"Olivia Pope?" I whirl around at the sound of my name, surprised at the whisper-soft voice that called it. I take in the man standing behind me, the mirthful smirk, the mischievous glint in his eyes, the tiny dimple in his right cheek. "Olivia?" He asks again, offering me a hand and a friendly smile.
"Captain Jake Ballard," I say, wrapping my hand around his own, giving it a firm pump. "Nice to meet you." Patrons of the bar push past us, trying to get the bartender's attention or snag an empty stool, heavily inebriated and much too tipsy for my taste. I vacate mine, sticking my hand into my purse and rifling around until I feel my phone. "Unfortunately, I can't stay."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Oh?"
"Yes," I tap on the screen of my phone, returning a quick test message before glancing back up at him, "I actually just came to tell you that I don't date. I especially don't blind date. I'm much too busy for the awkward dance that most people engage in, the pretending to be interested in a complete stranger's life, and so on. It's really not for me, so, I apologize for the inconvenience, but this night won't be going anywhere."
"Because you don't date," he finishes so me, looking oddly amused for a man who was just for all intents and purposes stood up.
"Yes, because I do not date." He nods, a low hum echoing inside pursed lips, before taking my elbow and leading me towards a free table. My indignant squeak does nothing to deter him.
"They have this amazing filet mignon here," he informs me. "I've only had it once, but…damn. It's the kind of meat that sneaks up in your dreams, you know?" He pauses, cocking his head to the side. "Did I really just say that?" I wrestle my arm away from him, my eyes flitting back to the door before settling on the waiter standing behind the chair I presume is mine, a napkin draped over his forearm and a chilled pitcher of water in the center of the table.
"I think you did," I say, reluctantly taking my seat and allowing the waiter to push the chair in closer to the table, setting my bag down beside me. "But, that's not important, what's important is that I won't be staying."
Jake shrugs, completely nonplussed as he turns to the waiter. "Um, yes, can we have a bottle of your finest wine?" He faces me. "I don't really know anything about wine, I'm more a beer guy myself," he gives me a half-smile, "any suggestions?"
"No," I reply as sternly as I can, "we won't be needing wine, because I'm not staying, which I've been trying to tell you for the past ten minutes."
"More like two," he corrects me, holding up his palm to the waiter, telling him to wait.
"Regardless, I reiterate the fact that I don't date. I appreciate you coming all the way out here, and maybe Abby will be able to set you up with somebody else, but I don't date." Jake takes his napkin and places it on his lap, ignoring me as I speak.
"Bring us a bottle of whatever red wine you think is best," he eyes the menu, "I'll have the filet mignon, medium well down, and she'll have the shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo?" He contemplates me carefully. "That good with you?" He asks. "You don't look like a slab of meat kind of girl, and who doesn't love shrimp, right?"
"I'm allergic to shellfish," I say drily. For the first time, his eyebrows knit together and the natural ease he exudes ebbs slightly.
"I'm sorry," he picks his menu back up and scans it quickly, chewing on his bottom lip. I feel a short stab of guilt and touch his hand.
"Shrimp is fine, and a glass of water as well please." The waited nods, looking slightly annoyed as he sets a basket of bread onto the table before walking away.
"Should've made it to-go," I murmur to myself, the sound of bell chimes ringing from my phone, a voicemail I really should be listening to.
"Olivia," Jake pulls my focus back to him, just barely. He sits patiently, waiting for me to set my phone back beside the coaster of my water glass. "Tell me about yourself. Abby only gave me the big details, brilliant, gorgeous, a little aloof, things like that."
It's my turn to arch an eyebrow up at him, pursing my lips. "Aloof?" He opens his mouth, but before he has a chance to reply, I raise my hands, stopping him. "You know what? It doesn't even matter. I don't know what more Abby told you, and frankly, I don't care. The only details that she should have mentioned are that, for one, I don't date, and two, I have very little patience for those who can't take a hint. All though by now it's not much of a hint; it's more like a glaringly obvious fact that you seem completely content to ignore." I clap my hands together. "So, while I'm sure this would have been a lovely night, I'm going to leave. I don't have cash on me right now, so just give Abby the check and I'll be sure to pay you back for my meal."
I stand, leaning slightly to reach for my bag, watching as he reclines in his chair. "You're lecturing me."
I gape at him. "I am not."
"You are," he argues, "and while I love a good lecture, I'm not a college student, which means I don't have to sit here and listen. Now, you could get up and leave right now, dinner be damned, but then I would have to show you the definition of persistence."
"Persistence?"
He grins. "Yes. You see, I would call and text and email until the only option you would have besides going out with me would be destroying your cell phone and moving to Alaska. And even then, I doubt I would be deterred. To save us both time, effort, and an extremely large cell phone bill, please stay."
"You should know I don't respond well to threats Captain." His shoulders quiver as if he's suppressing a laugh, and I can feel my lips fighting against my will to turn up into a smile. It's been a while since anyways tried to argue with me. It's refreshing.
"It's not a threat, but a promise," he assures me. "Abby told me that you give all your dates fifteen minutes. You and that gut of yours make all the judgments you need to make in those fifteen minutes, and then you decide if the guy is worth it. You've given me," he consults the watch strapped to his wrist, white gold, beautiful frame, "about eight. All I'm asking for is the last seven." I frown and he strokes his chin, his thumb bristling the stubble on his chin. "Not that unreasonable a request, is it?"
I sit, heaving out a sigh. "Seven minutes, enough time for some buttered bread and a glass of Pinot Noir, which, by the way, is the type of wine that would go nicely with a steak." I bring my water glass up to my lips, taking a cool sip.
"Duly noted," Jake nods, "I'll try to remember that for next time." I snort, my cheeks heating with humiliation at the sound. But really, how presumptuous can he be? He smirks slightly, the dimple deepening. "Now, why don't you date?"
"Not going to start with something easier?" I retort, "my favorite color? Or my favorite television show? Maybe my thoughts on foreign policy and whether or not the government is really watching us while we sleep, fulfilling the whole big brother prophecy?"
He chuckles, once, and I find myself enjoying the low breathy sound. "You're sarcastic," he comments, taking a breadstick from the basket and breaking it in half, offering me the larger piece. "I like it, and you, but me liking it, and you, doesn't distract me from the question I just asked. Why don't you date?" I brush my hair away from my face, trying to buy myself some time to think.
"Um," I start, "I recently got out of relationship. It ended badly."
"Let me guess," he sucks in his cheek as he watches me, "he was the one heartbroken at the end."
I bit back a smile. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"
"Yeah, maybe," he shrugs, "but not much of a leap. You're a heartbreaker Olivia Pope," he chews silently, slathering butter on the piece left in his hand. "I can tell."
"And your seven minutes is up." I say, rolling my eyes as the waiter sets a wine bottle down, waiting for my okay to finish pouring before moving on to Jake's glass.
"It would be a shame to let the wine go to waste though," he points out, circling the liquid around his glass, bringing it up to his lips with a pout.
I can feel myself begin to relent, and finally exhale, my shoulders falling as I rake my hands through my hair. "You're right," I acquiesce, taking the glass in my hand, "you should never leave the table when there's good wine." Before he has the chance to stop me, I tilt my head back and down the contents in one gulp. "Now, if you'll excuse me."