It is ridiculous. She is ridiculous. She is waiting at the bus stop they've agreed on, ten minutes early because she wants to be able to wager whether or not the stranger is a serial killer from a distance. The street aside from her is completely desolate and it makes her wish the local coffee shop was open today, or that they could've found at least somewhere in the small town that is occupied to meet. She tugs nervously at the hem of her cheery red sweater and hopes that even if he is a serial killer, he is at least presentable and waits till after supper to kill her.

She cannot show up to another holiday dinner single.

It has been three years since him, and her well-meaning mother has been asking about her dating life every time they have been together since.

She doesn't have the heart to tell her that she just isn't like her parents, that she just isn't meant for the honest, true relationship that they've developed through the years. She prefers one night stands and no ties to hold her. She prefers not giving someone enough of her to break her. She prefers being alone.

She has learned all of this the hard way.

But she can't take another night of pity.

xxxx

When she'd seen the ad on craigslist, she laughed as she wrote down the number.

Tossing and turning in bed that same night, she gave in and reached for her bedside table and found the note and her phone.

She was an idiot.

She calls anyway.

"Hullo?" A groggy voice dripping with sleep picked up on the other end, and Emma inhaled sharply, glancing at the clock.

It was 2 am.

Damnit.

"Oh my God, it's 2 in the morning," she replied, horrified, at the same moment a very sexy groan came from the other end of the line. "Oh, you're… I—"

There was awkward silence a moment in which the horror and embarrassment Emma felt only grew.

"Oh, Gods no. I was only stretching."

The voice carried a dangerously melodic lilt, and was still heavy with sleep.

"What can I, er, do for you?"

This was so ridiculously stupid.

"This is so embarrassing. I should've looked at the goddamn clock… I just… saw your ad?"

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, mentally berating herself for going through with this. She knew better than to make big decisions at night-there was not one she had made that she had not regretted in the morning.

So much for shutting her prying family up.

"Ah, a dinner date then?"

She could swear she heard a smirk in his tone.

"If you're going to laugh at me, I can find someone else," she hissed, feeling her cheeks go red. This man's voice was extremely attractive and she absolutely hated that she did not want to make a bad impression on the man.

"Oi, no, not laughing, feisty," he answered, and she certainly heard him chuckle now, "You're quite bloody demanding for calling me a 2 in the morning."

She leaned back into her pillows, taking a deep calming breath and opening her eyes to stare at the childish stars that still painted her ceiling. He'd helped her put them up. Bought them one day on a whim and told her that they were going back to her place, that he wanted to put the universe on her ceiling.

What he wanted wasto get in her pants. He found her stepladder and put up two stars before things escalated. She had finished putting them up that night alone after he'd spouted some excuse of why he couldn't stay. There had always been some excuse.

"Still there, 2 AM?" He asked then, dragging her back to the moment.

Dragging her back to calling some self-declared felon desperate enough to place an ad for dates.

She was desperate too.

"Yes, Killian right? I need a date for Thanksgiving dinner."

xxxx

He is hot. She'd printed off the photo included with the damn ad as an afterthought before leaving the house, frenzied and more than a little convinced she was walking into some form of a trap. Men that look like him don't place ads for dates on craigslist.

Hell, men like him don't place ads for dates.

It occurs to her that studying his picture when he turns up likely isn't going to make a great first impression and she crumbles it into her purse as she glances at the watch on her wrist. It's the type that looks fancy but is made of cheap plastic and paint that starts chipping as soon as you put it on, and when it proudly displays that it is 8AM she lets out a groan. It is absolutely useless.

Suddenly out of the chilly silence of the afternoon, she hears the healthy roar of an antiquated engine. It is distant but certainly coming closer and she finds herself reaching for the print of the page again, squinting again through the words she already knows by heart.

29 years old, no college degree. Very talented liar. Will platonically accompany person in need to family or friend gatherings and pose as dedicated boyfriend to ward off those nagging aunts and uncles. In exchange, I ask only for a filling meal and perhaps a tale or two. I am a starving artist who works a bar to pay his bills (and does have a criminal record in petty crime)—but I am overall a rather charming fellow. Please call with requests (preferably not at 2AM).

She cannot help but roll her eyes at the final line. It's been added since her night of bad judgment and she knows it is meant for her. She hopes it is meant only for her and tries not to think of him discussing the lunatic girl who called him in the wee hours of the night with his laughing friends.

God, she does not want to go through with this.

She squints down the road anyway, in the direction the engine is growing from and finally sees the red car definitely speeding towards her. She clutches the crumpled piece of paper nearer to her as she watches.

"I drive a red 1970 Monte Carlo. Real beauty, she is. Look for her, tomorrow. Can't have some other bloke picking you up for nefarious purposes."

"And your purposes aren't… nefarious?"

He'd laughed at her and hadn't answered.

The car slows as it approaches her and while she has no knowledge of cars whatsoever, she knows it is him. He kills the engine at the bus stop (which she is certain is incredibly illegal), and is out of the car before she can peer in the window at him.

"I don't think you can park here," she says, voice edging on annoyed because he already seems like an asshole, and if the first guy she 'dates' after this long time is a jerk, the aftermath with her mother will only be worse.

When she sees him, her suspicions are tragically confirmed.

He is beautiful and carries himself like he knows it. He is all mussed black hair and scruff, sauntering towards her with a lazy sideways smirk that irritatingly makes her insides turn. She's beginning to think this is all some big joke that is going to make her late to her parent's dinner.

"2 AM?" He's reached her now and crooks a dark brow as he very clearly takes her in, head to toe and everything in between. His accent seems even stronger in person, playing crookedly off his tongue and dancing between them. "I'm afraid you never did tell me your name."

She watches him with narrowed eyes. She is not in the business of being wooed by good looks and tousled hair. She knows where wooing leads and she is no longer a wide eyed little girl.

"What are you getting out of this?" She asks, and interrupts as he opens his mouth, "And don't you dare spew that 'tale' shit, because I'm not buying it."

She's mostly broke and it's a dangerous gamble, seeing as she very literally isn't buying anything.

The smirk softens on his face, and he offers her a careful shrug of the shoulders that she certainly hasn't noticed are extremely well-trimmed.

"Anything else would be a lie, love."

Very talented liar.

She is a very talented polygraph machine and his lines do not so much as flicker.

He smiles again, wider, and her heart thuds.

"Have I earned your name yet then, darling?" He asks brightly. She rolls her eyes but her only thought is that something about him feels startlingly trustworthy.

The notion frightens her but she allows herself to be lulled into it anyway.

She knows better than to let anything go too far.

"It's Emma."

Again his smile becomes something gentler and he studies her face with a strange sadness in his eyes that is gone as quickly as she sees it.

"Well, Emma," he winks, and it actually complements his good looks rather than cheapens them, "I do hope your Thanksgiving includes alcohol?"

She cannot help but snort at his hopeful expression that leaks obviously into his tone.

"Is there such thing as Thanksgiving without at least three drunk uncles and a small civil war?"

He reaches for the passenger side door of his car, grinning and watching her all the way.

"I am already rather fond of you, 2 AM Emma. Shall we discuss the details of our relationship on the drive over? If I recall, your parents supper starts—" He glances at his own watch, which seems at least as old as his car. "Five minutes ago."

"Shit."

It is as she brushes hurriedly past him to slip into the seat he's offered to her that she notices his eyes—too blue and bright and in tune—and she swallows heavily as she looks away and falls heavily into the worn leather of the car.

She is in so much trouble.