The undead romance

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." – Franklin D. Roosevelt

"How on earth did you mess up that date?!" Sara exclaimed, her voice tinged with the kind of exasperation usually reserved for trying to explain tax returns to a cat. It wasn't fair, really. For once, I'd been on my very best behavior. I didn't get angry, didn't start a fight, and—most impressively—didn't bring up the minor detail of my father wanting to kill me. But let's be honest, that's a bit of a date killer. Better to start over.

"Well, he was a really nice guy...," I replied, trying to sound convincing despite the fact that my brain was swimming in alcohol. Yes, I was super, super drunk that day. "He even talked about his first kiss—at a sleepover in fifth grade. It was... super fun!" I added, punctuating the memory with another glass of whatever was closest, downed in one impressive gulp.

"And then?" Matheo leaned in, exasperation practically dripping from his voice.

"Well," I shrugged, studying my empty glass as if it held the secrets of the universe, "I just told him I've never been to a sleepover before and that I've never kissed a guy." There it was, laid bare like a sad little fact no one knew what to do with.

Sara patted me on the shoulder, her voice softening with unexpected sympathy. "Well, he's an absolute git if he ghosted you just because you're a virgin."

"Oh no, we didn't get that far," I said, another hiccup making its appearance. My stomach was starting to do that ominous churn that hinted I might be revisiting my drink in the not-so-distant future.

"He asked me why, you know... and I wouldn't build a relationship on a lie, right? So I told him the truth." I paused for dramatic effect, but neither of them seemed ready for what came next. "I said it was because my parents thought I might burn their house down since I was suspected of burning mine down when I was six, so..."

Matheo and Sara exchanged glances, the kind that suggested they were mentally drafting a whole new category of "Date Disasters" just for me. And that's when I promptly vomited all over Matheo's shirt. Matheo, my best friend, long-suffering and always there to mop up whatever mess I make of my life. Literally, this time.

"Seriously, Anne? Not again!" He groaned, patting my back like I was some sort of malfunctioning vending machine.

"I think everyone in the bar heard you," whispered Sara, my second bestie. (But don't tell her she's second—she's got a real penchant for grudges.)

She leaned in, eyes gleaming with a wicked grin. "If you want to get over that loser I think there's a guy over there who's got his eyes on you," she said, nodding behind me. Sure enough, when I turned around, I locked eyes with a tall, dark, and handsome specimen straight out of a romance novel. Dark hair, neatly tied back, a drink in hand, and those eyes—dear gods, those eyes were drilling right into me.

"Hold my cup," I muttered, getting to my feet.

"What are you planning to do?" Matheo groaned, clearly not up for whatever this was turning into.

"Well, he's obviously a pervert. I'm going to call security." *Hiccup* "Or... maybe I'll throw up on him too, that should do the trick."

"Girl, stop this nonsense. He's just a normal guy," Sara sighed, already regretting bringing this up.

"Listen, Sara," I said, stumbling forward in a lurch. "This isn't a movie. If a tall, fit guy checks you out while you're mid-vomit, he's not in love with you—he's probably deciding if you're drunk enough to kidnap and steal your... blaaa—" And just like that, I decorated his shiny black shoes with the remnants of my dignity.

The guy didn't even flinch. He just tilted his head, staring down at me like I was a particularly fascinating lab experiment.

"Oh gosh, we're so sorry!" Sara rushed forward, steadying me before I could do any more damage.

"No, we are not," I declared, regaining a shred of my lost bravado. "You think you're all mysterious and handsome, huh? Charismatic, dark, and brooding? Nah, I know what you are—you're a... Asshole!" I jabbed a finger at his chest, and to my horror, he grinned.

"Yeah, grin all you want, you bastard. I've read about you in those dark romances. You probably have a gun stashed somewhere and like to shove it up women's A—" My rant was cut short by Sara slapping her hand over my mouth.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. My friend isn't used to drinking. We'll just leave now," she said, shooting daggers at Matheo, who was laughing so hard he was practically crying, he was holding his phone and filming the whole thing.

And the guy? Oh, he just kept grinning like he'd won some cosmic lottery.

"There is no problem," he finally said, his thick Italian accent dripping with amusement.

"Aha! Italian mafia, are you? Well, well... GUARDS! GUARDS! There's an Italian mafia guy who'd love to shove a gun up my—" But Sara was too quick for me, clamping her hand over my mouth again and dragging me out of the pub. Behind us, Mr. Italian Mafia just kept grinning, those perfect white teeth flashing in the dim light.

"I'll remember your face, mister Italian ass! Don't you dare come near my house, or... or I'll call the cops, you hear me?!"

The next morning, I sat there, staring at the video on Matheo's phone with the kind of horror usually reserved for discovering your toast has landed butter-side down on the carpet. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" I shrieked, rolling off Sara's couch in a tangle of blankets and self-loathing. "I'm never going to Danny's pub again. No, scratch that—I'm never even walking down that street again! I wish I was dog poop," I groaned, burying my face in a pillow while Sara laughed herself silly.

"Gotta say, Anne, that was one hell of a performance. Everyone in town now knows exactly what books to buy you for your birthday," she teased, wiping away a tear.

You know those embarrassing moments that keep replaying in your head right before you fall asleep? Well, I had my very own cinematic horror show on loop. It played while I brushed my teeth, it groaned along with me as I got dressed, and it waved cheerily at me every time I walked past a crowded street. Even during my most private moments while I pooped—yes, even then—that damn video haunted me.

I flinched my way through the entire day, and by 3 o'clock, I was ready to hide under a rock. But when I walked into the meeting room, I realized my worst nightmare was about to get a sequel...

"Oh, hello, Miss Anne," said a familiar, thick Italian voice.

Well, well, well... if there's ever a time to say "fuck my life," it's now, but I suspect I might need to save it for later, just in case things get worse—which, knowing my luck, they most certainly will.

"Ah, hello! You're Mr. David, right?" I forced a smile so wide I might've pulled a muscle, extending my hand with the enthusiasm of someone about to meet their executioner. With Josh, my art director, watching this awkward spectacle, I stretched my smile even wider. It probably looked like I had just downed a gallon of bad milk and was about to face the consequences. When David took my hand, it was as if someone had plugged me into the mains—shockingly electric. Get a grip, girl, I mentally chided myself, trying not to visibly short-circuit.

"Do you two know each other?" Josh asked, his curiosity piqued as he watched me try not to spontaneously combust.

"Oh yes, Miss Anne is a very, very old friend of mine," David replied, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat, with the kind of smugness that made me want to disappear into the nearest rabbit hole. A bead of sweat made a daring escape down my forehead. This project was huge—if I messed it up, I'd be out the door faster than you could say "career suicide." And if Josh ever found out what I said to our biggest client... well, let's just say I'd be begging for a merciful death.

"Please, sit down, Miss Anne. You look like you're about to fall over," David said, still grinning that infernal grin. Were his teeth even whiter than usual? Damn, I wished I could get a Hollywood smile like that. I shook my head, trying to focus as I plopped into a chair, trying not to think about how utterly screwed I was.

"Josh has told me so much about you, Mr. David! I'm sure this project will be fantastic. I've arranged the creative direction presentation so we can go through the concepts and decide which one best suits your needs," I said in my most professional tone, all the while cringing internally. For the love of all that's holy, Anne, stop thinking about that thing you said about shoving a gun—nope, not now. Focus.

"Anne is my most talented designer, Mr. David. I specifically chose her to lead this project because of her creativity," Josh chimed in proudly, like a big brother showing off. My cheeks flushed, and I shot David a look that screamed, *Please, for the love of god, don't bring up that incident*.

"Well, I'm glad I chose you for this project. This house is very important to me, you see. It's my ancestor's home, and I want to breathe new life into it," David said, his gaze holding an odd glimmer that made me instinctively picture him as one of those guys who collects human skin as a hobby. Seriously, Anne, you've got to quit those true crime podcasts, I mentally slapped myself, trying to rein in my imagination.

"As I mentioned, this was the house my great grandfather's house, it was built about 400 years ago, and the story of his first love is very dear to me. You might think it's eccentric, but I want the house he built for her to reflect their story. The essence of this new hotel will be turning an old, abandoned house into something alive again."

For the first time, I heard the sincerity in his words, and for reasons beyond my understanding, I got the distinct impression that he wanted ME—only me—to bring this vision to life. Shut up, Anne, I scolded myself, Stop romanticizing every interaction with a guy. I gave myself another mental slap for good measure.

"Well, Mr. David, the story you've shared is more than just a tale—it's a narrative that demands to be reflected in our designs. The way she died from the plague, and how he grieved for her, vowing to find her in her next life, and building this mansion for her on the ruins of the old castle of his ancestors as a beacon for their reunion in another lifetime—it's both tragic and beautiful. As Pablo Neruda once said, 'Love is so short, forgetting is so long.'" I paused, feeling his eyes boring into me, listening intently. I quickly turned back to the screen and launched into the presentation.

"Their story is ancient, tragic yet captivating. Our task is to capture the dichotomy of love—its ability to heal and to shatter. It's perfectly embodied in the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, where he played his music in the darkness of the underworld, trying to bring her back. That's the essence of pain and love."

I dared to look away from the screen and meet his gaze. His eyes were misty, and his fists were clenched.

"I think you've captured it beautifully, Anne. I couldn't have put it better myself."

For a moment, our eyes locked, and I felt an inexplicable urge to reach out to him, to offer some comfort for a pain that seemed as much mine as his. Oh god, Anne, it's just your hormones. Get a grip, I scolded myself again. You're really good at ruining a perfectly good moment...

"That's a fantastic concept, Anne. I think it'll resonate with a lot of people. Just imagine the illustrations and designs we can create, blending darkness and desire—it'll be perfect," Josh said, breaking the tension with his usual enthusiasm. We quickly moved on to discussing prices and the project's scope, but I could still feel David's gaze on me, even when he wasn't looking directly at me. And when we said our goodbyes, it felt like more than just a casual farewell.

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