Asia
As soon as he walks into the café, I know it's him—tall, dark hair, athletic body, and a gorgeous smile. My heart skips a beat as he scans the room, his eyes finally landing on me. Smiling, I give him a shy little wave as he crosses the dining area and takes the seat across from me.
"Asia?" he asks.
"That's me." My heart races as I pray to every god and goddess that I don't look as nervous as I feel. He's even better looking in person than in his photo. He's actually almost pretty. Totally out of my league.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No." I shake my head. "About ten minutes, that's all."
I purposely came a few minutes early because I knew from talking to him online for the past four weeks people showing up late annoys him. He's a model and personal trainer, so tardiness throws off his busy schedule.
His bright blue eyes focus on me—unblinking—for an uncomfortable amount of time.
"The waitress should be right over," I say, breaking the silence. "I told her I was waiting for someone before ordering."
He glances around the room uneasily then leans across the small table. "Look, I'm just gonna cut to the chase here. You seem really nice, but you're not really what I was expecting. I'm sorry."
The pang in my stomach is instant, and not at all unfamiliar, but I force the smile to remain on my face. "Excuse me?"
"I really hate this. I'm not a bad guy. Really. I was just expecting you to be a little more…put together, I guess? Maybe that's the wrong choice of words." Put together? What does that mean? As if reading my thoughts, he continues, "More fashionable…trendy. I'm a model, you know. I'm not shallow, but, yeah…looks are important to me. You know what I mean?"
Studying him, I wonder how someone so good-looking, with such beautiful eyes and a friendly smile, can be this big an asshole. Mean people should look mean, like a warning label of sorts. He has no right to be this hot and be such a jerk.
"You're cute, though," he adds, as if that lessens the blow. "Just not my type. I'm sorry."
Grabbing my small purse and forcing out a fake laugh, I stand and push my chair back, needing to get away. "Really, it's okay. These things happen. I'm just going to go. Thank you for making time to meet me, anyway."
I walk out of the small café quickly, not giving him a chance to say anything more, or see the tears trailing down my cheeks.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
What was I thinking, joining a free online dating site, anyway? And did I seriously think a model—someone crazy good-looking who lives in a beautiful tenth-floor apartment downtown and drives a bright yellow sports car—was going to be interested in me? I don't even have a car.
Pulling a tissue out of my purse, I wipe my eyes as I embark on the five-mile walk back to my tiny one-bedroom apartment. Two miles in and my feet are screaming in pain, the new shoes I bought just for this date and starved myself for a week to be able to afford rubbing and digging into my toes and heels. And yet, I still looked un-put-together.
Those words will never leave my brain. I may as well just tattoo them across my forehead.