Fortunate Encounters (The Sign Series Book 1)

  Fortunate Encounters

  The Sign Series

  Caterina Passarelli

  Book One: Bunnies

  Copyright © 2018 Caterina Passarelli

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, incidents and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work. All trademark names are honored by capitalization and no infringement is intended.

  ISBN-13: 978-0692131558 (Caterina Passarelli)

  Covered designed by Najla Qambers Designs

  Edited by Duncan Koerber

  For more, visit http://www.CaterinaPassarelliBooks.com

  1

  Clark

  Sitting at a small table near the bar, I’m reading a finance column in The Wall Street Journal when a brunette flies into Jackie’s. Everyone’s eyes are on her—at least mine are.

  I give her a thorough once-over. A tight black dress hugs every curve. It looks like the wind pushed her long hair all over the place. She looks frantic as hell, like the kind of woman who’s always late and runs around in a panic. Too scattered for my taste.

  Glancing down at my newspaper, I’m taken aback when she sits across from me, but I play it cool. Let’s see what this is all about.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” says the beautiful stranger, looking apologetic. Her voice sounds as sweet as candy, both irritating me and turning me on.

  “Being late is not a good trait.” I’m teasing, but I take a scolding tone to mess with her. She shoots me a look of pure annoyance, as if ready to tell me to fuck off.

  This should be fun.

  Juliette

  I’m never late.

  I’m always at least five minutes early, but not tonight. I have my first date with Wes from eLove. We’ve only sent a few messages back and forth online, but I agreed to meet him anyway. Getting to know someone in person is much better than through the apps. It’s quicker to pick up on quirks when a man is sitting across from you.

  Looking down at my iPhone, my map indicates I’m standing right on top of the place, but I don’t see it anywhere. To the right, nothing. To the left, more of nothing. I’ve lived in New York City my entire life, and I’ve never even heard of this place. Who picks a hole in the wall for a first date?

  For the fifth time, I check the address and it says Jackie’s Bar is right here. Could there be a second bar somewhere else? I’m starting to sweat and my nerves are on edge. This is no way to make a great first impression.

  Scanning around the block, I spot a small sign at the end of the street by an easy-to-miss wooden door: Jackie’s. They really want to keep this place hidden.

  Walking at the quickest speed possible in these stilettos, I throw open the door a little too violently as the wind takes it away from me.

  Wes is sitting at a table near the bar reading a newspaper. He didn’t mention that he enjoyed reading when we quizzed each other about our interests.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say, taking a seat across from him.

  “Being late is not a good trait,” Wes remarks. He didn’t have any edginess in his messages online. In fact, he was extremely bland, which I thought would be a nice change after meeting a bunch of narcissists.

  He also didn’t have this much hair in his pictures.

  Wes looks much better in person with his thick dark hair, alluring chestnut eyes and five o’clock shadow. Normally, I’m a fan of the clean-cut look, but he seems to pull off facial hair very well. I’ve hit the jackpot.

  Sometimes men will surprise you. They’ll show up bald and fat, using pictures from their glory days, or the worst … they wouldn’t be tall enough to ride any rollercoasters.

  “I looked everywhere for this bar.” I don’t know why I just explained myself to him.

  “Excuses, excuses,” he says with a little tisk tisk motion of his index finger.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe you have more time in your day to sit around reading the newspaper. Some of us aren’t so leisure. And don’t point your finger at me if you don’t want me to break it off.”

  Throwing shade—this is new for me.

  Wes smirks. He doesn’t seem the least bit insulted, which surprises me and irritates me at the same time.

  Before I say another word, a man approaches our table as the color drains from my face. I’ve made a grave mistake.

  “Wes?” I ask the man who just walked up.

  “Juliette?” He laughs nervously, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Did you book two dates in one night?”

  “Oh my gosh. No.” I am utterly embarrassed. Turning toward the man at my table, I ask, “Who are you?”

  This gets a smile out of the stranger who has been watching me banter back and forth awkwardly with Wes.

  “The name’s Clark.”

  Looking from Clark to Wes, I can’t believe I made this mistake. My actual date is a watered down version of the man I’m sitting across from.

  Getting up from the table, I turn toward Wes. “I apologize! Let’s start fresh.”

  “Alrighty. Sounds like a plan,” Wes says in an easygoing way, pointing in the direction of the front doors. “I got us a table over there.”

  “Sorry about all of this,” I say to Clark before following Wes to our new table. Clark doesn’t say anything; he just laughs and returns his gaze back to his newspaper, as if this incident didn’t happen.

  During my rather boring conversation with Wes, I can’t help but wish I could see the expression on Clark’s face. His back is turned to me, but I keep glancing in his direction.

  When Clark gets up to leave, he walks by our table and gives me a little nod. I secretly wish he’d break up this date I’m on.

  Wes rambles for another forty minutes before I get the “emergency” text message from my friend, Whitney, telling me I’m needed for open-heart surgery. No, I’m not a doctor. Yes, I’ll gladly take the escape she’s fabricated.

  Wes sees me to the door and plants a rather wet, sloppy kiss on my cheek. When I’m around the block, I wipe my face with my sleeve. The feeling of defeat washes over me.

  I walk a few more blocks until I’m safely back at my apartment building in Manhattan. I shoot Whitney a text letting her know I wasn’t murdered. When online dating I always let my friends know where I am going and with who. Call me paranoid, but I’m not about to end up handcuffed in someone’s basement.

  Next, I hit up the wine fridge for a much-needed glass of red.

  As I cuddle up on the couch, I can’t help but question … who is Clark? And why do I want to talk to him again?

  2

  Clark

  Driving into the office, I can’t get that sassy brunette from Jackie’s out of my mind. Women approach me all the time, but none who captivate me like she did. Juliette is what he called her. Clearly they were on an online first date or else she’d never make that kind of mistake.

  That guy looked like a weasel.

  And what’s a woman like that doing online dating? Isn’t that for desperate people? Ugly chicks and dudes who are virgins? I don’t know. I don’t have time for that. I don’t have time for much, besides work.

  Maybe she’s a crazy person in disguise. Actually the most beautiful women I’ve dated all turned out to be psychotic. That’s probably the case with Juliette.
She’s got to be a lunatic.

  A lunatic who doesn’t need to be taking up any more space in my already cluttered mind.

  Let her go. I’ll never see her again anyway.

  Juliette

  Looking around the room, I spot four teenagers sleeping, three on their cellphones and the rest taking the test I assigned them. Not bad odds. As you can see, the life of a high school English teacher is extremely glamorous.

  The boy in the front row snores so loudly that he scares himself and nearly falls out of his chair.

  “Mr. Falconi, nice to see you awake,” I say.

  Justin wipes the drool from his face, mumbling some remark not loud enough for me to hear, but he does pick up his number two pencil. I’ll keep an eye on him to be sure he doesn’t stab himself if he nods off again.

  I should be correcting the papers from my AP students, but instead my mind slips away to where it shouldn’t—to thoughts of Clark, the mysterious stranger I can’t seem to get out of my head.

  After the date, the real Wes tried to keep the conversation going for a few days through text messages, but I did what I always do … stopped replying. Disappearing from guys who bore me seems to be my only way out. Some would say that’s rude, but that’s my only option.

  Once I was honest and told a man that we weren’t a match. I said we shouldn’t waste our time on one another. Thinking honesty was the best policy was my mistake. He called me over and over. He sent me text messages nonstop. He tried to friend request me on all social media platforms, begging and pleading for me to change my mind. When I didn’t reply, he turned ugly, calling me every terrible name in the book.

  We went on one date. Just one.

  This is the kind of reaction one date leads to? From then on I started to simply disappear, or as my students say nowadays—ghost.

  Would I end up ghosting Clark too? Probably.

  That’s how they all turn out.

  Instead of continuing to dwell on a man I’ll never see again, I pick up my red pen and go to town on these papers.

  The bartender brings over a round of girly martinis.

  “Then she just started sobbing in the middle of class. She got up and ran out after saying I didn’t know how to do my job. I wasn’t even asking her a question,” Lauren, our calculus teacher, exclaims. She takes a big swig from her strawberry vodka concoction.

  “The Northman kid ate seven crunchy tacos during my lesson on civil rights,” Maggie, our history teacher, says, scrunching up her face. “And he’s the slowest eater in the entire world.”

  Every Thursday night we get together and have our own form of teacher therapy. It’s happy hour at the bar around the block from Riverside Academy, and we are regulars. The wait staff treats us like gold, and we love them for that.

  “Can I please have a piece of cheesecake?” Martin, our biology teacher, asks while joining last minute.

  “You come out with us and you don’t order booze? What’s the deal?” I laugh before sipping my own cocktail.

  Martin always orders a delicious looking dessert whenever he shows up. He’s not a regular in the bitch fest, but when he has a rough day he’s here. “I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. I eat!”

  We all laugh and lift our glasses up to toast to his cherry cheesecake as the waiter sets it down at our table.

  “You go on any dates lately?” Lauren asks in my direction.

  Most of my coworkers are married and live vicariously through me. Sadly, I always disappoint them with my lame stories. They want to hear something juicy or that I’ve fallen in love.

  “No dates to note.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “She did run into a hunk at a bar on accident and can’t get him off her mind,” Grace, the school secretary and one of my closest friends, chimes in.

  Everyone gawks with curious faces. Martin has his mouth hanging open with a dab of cake on the edge of his lips.

  Turning toward Grace, I swat her arm, but really I’d rather sucker punch her. “Someone doesn’t know how to keep a secret. There’s nothing to chat about here. Let’s change the subject.”

  They all roll their eyes, knowing not to tease me anymore, and they do indeed change the subject. Martin leaves before the rest of us to get home to his wife and two kids. We continue talking about what happened during our days.

  “Ladies, this round was sent over from the man sitting at the bar,” our waiter says, placing lemon drop shots down.

  “I haven’t done shots since college,” Lauren laughs, picking hers up and passing the rest around.

  Grace looks toward the bar hoping to get an eyeful of the man trying to win us over. “I wonder who sent these?”

  “Who cares? Sending drinks to an entire group of women is so tacky.” I push my shot away.

  Lauren pushes it back in my direction.

  “Stop being so dramatic. Some of us,” Grace waves her hand in the air, “you know, the old married broads, don’t get drinks sent to them anymore.”

  “Fine, whatever.” I pout.

  The four of us pick up our shots and down them like champs. When our glasses hit the table, the man at the bar turns in our direction. He smiles a toothy grin and waves. He’s about fifty-five, with a beer gut and a gold band on the hand he’s waving.

  “He’s married? Ugh,” Maggie looks horrified. “Is this what it’s like to be out in the dating world?”

  “Exactly what it’s like,” I reply, slumping down farther into my seat.

  Sadly, I’ve come across several married men on the dating apps. How do I know they are married? They are the same guys I went to high school with or know through acquaintances. They all use fake names and fake ages. I’m sure they’ll claim someone stole their identity if their wives found out. Swipe no.

  Our waiter must have sensed our disgust as he brings over a round of on-the-house cheesecakes to perk us up.

  “Now this is what I’m talking about!” I cheer, grabbing a fork.

  We dig into our desserts in utter glee. This creamy cheesecake tastes so good, I might moan with each rich bite. Yes, it’s been that long since I’ve gotten any action. I’m not a hookup kind of girl and that’s all this “dating culture” seems to be obsessed with.

  Fucking on the first date is now the norm. But I just can’t bring myself to do that.

  “You know what?” Lauren twirls her fork with cheesecake still on it around in the air. “We aren’t going to give you crap about your dates anymore. I’m sorry that this is what it’s like.”

  I’m sorry too.

  3

  A blind date.

  I’ve never done this before. Grace set the whole shindig up. My date is her husband’s cousin, John. She says he’s “perfect for me,” but that makes me nervous because I don’t know what Grace thinks my type is.

  Do I even have one? Yeah, I guess.

  My type has been douchebags.

  This blind date is a little different than most. I agreed to meet John at a Yankees game. A small group of friends was already attending the game; I figured it would be safe for him to tag along with us too.

  Sending John a text message, I let him know where my seat is.

  Red flag number one: I asked him if he wanted to order our tickets together, but he said I should get my own.

  In our crappy bleacher seats, I grab a cheap beer from a vendor and chat with my friends. I haven’t seen some of them since college. Thirty minutes into the game, I get a reply from John saying he’s at the stadium.

  Leaving the bleachers, I walk to a pizza stand looking for the man matching the picture Grace sent.

  “Juliette?”

  Turning around, I see a guy who resembles his photos … kind of. Just like his picture: he’s tall and has straight teeth and blue eyes. Unlike his picture: he’s gained weight, his hair falls down to his shoulders, and he’s super sweaty.

  Was he playing baseball with the Yankees and I didn’t notice him on the field?

  As if he read my mind, John says, “I
just biked here. Luckily, I found a ticket for five bucks outside.” He runs his fingers through his long, greasy hair, moving it out of his face. This guy is supposed to be a prosecutor but he’s coming across as homeless.

  “Bike as in … motorcycle?” Please let it be something cool like a motorcycle. That would be hot. I might reconsider helmet hair to cruise around on the back of a Harley.

  “No, my mountain bike. I know it shouldn’t be out on the road, but my road bike is in the shop.”

  Red flag number two: He road his bicycle to our date. I’ve only been on a handful of dates, but no one has ever shown up this disheveled looking before. It’s like he’s not even trying.

  “Grace told me you’re a teacher?” John asks, while a group of rowdy baseball fans pushes through us cheering. These people are having the time of their lives, while I am dreading mine.

  “Yes, I teach English.” I avert my eyes from staring intently at his sweat-stained gray t-shirt. I really want to give this guy a chance. “How long have you been practicing law?”

  “Six years,” he smiles proudly and puffs out his chest. “Hey man, you want to get a corn dog?”

  Red flag number three: Did he just call me man?

  “Sure.” I can’t believe I agreed to that.

  I walk over to a stand where two teenage boys are selling corn dogs and take a better look at John. He’s extremely tall, which is on my pro list. Yet he’s a good fifty pounds heavier than the picture Grace showed me. She swore it was his most recent Facebook photo.

  I don’t have a problem with heavier guys because a little meat on a man can be nice. I want to be with the kind of guy who can shove me up against the wall and have his way with me. Not the kind of guy that I could push around. But what happened to John since he took that photo Grace sent? What else is he hiding? And is his sweating getting worse? We only walked three feet.