First, I heard Cherry's scream behind me—even above the music. Then the whole group froze, like we'd collectively synched up, when we saw them sprawled out. Alerts fired in my brain all at once: him, on that nasty bar floor. A public floor. His issues with women. Cherry, too drunk to lift herself off his stunned body. His face turned beet red, his mouth opening like he was about to explode.
Oh my gosh, I thought. That's the signal to leave. This night is officially over.
Richard yanked Cherry upright while I rushed to balance Mr. Fabrizi on his feet and hustled him outside for fresh air.
"It's time to go," he finally muttered after a full minute of me brushing dirt and crumbs from his suit.
I apologized profusely and pulled out my phone to call his chauffeur. He should've been nearby anyway—probably still waiting at the first bar.
"What are you doing?" he asked, face scrunched up.
"Sir, your chauffeur? I assumed he's still waiting since you came in alone."
"I drove myself," he said flatly. "But I need you to drive."
I nodded. No need for an argument. If making him comfortable salvaged the night, maybe Cherry would still have her job tomorrow. I started typing his address into the car's dashboard until—unexpectedly—he told me to stop at my place first. That surprised me more than anything. Even stranger, he decided to leave his seat in the back and sit next to me. He always sat in the back. But I pushed the thoughts away and headed toward Encino.
Seeing the glow of my little place, the shadow of my aunt moving inside to music with whatever exotic pet she had at the moment, gave me relief. Finally—home. My safe zone. I was ready to bid him goodnight once I jumped out, but then he said:
"Wasn't I very attentive and sweet today? Exactly as you like."
What was it with him and that line? I grimaced to myself.
The first time, I thought maybe the bar fumes had gotten to him. But twice in one night? He was saying it like it meant something.
"I even came to the dinner, despite not having the address at first. And I'm driving home from your place even though it's out of my way."
Out of his way? He was the one who told me to cancel my plans to drive him home!
"I thought about my actions," he continued, slowly.
My eyebrows shot up.
He thought about his actions? Since when?
"And—I've decided we should start slow."
The longer he spoke, the more confused I became. I opened my mouth to get a word in, but then he blurted:
"I'm telling you that I'm going to date you first."
What in the actual hell kind of strategy is this?
For a moment, I wondered if he would be able to see the irritation on my face. I certainly could feel it.
"Mr. Fabrizi, you are not my type," I said firmly, cutting off any possible misunderstanding.
He blinked, shaking his head as though his brain couldn't process.
"But I was attentive and—"
"I do prefer men who are nice and caring. But men who do so out of the kindness of their heart—and show it to everyone."
He stammered, tripping over excuses, asking how I could say that after everything he'd done tonight.
"I didn't ask you to do anything," I said. "I appreciate it, but no thank you. I wish you luck finding someone who wants to date you. I'm sure she's out there just waiting to meet you."
Then I bolted inside, past my aunt's concerned look, straight to my room. She didn't ask questions—she was used to me coming home grumpy and burned out. I thought I'd escaped him for the night. But then my phone started buzzing, nonstop, on the nightstand. I refused to answer. Still, I peeked out the window. His car hadn't moved an inch. A ping sounded. I pressed the notification down to preview it without marking it as read. My jaw dropped.
A list. He sent a literal list of his amazing qualities! Followed by a question: why wouldn't I want to date someone with credentials like his? I shouldn't have responded. But with a text like that—I had to.
Marcie: Mr. Fabrizi, believe it or not, you're only capable of dating yourself
He replied instantly:
Mr. Fabrizi: Do you really think that?
Marcie: Yes. And I'm tired. If you're so concerned about being caring . . . let me rest. I've worked hard doing everything you've asked over the years. Just because I don't have a personal life doesn't mean I'm desperate for a boyfriend or a husband!
That finally got him moving. His car pulled away, though not before one last text lit my phone:
Mr. Fabrizi: If it was too much . . . you could've told me in the beginning. I would have hired an assistant for you.
I clenched my teeth so hard my frustration and irritation felt finally corked in place. Sure—an assistant would've been nice. But he'd never given the impression he would. And that's what mattered.
Marcie: Let's forget about tonight and start fresh tomorrow, I typed back, collapsing onto my bed.