Ditching The Dream (Dream Series) by Isabelle Peterson

neck were standing on end, and it wasn’t because of the haircut. Was I being chased down the streets of Manhattan by a mugger? Or a rapist? Oh god! I was thinking I had it all together and here I was about to get mugged, or worse!
    I was practically running, my heart pounding in my ears, palms sweaty. I was trying desperately to recall the self-defense lessons I had taken with Phoebe before she left for college, when a hand came down on my shoulder. I screamed loudly. Pivoting, keeping my head down, I raised a foot and stomped with all my might on the foot of my attacker.
    “Shit!” he said and leapt off of his now injured foot. And it was then that I noticed his extremely polished and expensive looking leather shoes. At the bottom of perfectly pressed trousers. A fancy dressed attacker? I peered up to see a wincing ‘Jackass-Jack.’
    “Ohmigod! Jack! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean – I didn’t know – I – I –” There I was, stammering like a fool.
    “That’s okay, Beth. I’ve got another foot. Not sure the Pradas can say the same.”
    “You wear Prada shoes?” I don’t know why that stunned me, but it did, and suddenly I was laughing. Knowing the ranch where Jack came from and that now he was wearing Prada shoes was an image that sent me into giggle fits.
    “You find Prada amusing?” he asked with narrowed eyes and a small smile on his face.
    “No… yes… Well, yes. I do. I just think of Prada as being for women, I guess. I’m sorry.”
    “Well, you know what this means, don’t you?”
    “No,” I said, afraid of his answer. I couldn’t afford a pair of Prada shoes on my tips. I was still uncertain I would be able to pay for rent.
    “You owe me a date,” he said quite matter-of-factly.
    “Ah, but I’m married, Jack. So, we’ll have to find another manner of compensation for the scuff I’ve left on your shoes,” I said, still giggling that Jack Stevens’, from a poor ranching family in rural Colorado, was wearing Prada.
    “Nope. No other way.”
    Suddenly I was curious as to why Jack was following me. He’d left the bar a good ten minutes before I had.
    “Wait. Why were you following me?” I accused with narrowed eyes of my own.
    “Well, I wasn’t really following you.”
    “You were walking behind me, but you left before I did.”
    “True, but I had actually turned back to Ed Scott’s because I was going to ask you out on a date. Now you owe me one. So, this all kind of worked out.”
    “Well, I’m not so sure…”
    “How about this. Drinks now, or dinner another night.”
    “Jack, I –”
    “Would love drinks now? Terrific,” he inserted, effectively cutting me off.
    “Oh, no, it can’t be now, I –”
    “Dinner then. Excellent I know a –”
    “Stop that!” I took the opportunity to interrupt him. I got the feeling from the look on his face that he was not often cut off. I continued, “Drinks – friendly drinks – would be nice, but right now I smell like steak and beer. I would love dinner, but a friendly dinner. I am a married woman, remember,” I explained, again waving my rings on my left hand at him.
    “Okay, drinks – friendly drinks – and I think that the steak and beer only make you smell more delicious. If you’d rather not go to a public bar, come to my home. I live nearby.”
    “Right,” I retorted, tilting my head and landing my hand on my hip, disbelieving.
    “Seriously. A townhouse in the Murray Hill area,” he said holding a hand out to flag down a passing cab.
    “I shouldn’t,” I protested as a cab stopped at the curb. “And if it’s so close, why do we need a cab?”
    “Well, for starters, I have a bruised toe. And secondly, it’s late. One can never be too careful on the streets of New York.”
    I considered the fright I had been delivered earlier.
    “And you owe me, Beth, remember?” he continued.
    “You’re practically a stranger,” I added as Jack opened the cab door and held a hand out for me.
    “No, I know