The Last Date: An older man younger woman romance novel Read online

  The Last Date

  (An older man, younger woman romance novel)

  By Haley Travis

  Copyright 2020 Haley Travis. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted or duplicated in any form whatsoever without express written permission of the author. This book is intended for sale to adults only. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people or specific locations or details is completely coincidental, or intended fictitiously. All characters are over 18, no sex partners are related, all sex is consensual.

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  ***

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Sasha's Journal

  Chapter One ~ Sasha

  Chapter Two ~ Oakley

  Chapter Three ~ Sasha

  Chapter Four ~ Oakley

  Chapter Five ~ Sasha

  Chapter Six ~ Oakley

  Chapter Seven ~ Sasha

  Chapter Eight ~ Oakley

  Chapter Nine ~ Sasha

  Chapter Ten ~ Oakley

  Chapter Eleven ~ Sasha

  Chapter Twelve ~ Oakley

  Chapter Thirteen ~ Sasha

  Chapter Fourteen ~ Oakley

  Chapter Fifteen ~ Sasha

  Chapter Sixteen ~ Oakley

  Chapter Seventeen ~ Sasha

  Chapter Eighteen ~ Oakley

  Chapter Nineteen ~ Sasha

  Chapter Twenty ~ Oakley

  Chapter Twenty-One ~ Sasha

  Chapter Twenty-Two ~ Oakley

  Chapter Twenty-Three ~ Sasha

  Chapter Twenty-Four ~ Oakley

  Chapter Twenty-Five ~ Sasha

  Chapter Twenty-Six ~ Oakley

  Chapter Twenty-Seven ~ Sasha

  Chapter Twenty-Eight ~ Oakley

  Epilogue ~ Oakley

  Other Stories and About the Author

  Sasha’s Journal

  Date #1

  Jeff Aston. Stockbroker.

  He seemed delighted that our mothers set us up, as if this sort of parental pressure is natural. That struck me as weird right off the top. He was really into the food, and seemed thankful for an excuse to take me to such a fancy restaurant. He wouldn’t stop talking about how exclusive it was, and how impressed I should be to be seen there. Very strange. Speaking with him was uncomfortable. The food was amazing, but the tea was bad. How do you screw up tea?

  Date #18

  Terrence Jones. Stockbroker.

  He was half an hour late, and his breath smelled of licorice. Strange. Good taste in movies, but really handsy from the start. No.

  Date #22

  Maurice Johnson. Fitness Instructor, sorry, “Health Guru”

  He didn’t want me to eat meat in front of him. A bit odd, but whatever. But he wouldn’t let me order the salad I wanted because there was a bit of honey in the dressing. I thought that bees enjoyed the honey making process. Honestly, I was just starving by that point. He informed me that jogging on sidewalks wasn’t exercising, it was “knee murder” and I needed to spend time in the forest. He needs to spend the rest of his time far away from me. He would obviously starve if it weren’t for his parents’ money.

  Date #31

  Wyatt Brown. Yet another Stockbroker.

  He was so pushy that I actually had to raise my voice to make him listen that I didn’t want more than one glass of wine. I never raise my voice. How can I tell my mother that her friend’s son is a total douchebag? Just, no.

  Date #39

  Jim Smith. Medical Researcher.

  He was really nice! Such a refreshing change, and for three straight minutes, I wondered if I’d be thanking my mother later for setting me up this time. Then he started talking about going to France next month, for at least a year. After that, maybe England. He’s following the latest research of some peptide chain that I didn’t understand. I wish him well, wherever he ends up, but I’m not going to date someone if they’re leaving the country so soon. Doesn’t feel right.

  Date #52

  Kevin Hawkins. Some sort of programmer.

  He mumbled and couldn’t look me in the eye. I felt sorry for him. Encouraging him to tell me about the latest books he had read may have been an error. He went off on a tangent about sci-fi versus fantasy that I couldn’t begin to understand. He seemed upset that I wasn’t following, because I hadn’t read a particular series. He was so bland looking I couldn’t even remember his face twenty minutes after he dropped me off. At least he was fairly polite. He wasn’t for me, but might be likable if he relaxed a bit.

  Date #57

  Brad McHolm. Car Salesman.

  Wow, this dude is into cars. It’s fine to be a little obsessed over what you love, but this guy barely wanted to talk about anything else. Sorry, but I’m not thrilled by the newer, better exhaust system in some European car I’ve never heard of. I was tempted to launch into a tirade about the latest technology in fine oil paints, brushes, and canvas. Don’t other people’s mothers teach them manners?

  Date #62

  Carl Stevens. Bank Manager.

  Aggressive, rude to the server, and didn’t listen to a word I said. He clearly didn’t want to be there either.

  Date #65

  Damian Anderson. Mutual Fund Researcher or supervisor or something.

  Polite, but boring. We had a lively discussion about a few movies, but that only lasted ten minutes out of the whole date. There was absolutely no spark. How long are these stupid dates going to go on?

  Date #66

  Jason McNiece. Computer programmer.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * Sasha *

  As soon as I wrote it down, I felt that somehow number sixty-six was a bad sign.

  Sixty-six dates, all arranged by my mother. My ceaseless begging enabled me to take a few weeks off from it around the holidays, when people were busy, and I didn’t want any desperation dates. And August we went away to my grandmother’s cottage for two weeks, so that gave me a break.

  “A few weeks off.” “A break.” Makes it sound like a job.

  Tapping my pencil against the notebook, I stared out the second-story window of my bedroom, watching the gardener drive in concentric squares as he mowed the enormous lawn just past the pool.

  He was doing the same thing he did every single week. Wow, I could relate.

  Each Wednesday Mom informed me that yet another woman from one of her social groups had a son or nephew or intern who was “just perfect for me”.

  That was mother-code for “a man that she and my dad would probably approve of.”

  I honestly had no idea why my mother put on airs, when she had never truly done anything remarkable with her life. She worked on endless charity functions, but sending some emails, making phone calls, and choosing what shade of pink the flowers should be wasn’t precisely actual work in my books.

  It certainly wasn’t my place to judge. She did enough judging for the both of us, anyway. It didn’t matter if it was hard or easy work, or how productive someone was. It was all about it being the “right” work in her eyes. Something elite. Elevated.

  She was always booked with appointments, but had very little to show for it. Book clubs, art clubs, charity planning boards of directors, and her Thursday night wine tasting group. She knew so many people that it was exhausting just thinking about it.

  My father, on the other hand, was the president of a bank, but also ran a couple of businesses on the side, all related to investing. In his
eyes, being wealthy wasn’t enough. A man should want to build an empire, so that he had a great legacy to leave behind.

  I was much more like my father, minus the empire-building part. A bit of a quiet introvert who preferred to keep their own company most of the time.

  But now that I was twenty-one, Mom had it stuck in her head that I had to begin dating seriously. In her eyes, I should have a few short relationships before I became engaged in my mid-twenties.

  I honestly had no idea whether she picked these numbers out of thin air, or had some system devised from all of the women she chatted with every day.

  No matter where she got the idea, she was forcing it on me.

  As I stared out at the unusually perfect lawn, I didn’t know whether to hope that tonight’s date would be just as awful as the rest so I knew what to expect, or hope that it might be somewhat pleasant.

  If the men that mother set me up with were nice, I could find a way to have a good time. But for every date that was adequate, there were four that were pretty horrible, each in its own way.

  Arrogant, pushy, obscenely cocky, showoffs, for the most part. Then of course there were the ones that were so shy they could barely speak to me above a whisper. I’m fairly shy too, but I can at least force myself to carry a bit of conversation. Years of being forced to attend fundraisers with my parents had made small talk a lot easier.

  There was always the possibility that it was partly my fault, that these men were picking up on my vibe of not wanting to be there. I couldn’t help wishing that I could go to a social event and simply meet a bunch of people to see who I liked.

  Mother insisted that because of our “standing” I had to date men from “a certain type of family.” She’s never explained that to me in detail. It’s obvious that she meant wealthy people who were well known. But that in itself was just unnerving.

  I’ve never cared about money. As long as a man has enough to take care of his life, that’s good enough. I can take care of myself. Being dependent on a man doesn’t strike me as a good idea.

  Of course, it’s easy to tell myself that while sitting in my enormous bedroom in my parent’s giant, lavish house. Maybe it doesn’t really mean anything.

  My fancy pink bedroom fortress had become more purple, blue and gray over the years, but it was still my own tiny corner of the universe. Lying across the bed that was truly big enough for three of me, the soft purple duvet was so cosy that I didn’t want to leave for this date. Curling up with some great music and a book would be a much mellower way to spend a Saturday night.

  Looking down at my notebook, I reread the entry. Jason McNiece. Computer programmer.

  Mom had mentioned that he was thirty-two. It was interesting that she was out of men in their twenties to fix me up with, and had started moving upward. Since my father is eight years older than she is, maybe she assumed I’d be fine with that.

  If I were in charge of my own dating life, I’d actually prefer a man in his forties. Someone stable, who knew what they wanted out of life. Someone who was past the phase of doing endless tequila shots to show off, and going to lame clubs just to be seen there.

  Slipping my notebook into the drawer of my desk, I jumped up to get ready. I was being taken to yet another Italian restaurant, according to the brief text Jason sent earlier today.

  Pulling on a simple peach dress, I had my hair and makeup done in under fifteen minutes.

  When I was first coerced into this dating marathon, I would spend an hour getting ready, just in case he was the one. My routine became more streamlined, but I also just couldn’t put my heart into it. There just didn’t seem any point anymore.

  Grabbing my purse, I slipped on a pair of kitten heels and went downstairs. Stilettos were third date shoes, and no one has deserved the foot pain so far.

  “Darling, you look lovely,” my mother gushed as I walked into the living room. “Won’t your date be here at any moment?”

  “Yes, apparently,” I said flatly.

  “Get back upstairs then, so that I can sweep him into the foyer and you can make a grand entrance.”

  “Please, Mom, let it go,” I sighed. “This is the sixty-sixth date that you’ve set up for me. I just don’t have the energy anymore.”

  She sat up straighter on the cream brocade couch which happened to nearly match her blazer, pursing her lips. “There’s no way it’s been that many,” she said, shaking her head carefully so that her perfect updo didn’t release a single hair. “Thirty, maybe.”

  “I’ve been taking notes of every single date. Tonight is number sixty-six.”

  Her expression was interesting. I’d never seen my mother look genuinely perplexed.

  “Also, not a single one has been my type,” I added.

  Her perfect manicure fluttered in front of her as she fanned herself dramatically at the very thought that I might have a preferred type of man. “What’s your type, then, Sasha?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a social gathering where I’m allowed to just talk to different kinds of guys,” I said, unable to keep the exasperation from my voice.

  “That’s for your own safety,” she snapped. “Imagine, a girl like you being seen with someone we didn’t approve of.”

  “Perhaps I could take a bit of a break,” I said slowly. “Maybe if I took a month or two away from dating, I could start again with a fresher energy.”

  I mentally crossed my fingers. Mom was always into makeovers and glow ups and anything that involved refreshing one’s look or outlook.

  “I suppose that’s a possibility,” she said slowly. “But I do have a positively darling young man set up for you next week.”

  Instead of actually rolling my eyes, I simply stared at the ceiling and counted to three.

  “That is, of course, if tonight’s date doesn’t work out. Which I’m sure it will,” she said quickly, switching into her enthusiastic mode.

  “Cecilia has told me so much about Jason. You’re just going to adore him. I swear.”

  “I’m going to swear if I have to get through another freaking date,” I mumbled.

  “What was that, dear?”

  “I said, I think I hear his car in the driveway.”

  “Go hide in the kitchen,” she said, “Let me invite him in.”

  “No, please,” I said, holding up my hands. “Just let me get this over with.”

  “Bright smile, Sasha,” she said, waving her hand like a supermodel showing off her freshly polished teeth. “The happier you look, the happier he will be to see you.”

  “Thank you, Mom,” I said, managing to hold myself together long enough to get to the hall closet and grab my wrap.

  I opened the door just as someone was starting to tap the knocker. He stepped back as soon as it was pulled from his hand.

  “Hello,” he said, thankfully looking me in the eyes instead of the breasts. We were off to a good start. “Jason McNiece here to see Sasha.”

  “That’s me,” I said, holding out my hand to shake his.

  I did appreciate that he shook my hand like a real person, not a delicate little girl. I also appreciated that he was sort of handsome, with light brown eyes and dark brown hair, and just enough of a tan that said he went outside on weekends, not to a spray booth. His suit pants paired with a more casual button-down shirt was date-appropriate without trying too hard.

  So far, he was off to a surprisingly promising start.

  “Am I expected to meet your mother before we leave?” he asked in a low voice.

  “No, let’s go. As fast as possible.”

  “Gotcha,” he grinned, lightly taking my elbow as he guided me to his car. It was obviously very expensive, but not nearly as flashy as some that I’d been subjected to.

  After he held my door and got in himself, he pulled away quickly. “My mom wanted me to take the Jag to impress you, but I didn’t know if you were into cars, and this one drives better.”

  I actually laughed, surprising both of us. “I appre
ciate your honesty,” I said. “Listen, can we just be totally upfront about this?”

  “How do you mean?”

  He drove around a corner at a reasonable speed, and stopped to allow a neighbor to back out of their driveway without having a fit. More good points.

  “Well,” I began, “We’re going out so that our mothers can feel like they’re being good parents, right?”

  “Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Thank you for saying it out loud.”

  “So let’s have dinner, and we’ll click or we won’t, but can we relax about it?”

  “Absolutely.” Jason chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly. “You won’t believe how many of these things I’ve been forced to go on.”

  “Try me.”

  “At least twenty-five.”

  “This is date number sixty-six that has been set up by my dear mother.”

  Thankfully we were at a red light as he turned to stare at me. “Sweet Jesus. You poor thing.”