“Hmmmm,” Vanna giggled. She had only planned to maybe kiss him. But now? She wasn’t so sure. She might already be too emotionally submerged. Too far in. And this is only the first date. Damn those inner resistance battles.
“Just a technicality,” Shane said with a smirk, his tone effortlessly playful.
Matching his playful energy, she reached for the bedpost, gripping it with one hand. Using it as an anchor, she let her body sway, leaning into a slow, teasing swing. The movement only intensified the dull ache stirring inside her, but she couldn’t resist the chance to mess with him.
“Screw you,” she laughed. “Why’d you have to break my glasses?”
“Part of my maaaadddddd plan,” Shane declared, exaggerating the words like a cartoon mad scientist as he settled into the fireside armchair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vanna met Shane by accident, literally. Crowded trains tend to cause a whole host of inter-passenger mishaps, and the Memphis trolley was no exception. The incident unfolded quickly. She dropped her sunglasses. He stepped on them. Crushed ‘em. Accidentally, of course. Later, she’d jokingly called their meeting one another, “introduction teamwork”, but at the moment, all she could do was brush off his repeated apologies with a polite, “It’s okay.”
The exchange stirred quiet amusement among their fellow passengers. She knew Shane was walking the fine line between embarrassment and damage control, while she balanced somewhere between politeness and mild disappointment over her favorite shades.
The truth? Vanna was a mess.
Retail therapy had been the prescription for the day - necessary. Required, in fact. Maybe even doctor’s orders. Her marriage was no longer just on the rocks, but that rock had shattered the hull and reduced the wood to wreckage. Years of watching something slam against the jagged cliffs of disrespect will do that.
“Funny”, she mused to herself. “On the rocks” describes both a marriage and a glass of whiskey. And damn, if whiskey didn’t sound good right now.
She had signed the divorce papers earlier that week, keeping her composure despite her inner turmoil. Not because of him, but because of herself, because of her traditional Asian values. She felt they clashed against her true self. Those values dictated that a person remain in control of their faculties, regardless of inner challenges. No one ever just lashes out. But her heart begged her to be honest, to acknowledge the weight of what she had endured.
Still, a lighthearted conversation about broken sunglasses felt refreshing.
Shane, however, was insistent on replacing them.
“They’re just cheap sunglasses,” she assured him.
“Maybe so, but I broke them,” he countered.
Is this guy hitting on me?, she wondered. Not that she minded. In truth, she could use a little wooing.
As their playful debate continued, Vanna couldn’t help but compare the man standing before her to the one she had recently escaped. The level of disrespect that she’d suffered at the her ex’s hands felt emotionally abusive. Years of it. The result had stripped her down to a fraction of her former self, leaving only a fragile shell. Years of emotional neglect and disrespect had chipped away at her until she barely recognized the woman staring back in the mirror. And with that, she felt justified in twisting whatever attention she received from men under the heading of “wooing”. This was a need for Vanna. A need to feel like she was wanted. Wanted in the manner that she’d felt prior to meeting the ex. Wanted in a way she hadn’t felt in far too long.
But, crossing that threshold to another man would not be easy. Nearly everything within her spoke ill of such a shift: her religion, her traditions, her family, her culture. But her sense of self spoke louder. That inner lioness roared, FOUL. She would no longer tolerate his indiscretions, his neglect, and as repeatedly stated, his disrespect. Vanna had made her decision. She would move forward, no matter the cost, wading through the uncertain waters of transition, no matter how cold or deep. She had no roadmap, no clear path back to her old self, nor any idea who the new Vanna might become.
But she knew this much. The memories of her ex, the good times, were just that. Memories. They were no longer foundational stones that she could stand on. The storms of change had torn through leaving nothing but emotional rubble. And staying there? Not an option. Yet, as she looked at the man before her, warmth flickered to life. Was it Shane’s easy persistence? His sense of fun? His subtle, skillful persuasion? None of it mattered.
For the first time in a long time, she felt a little wooed. Whether she had projected the idea or not, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. Whether he meant to create the feeling or not, or whether she showed the feeling or not, was irrelevant. The feeling of being a little special was there for Vanna. And that feeling - that fleeting, an intoxicating reminder of what it was like to be desired, was what convinced her to disembark from the trolley with him at Beale Street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stepping off the trolley with Shane didn’t just feel right, but also needed to happen. The lingering stares from the sunglasses dispute had grown mildly exhausting. Vanna knew that small emotional drains, if left unchecked, could add up quickly. And, she wasn’t about to let a silly accident and some judgmental glances from strangers chip away at the restorative peace she had built over a day of retail therapy.
She inhaled deeply, letting the warm, humid Memphis air settle over her like a weighted blanket. The air seemed laced with a calming agent. Her tension continued to ease with every foot the trolly gained away from her. The sun’s warmth contributed to the soothing effect, melting away the last traces of stress.
Finally, she looked up at Shane and for the first time was able to truly gather a decent gaze at him. Three words rushed into her mind: dashing, kind, and tall.
Dashing. Even in casual clothes, he was effortlessly put together, embodying the very essence of a Southern gentleman.
Kind. She winced at the simplicity of the word but relaxed when she realized how undeniably comfortable she felt around him.
Tall. Well, that was just plain obvious.
Vanna snickered. She had to tilt her head all the way back just to meet his gaze, the angle so extreme that the sunlight blinded her. She was unable to make out his full features as the sun glossed her eyes. She squinted, then chuckled. Vanna needed her sunglasses.
Shane held open the entrance door to a converted 1880s Victorian home, now an upscale eyewear boutique. Standing in the foyer, he motioned toward the displays with an easy confidence. “Please… choose.”
Vanna hesitated, eyeing him with an amused grin. Small gestures of respect like this were already starting to pile up, drop by drop, into a cup of appreciation. Something about his presence, his energy, felt soothing.
Sensing her reluctance, Shane strolled deeper into the shop and announced casually, “Hell, maybe I’ll find a pair for myself, too.”
Vanna’s grin twisted into a playful smirk. Without a word, she followed him inside, her gaze never leaving his.
Shane drifted off, giving Vanna her space. They each settled into their respective browsing areas, moving independently yet aware of the other’s presence. Every so often, their gazes would meet in passing, quick glances, subtle observations.
The boutique had become a chessboard of sorts. When one moved, the other countered, their steps unfolding like a quiet, unspoken game. Shane slid his king’s bishop toward the Ray-Ban case. Vanna nudged her queen’s knight toward Oakley. Was this flirting? Vanna wasn’t sure, but the thought made her stomach flutter.
Vanna then caught Shane’s eye glancing at her left hand. His checking for an empty ring finger, sent a small thrill through her. And in return, she found herself unable to stop admiring the way his wavy hair fell effortlessly into place. There was a playful elegance to all of this, something straight out of a spy novel. James Bond, perhaps. And she, of course, The Bond girl.
Vanna leaned over a display case, eyeing a sleek pair of aviators. She squinted at the price tag.
A store associate approached. “May I help you?”
“Could I see those?” she asked, pointing.
He carefully flipped the sunglasses in his hand, revealing a bold engraving: CARTIER. Then, the price. $1,035.00. A sharp pang of embarrassment struck. Without missing a beat, she quickly waved it off.
“No, no - actually, the ones next to those.”
The associate smoothly adjusted. “I apologize, ma’am.”
From the corner of her eye, Vanna caught Shane watching. The corners of his mouth pulled into a teasing smirk before he turned away, feigning interest in another display case. Pawn to Polo.
Though neither player achieved checkmate, Vanna ultimately settled on a modest pair, one that would not induce guilt when they inevitably met their demise. Shane chose a set as well, then quietly handled the payment.
She watched as he addressed the store associate by name, layering in polite “Sirs” and “Thank yous” with natural ease. All while thinking, Politeness is sexy.
But beneath his Southern gentleman charm, there was something else, something intangible. A quiet appealing strength. Ancient. Rooted. Her subconscious stirred. I kinda wanna see that.
Out on the sidewalk, Vanna’s endless stream of “thank you’s” were met with Shane’s easy “you’re welcome’s” and “no problem’s.” In truth, she was stalling, throwing out desperate conversational lifelines to delay the inevitable moment of parting. She stood there, silently willing Shane to ask for her number. Maybe an email. Anything. Please, God, anything.
Hell, if he really went for it, she might even kiss him goodbye - a light peck, she noted to herself. If he went for it.
At her core, she was making a quiet, unspoken plea: stay. And she had a feeling he might be doing the same. Shane fumbled through a casual suggestion, “Lunch?”.
Vanna accepted without hesitation. No objections. No deliberation. Motion granted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lunch was fleeting, yet it fed her in ways far beyond the meal. Vanna caught herself staring at Shane, probably too often. She scolded herself internally, second-guessing every word. Am I talking too much? Was that TMI? Yet, she couldn’t deny how much fun she was having. She felt light, almost girlish, swept up in something she hadn’t let herself feel in years. The butterflies were a dead giveaway. Yep. I like him.
The way Shane affected her wasn’t just about attraction, but was more the way in which he carried himself. Calm, yet commanding. Effortless. She found herself wondering if he was the male equivalent of what so many men claimed they wanted in a woman: A lady in public, a whore in the bedroom. Is that what I want from him? The thought sent a quiet thrill through her. More surprising was the realization that she wanted to be that for him. She had simply never given herself permission before. But now? The idea felt… right. Intimate, in a way she had never allowed herself to explore.
Somewhere between teasing glances and easy conversation, Vanna learned more about Shane’s heritage. She had been correct, he was the rarely unearthed true Southern Gentlemen, one who authenticated words like honor and truth. The kind who didn’t just say the words, but lived them. The declaration of these ideals wooed her even further, leaving Vanna struggling to conceal the goosebumps rising along her arms.
She shared her story, too. Newly divorced. Grew up in Cambodia. Witnessed war tragedies she’d rather forget. Vanna had long suspected that this was why she gravitated toward men who made her feel protected. “Call ’em daddy issues if you want,” she told Shane, then added, “probably what initially attracted me to my ex.” But as she explained, he had been nothing more than an imposter of those ideals she held dear.
For the first time, she dared to say it out loud, she was struggling to move on. Not because of him. But, because of the promises she had made. She had built her life on the principles of honor, loyalty, and duty, and now she was forcing herself to accept that letting go of her marriage did not mean letting go of those values.
Shane listened patiently, offering quiet reassurances. “In your own time,” he told her. “You’ll make the moves you need to.”
Almost as an afterthought, Vanna admitted, “This is actually my first date since the divorce.”
Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “This is a date?”
Vanna shot him a questioning stare, one brow arched. A slow, teasing smirk spread across his face. “This isn’t a date.” His voice dipped lower. “I’ll show you a date.” His grin. His gaze. The way he looked at her, like mischief and adventure and a whole lot of trouble were waiting just behind his next move.
Heat flared between her thighs. Without breaking eye contact, she grabbed the lunch receipt, scrawled her number across the back, and slid it toward him with quiet, unspoken intent. The confidence of an enchantress. The challenge of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Walking home was impossible. Vanna floated. Butterflies lifted her with every step, the weight of her shopping bags reduced to mere ounces. Passing a well-known BBQ joint, she laughed at the bold slogan plastered across its window: “Put some South in your mouth.”
Her inner voice howled a comical, “HELL YEAH.” And just like that, a fantasy took hold, something that had not happened in years. She pictured herself in heels and a short skirt, straddling Shane’s upper torso. His arms and legs pinned to the bed by hers, comfortably restrained. The sight of her glory so close yet just out of reach, taunting him, teasing him, until his need to taste her consumed him entirely.
She imagined looking down, locking eyes with him, those ocean-blue depths framed between her thighs. Watching his lips make out with hers until her body arched in surrender. The image sent a slow, curling heat through her. Then, just as suddenly, a wave of hesitation crashed over her.
Doubt was biologically ingrained in Vanna, a silent inheritance she had spent her life carrying. Frustration flared. She resented how her Asian heritage had always chained her to ideals that refused to account for the injustices she had endured. But then, a realization surfaced, kicking its way to the top of her consciousness. That realization surfaced, took a deep breath, and whispered her truth, “You are not just Asian. You are an American woman. Reinvent yourself.” The words felt like a key turning inside her. A weight lifted. For years, she had vowed to release the parts of her upbringing that held her back. And now? A major block had just cracked.
There would still be remnants, echoes of old fears, but she had made herself a promise, and she vowed to keep it. Vanna let out a breath, then smirked. “Yep. I’m American. Hell, I might even be a Southerner.” The mix of raw desire and newfound freedom propelled her to pull out her phone. She typed a simple message: “Thank you for lunch…and the glasses.”
Innocent enough. But the second she hit send, her pulse quickened. She found herself glancing at her phone again and again, waiting for the screen to light up. The moment she walked through her front door, a PING rang out. She snatched up the phone.
Shane: “Requiring dinner with you tomorrow night.”
She smiled. Traditional Southern gentlemen walk that line between respect and a commanding presence better than most. A thrill ran through her, hot and electric, followed by twenty four hours of anticipation. She surrendered to it, thinking, Hell, I might even kiss him.
Vanna sat up and tipped her shopping bags over, spilling the spoils of her retail therapy onto the ottoman. Amid the pile of fabric and receipts, one unmistakable jewel stood out, a finely clothed sunglasses case. The lettering gleamed back at her.
CARTIER
Her stomach flipped. She leaned back against the couch, a little dizzy from the realization. “Daaaaamn.” She exhaled, shaking her head, “He’s good. He’s REALLY good.”