he's tapping out and the indifference etched across his strong jawline.
Furrows in between his brows strike a chord deep within me, stirring a sense of recognition that I can't quite shake off. There's an uncanny familiarity in the subtle twitch of his lips, and the intensity in his gaze that sends my heart racing.
I'm convinced I've encountered this man before, and the unsettling connection ignites a rush of suspicion and intrigue within me.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Frustration morphs into embarrassment, and just when I think I'm done with this rollercoaster of emotions, annoyance crashes in.
So rude.
I shake my head, trying to shake off the irritation.
Annoying.
But then I can't help but eye that sharp jaw again.
And dare I say. . . sexy?
I huff in disbelief. I mean, come on—men aren't usually my vibe, but . . .
Wait a second, how do I even know that?
It's like my brain is playing tricks on me.
Suddenly, my gaze locks with the man in the mirror just as he stops typing and meets my eyes. Deep-green, intense, and utterly disarming. I feel the hairs on my neck prickle as if I've just stepped into a scene from a melodrama. For some reason, I can't look away.
Stubbornness kicks in, and I grip the edge of the table as if it's my lifeline.
One of his thick eyebrows raises, like he's challenging me. "I'm sorry?"
"Apology accepted," I shoot back, letting a hint of sass slip through.
Oh, yes. Triumph reverberates in my gut. But the moment his phone goes dark and he places it on the table, his heavy gaze zaps any victory I might have felt.
Why does my spine feel like it needs reinforcement when he looks at me? As if to keep myself grounded, I wish for a drink—something to fidget with because this bold scrutiny is making me feel like a marshmallow over a campfire.
With my eyes still on his, I snap my fingers and, from the corner of my eye, "Waiter boy" scurries over. "Get me a bottle of your finest wine, please."
Green eyes dance with mischief as a smirk graces those full, perfect lips. Great, now that I have all his attention, I'm not sure how I feel about it. Those eyes glide lazily over my features like they own me, and when they meet my eyes again, it's like he's just found the punchline to a joke.
This feels like an epic stare-down, one I didn't sign up for but am kind of enjoying. Waiter boy brings the wine, but I'm so locked in with those green eyes that I can barely register anything else.
From the corner of my eye, the bar's entrance swings open, and a sudden rush of cold air sweeps in, causing shivers to dance down my spine. My heart jolts as I see a figure standing just inside the door—a familiar silhouette. Someone who looks like they belong in my memories I can't quite grasp.
And just like that, his face snaps toward me, his expression unreadable. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you and you weren't answering your calls."
Time freezes as my heart pounds in my chest. Who is he to me?