Tangier in his lies

CHERYL The first mistake I made was looking at him twice. The second was stopping when he called out to me. The third—and by far the most unforgivable—was giving him my number. But I didn’t know any of that at the time. All I knew was that I was tired, my feet hurt, and I wanted to get back to my apartment before the sun disappeared completely behind the buildings. It had been a long day. I had spent the afternoon collecting a bag I had left at a friend’s apartment across town, and the journey back had been unnecessarily exhausting. My phone battery was dangerously low, my stomach was beginning to protest, and the straps of my handbag were digging into my shoulder. I wanted a shower, something to eat, and the comfort of my bed. A man was the last thing on my mind. Especially the kind that drove expensive cars. I heard the engine before I saw the vehicle. A black Mercedes slowed beside me, moving at the same pace as my steps. I glanced at it briefly, then looked away. I wasn’t interested. The window rolled down. “Excuse me.” I kept walking. “Miss?” I stopped, closed my eyes for a brief second, and turned around. The driver leaned slightly toward the passenger window. And, unfortunately for my peace of mind, he was gorgeous. Not the ordinary kind of handsome that made you look twice and forget about it five minutes later. No. This man looked like he knew exactly what effect he had on people and had long ago stopped apologizing for it. His dark hair was neatly styled. His jaw was sharply defined, and the sleeves of his fitted black shirt stretched slightly over his muscular arms. A silver watch rested against his wrist. But it was his eyes that caught my attention. Dark, observant, and annoyingly confident. He smiled. “Hi.” I stared at him. “Hi?” His smile widened slightly, as though he found my response amusing. “You’re walking alone?” I glanced around us. “No. I’m walking with invisible people.” For a moment, he simply looked at me. Then he laughed. It was a deep, effortless laugh that made him look even more attractive, which irritated me because I hadn’t given him permission to become more attractive. “Okay,” he said, still smiling. “You have a mouth on you.” “And you have a car. Congratulations to both of us.” He laughed again. I should have left then. Instead, I stood there, watching a complete stranger enjoy himself at my expense. “I’m Daniel,” he said. “Good for you.” “You’re not going to tell me your name?” “Not particularly.” “That’s unfortunate.” “For you, perhaps.” He leaned back in his seat, studying me with an expression I couldn’t quite interpret. Most men would have been offended by now. Others would have lost interest. Daniel appeared to be enjoying himself. “Can I at least give you a ride?” “No, thank you.” “You’re sure?” “Very.” He glanced at the road ahead before looking back at me. “Then can I ask you something?” “You’ve already asked me several things.” “One more.” I sighed dramatically. “Go ahead.” “Would you have stopped if I’d told you I thought you were beautiful?” I blinked. There it was. The line. The kind of line that probably worked on women who hadn’t heard variations of it a thousand times. I folded my arms. “No.” He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a shame. You’re beautiful.” I hated the way my stomach fluttered. Hated it. I also hated that he seemed to notice. His eyes lingered on my face for a moment before he smiled again. “Daniel,” he repeated. “In case you change your mind about talking to me.” “I won’t.” “People change their minds.” “Not me.” “We’ll see.” He rolled up the window. For a brief moment, I thought that was the end of it. Then the car pulled away, and I finally allowed myself to breathe. I shook my head. “Men.” I continued walking, already mentally dismissing the encounter. He was handsome, certainly. Charming, too. But I knew the type. A man like Daniel didn’t stop his expensive car for a woman because he was suddenly interested in her personality. He stopped because he liked what he saw, and he wanted to know whether he could have it. And I wasn’t interested in being anybody’s entertainment. I had worked too hard to get my peace back. I wasn’t about to surrender it to a stranger with a beautiful smile. DANIEL She was difficult. That was the first thing I thought as I watched her disappear into the distance. Difficult, beautiful, and entirely too pleased with herself. I smiled. I liked that. Most women reacted differently when I approached them. Some smiled immediately. Others became shy. A few pretended to be uninterested, only to soften when I gave them enough attention. Cheryl—though I didn’t know her name yet—had looked at me as if I were an inconvenience. It was refreshing. My phone vibrated against the center console. A message from a colleague. I glanced at it, replied briefly, and put the phone away. I had places to be and work waiting for me, but my mind kept returning to the woman I’d just met. Not because I was fascinated by her. Certainly not. I was simply curious. There was a difference. I had no interest in relationships. They were complicated, demanding, and rarely worth the trouble. I preferred arrangements that were simple and uncomplicated, with expectations clearly understood—or, at the very least, carefully managed. Women tended to develop expectations when a man gave them too much attention. I had learned to recognize the signs. And I had learned to leave before things became inconvenient. But something about Cheryl made me want another conversation. Perhaps it was the way she refused to be impressed by my car. Perhaps it was her sharp tongue. Or perhaps it was simply the challenge. Whatever it was, I knew one thing. I wanted to see her again. And I was very good at getting what I wanted. CHERYL By the time I reached my apartment, I’d almost forgotten about him. Almost. I dropped my handbag on the sofa, kicked off my shoes, and went straight to the kitchen. After finding something to eat, I settled onto the couch and reached for my phone. Three missed calls. Two messages from my friend. And a notification from an unknown number. I frowned. The message read: You forgot something. I stared at the screen. Who was this? Another message arrived. Your manners. I sat upright. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” A third message appeared. Daniel. The handsome man in the black Mercedes. Before you ask, no, I didn’t hire someone to investigate you. You left your number in my head, but unfortunately, I forgot to ask for the actual one. I stared at the message for several seconds. Then I laughed despite myself. The audacity. He had somehow found a way to contact me—or was pretending he had—and was now behaving as though we were old friends. I typed a reply. How did you get my number? His response came almost immediately. I didn’t. I was hoping you’d give it to me. I rolled my eyes. Then stop texting me. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then appeared again. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow? I should have blocked him. Instead, I typed: No. His response was immediate. Lunch? I laughed. Are you always this persistent? Only when something interests me. I stared at that sentence longer than I cared to admit. Something interests me. Not someone. Something. I should have noticed the choice of words. I should have recognized the warning hidden beneath the charm. Instead, I shook my head, smiled at my phone, and put it facedown on the sofa. I wasn’t going to entertain him. I wasn’t going to become another woman fooled by a handsome face. And I certainly wasn’t going to fall for a man I’d known for less than fifteen minutes. That night, I went to bed convinced that Daniel would become nothing more than an amusing story I’d tell my friends. I had no idea that months later, I’d lie awake staring at my ceiling, wondering why a man who claimed to care about me could make me feel so unwanted. I had no idea that I’d eventually memorize the sound of his voice, the shape of his smile, and the particular way he said my name when he wanted something from me. And I had absolutely no idea that the man who had stopped his car to tell me I was beautiful would one day become the man I would struggle the hardest to forget. For now, though, I was still Cheryl. Twenty-two years old. Single. Guarded. And foolish enough to believe that knowing a man was trouble meant I could never fall for him.