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“He’s lovely, I promise,” Rose’s voice echoes from the speaker as Shane tugs on his navy suit jacket and then picks up his phone, placing it on the counter and stepping back so she can see his outfit. “And you look so good! I think no tie is a good idea,” she adds before he can ask. “You’re not going anywhere too fancy, right?”
“He suggested this new place downtown,” Shane agrees, “It looks nice, but not too formal.”
“Okay, perfect,” Rose nods, smiling brightly at him from his phone screen. “I know you don’t like the idea of blind dates, Shane, but I promise if you hate this one I’ll never suggest it again, okay?”
“I am gonna hold you to that,” he teases, and they chat for a few minutes more until he gets the notification that his car’s five minutes away. He hangs up, pulls on his shoes and checks his hair one last time before making his way downstairs.
The restaurant is busy but not packed, and the host smiles in greeting and gestures towards the bar where he can wait for his date. He thanks them, orders a ginger ale and perches on one of the stools, tries to tamp down the nerves as he scans the room and entrance in search of his date.
He knows nothing about his date other than Nick is a successful accountant for a big firm, is not Canadian (and his accent is so pretty, Shane, seriously), and will be in an all-black suit.
Shane checks his phone, but he’s had no messages and Nick’s already five minutes late. Shane pushes down the flutter of irritation; maybe he’d just got stuck in traffic, or hadn’t been able to find somewhere to park, or something. As Rose had arranged this for them he’s not had Nick’s number - and she’d promised not to hand Shane’s over unless he likes the man after their date - but a five minute delay isn’t enough to text her over so he sighs and puts his phone away instead.
Another ten minutes later and he’s finished his ginger ale and is feeling decidedly embarrassed. He must have been stood up, right? If Nick was running this late then surely he’d have told Rose who’d’ve called Shane.
He can see the bartender glance over at him and purposely holds onto his glass for a minute longer, wanting a quiet moment when no-one is looking at him to gather his courage.
At twenty-five past he’s ready to give up and starts to lift his hand to request the bill, but just as he does he spots a man in an all-black suit speaking intently to the host, even as eyes quickly scan the bar where Shane sits. They land on him, scan his suit briefly and relief passes over his face as he lifts a hand.
Shane lifts it back in return, a little dumbstruck. This is Nick? He’s fucking gorgeous.
Powerful thighs straining against well-tailored slacks stride towards him, broad shoulders Shane wants to wrap his arms around outlined to perfection in the black jacket over a silken black shirt, open at the collar to show a glint of gold around his neck.
Dark gold curls end around his ears, frame a stunning face with sharp cheekbones under hazel eyes, thick lips curved into a sheepish smile as he approaches.
“I am so sorry I am late,” Nick says, and Shane understands what Rose meant about his accent as it curls lovingly around every word, “I would have texted, but.”
“No, that’s okay,” Shane takes the outstretched hand, firm and surprisingly calloused palm meeting his.
“You have been waiting long?”
“Not that long,” Shane lies, but Nick’s eyes catch on his empty glass.
“I am sorry,” he repeats. “Let me get you another drink and we can go find our table?”
“Okay,” Shane agrees, and asks for another ginger ale as Nick orders a beer. Nick’s standing close enough that Shane can smell his crisp aftershave and he tries not to be too creepy as he inhales again, the scent of it also weirdly attractive.
They’re shown to their tables and peruse the menus, debating what looks good, what they'd usually order. Shane learns that Nick will eat almost anything, but has a not-so-secret penchant for fast food and he laughs unapologetically when Shane wrinkles his nose. He teases Shane when he mentions eating healthily, but also openly appraises his torso above the table as he compliments the results, making Shane blush.
Nick is a good conversationalist, leads them into talking about Montreal, about their favourite spots and they both learn they run around the same park when the weather is good. Nick has funny anecdotes for almost every place he’s visited, and seems to delight in making Shane laugh, which Shane feels warm his belly more than the glass of wine he’s ordered with food.
The conversation stays light, doesn’t delve too deep into personal territory which Shane is kind of relieved about, given it’s just a first date, but equally the more Nick speaks the more Shane wants to know everything about him.
As they finish their mains - the food mutually agreed to have been delicious, if slightly overpriced - Nick’s talking about his dog, Anya, who he clearly dotes on, though he laments needing to put her in dog hotels so often when he travels for work.
“What kind of travel?” Shane asks, interested. “I didn’t know accountants travelled much for work?”
“Accountants?” Nick repeats slowly, brow furrowing in confusion. “I am an interpreter.”
“An interpreter?” Shane echoes, and realisation dawns as it also appears to do for his conversation partner. “Sorry. You- you are Nick? Nicolai, Rose’s friend?”
“Rose? I- no,” not-Nick shakes his head, something like sadness wiping away the smile that Shane had been mildly obsessed with for the last forty-five minutes, pulling it down into a disappointed frown. “And, I, ah, I guess you are not William, then?”
“No,” Shane feels his entire being practically physically shrivel up as he realises he’s crashed someone else’s blind date. “I’m Shane. Shane Hollander.”
“Ilya Rozanov,” not-Nick replies, and the disappointment overwhelms Shane that this entire fucking perfect date hadn’t even been with the right person.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” Shane starts looking for the waitress in a panic, gestures for the bill when she catches his eye. “I didn’t mean- fuck.”
“Shane, is okay,” Ilya reassures him, but the curve of his lips is tinged with sadness. “We did not know. I was late, so my date probably did not wait.”
Which means Shane had been stood up anyway, then. Disappointment and regret churns in his gut, and he pulls out his wallet and hands over his card without even looking at the bill the waitress brings over quickly, as if she can sense Shane’s need to get out of here.
“I can-” Ilya offers, but cuts himself off when Shane shakes his head.
“No, please. It’s the least I can do,” he says, and he knows he’s not really thinking clearly but the panic of having fucked up someone else’s evening so badly is making him vibrate out of his skin. “I, um, I had a nice time, though.”
“Yes, me too.”
“I’ll just, uh. Bye, then,” Shane’s barely listening as Ilya calls after him, has to get out of here, get home and hide in the safety of his house for the rest of the night until all of this just fucking fades away.
Ilya sits at the two-seater table and blinks as Shane (not William) practically runs out of the restaurant away from him.
Fuck.
He hadn’t meant to be so late, but the fucking traffic and parking had thwarted his plans even having left early, and now he’d gone and crashed someone else’s blind date. A fucking stunning one at that.
He checks his phone, but hasn’t had anything from his own blind date other than a text to say “here” about ten minutes before they’d been due to meet. No wonder the other man hadn’t wanted to wait any longer.
Ilya had felt so terrible about being late he’d practically sprinted from the parking space he’d managed to squeeze into two blocks over, had been so relieved to see a handsome guy clearly waiting in a navy suit as William had told him he’d be wearing, that he hadn’t even thought to check that he’d approached the right person.
Not that Shane had seemed to mind either, though it’s apparent he’d been on a blind date as well given he hadn't realised until the end.
Fuck.
It had been so fucking perfect, too, until the unwelcome revelation. Shane had been a little reserved, but humour had danced in his eyes and across the tiniest smirk as he’d listen to Ilya spin his tales, maybe exaggerating just a little to make Shane laugh.
He had such a nice laugh, too, rich and deep and almost like he was surprised at himself. Ilya wonders how often he laughs, thinks it would be a real shame if not at least once an hour.
But he’d clearly not expected Ilya, disappointment clear as they’d worked out they weren’t each other’s dates. Ilya’s hoping that the disappointment was that of thinking he’d crashed someone else’s date, rather than regretting his time with Ilya as he is, but the speed at which he’d left has made Ilya unsure.
He pushes back from the table, thanks the waitress as she watches him leave with curious eyes, and pulls out his phone to text Shane.
Then remembers he doesn’t even have his number.
Fuck.
“So?” Rose beams expectantly across the table at Shane. He’s in L.A. for a couple of meetings, and has squeezed in brunch around her shooting schedule. “How was the date?”
“I, uh. Can we not?” Shane asks weakly, and hates the concern that immediately fills Rose’s face.
“Oh no! What happened? Was he a dick? I swear I thought he was nice!”
“Oh, it’s, um. He might not be a dick, but I don’t know. He didn’t show,” Shane admits.
“What?” Rose rears back, looking horrified. “Shane, I’m so sorry. What the fuck? He didn’t tell me he had anything come up.”
“It’s alright,” Shane soothes, sips his coffee. “I, um. Fuck. It’s kind of funny, but really fucking awkward,” he admits, and tells her how he’d ended up having dinner with Ilya-not-Nick, until they’d realised they’d essentially crashed each other’s blind dates.
“He looked so disappointed,” Shane admits, pushing the last of his omelette around his plate. “I just… legged it out of there, pretty much.”
“Oh, Shane,” Rose’s hand covers his and stills the restless movements. “I’m sure he was just disappointed at the thought that he’d ruined your date. You said it was good until that point, right?”
“Yeah,” Shane sighs, having come to this conclusion in the week since. “But I didn’t even get his number. I practically ran away, Rose, he can’t want anything to do with me now, even if I knew how to find him.” Shane doesn't mention that he'd googled Ilya's name, hadn't found anything that could be him even with multiple attempts. He'd even adjusted some of his running times where he could, since Ilya had mentioned running in the same park as him, but that hadn't borne any fruit either.
“What did you say his name was?”
“Ilya Rozanov.”
Rose’s eyes narrow, and she nods with a thoughtful twist to her lips.
“So?” Sveta asks him over the phone. “How was the date?”
“I was late,” Ilya admits, “so he’d left.”
“How late?”
“Twenty minutes, maybe twenty five? Couldn’t find anywhere to fucking park,” he grumbles, and Sveta laughs at him.
“This is why you don’t drive in downtown Montreal on a Friday night. What happened, then? I can tell something did.”
Ilya sighs. The curse of having a best friend that knows him too well.
“I crashed some poor other fucker’s date,” he admits, and Sveta practically cackles after a surprised beat. “It was so perfect, though Sveta,” he groans, and without her physically there to stop him he describes Shane’s perfect face, the well-tailored suit, the fucking freckles that had haunted Ilya’s every waking moment since. The way he’d laughed, had teased Ilya for his opinions, had taken Ilya’s teasing back so fucking well.
“Yes, yes, I get it,” Sveta finally interrupts, sounding exasperated, “He is beautiful, you want to have babies with him. Do you even know how to find him again?”
“No,” Ilya whines dramatically, “Is like great tragedy, like a Shakespearean play. I want to find him. I just… am not sure how. I searched Instagram, Facebook, all of those, but there was no-one that looked like him. He said he sometimes runs in the same park as me but I have tried different times all week and no luck.”
Sveta sighs heavily through the phone. “Give me his name. I’ll have a look for you.”
Ilya beams, if there’s anyone who can find a stranger in this day and age it’s Sveta.
“You’ll owe me though, if I do.”
“I promise,” Ilya responds, and Sveta sighs as Ilya shares Shane’s name and she hangs up without saying goodbye.
“Come on,” Rose pleads, fluttering her lashes obnoxiously at Shane, “It’s my last night here Shane, and the last time I’ll get to visit for a bit. I want to go out for drinks, maybe a dance. Pretty please.”
Shane rolls his eyes and hides a grin. He’s not going to say no to her, and Rose knows it.
“Fine,” he gives in instantly, as he always does. “Where do you want to go?”
“I’ve got it all sorted,” she says brightly, “Leave it all to me. You’ll just need nice slacks and a shirt, okay?”
An hour later, Rose nods approvingly as Shane waits for her in his living room, dressed in his comfiest but still smart tan slacks and a black shirt. She slides her hand into his elbow, dressed in a gorgeous silver dress herself, and leads him down the stairs to the waiting car.
“Come on,” Sveta throws a shirt at Ilya where he’s lazing on his sofa, watching Seattle play the worst hockey he thinks he’s seen in years. “I want to go out.”
Ilya groans, pushes the shirt onto the floor in protest.
“Ilyusha,” she snaps, and she’s using the voice that Ilya knows means she’s determined enough he can’t win. “Get. Up. You have twenty minutes to shower and dress before the car is here.”
Ilya rolls off the sofa, collecting the shirt as he trudges into the bathroom and does as told.
The bar Rose has chosen isn’t one Shane’s been to before but it’s nice and comfortable as they tuck themselves into a booth at the back of the room, having collected a couple of drinks at the bar.
Shane looks around as Rose taps at her phone, brow furrowing as she types something rapidly.
“You okay?” She's not normally the type to be on her phone when they go out, insists on being present whenever they can spend time together, so this feels a little new.
“What? Yes, of course,” she looks up at him, smiles a little sheepishly. “Are you? This is nice, right?” she gestures to the rest of the bar.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees, and they move on to discussing her plans for after she returns to L.A. tomorrow, the next film she’s starring in.
“Sorry,” she says as her phone buzzes on the table and she snatches it, eyes lighting up as she reads whatever message is on screen. “I, um. It turns out one of my other friends is out and about tonight. Do you mind if she stops by to say hi?”
“Of course not,” Shane replies, though he hadn’t really known Rose had many other friends in Montreal.
She thanks him and they return to chatting, even as Rose is clearly almost vibrating with excitement about meeting her friend. She gets a text twenty minutes later and her head snaps up, sees someone across the room and waves an arm to catch their attention.
Shane turns, follows Rose’s gaze to see a stunning woman lifting a hand back casually in greeting. She’s got a riot of curls falling down to her shoulders, a dark red dress draped over curves that has almost every other man in the room staring, and a wide smile as she glides across the room, followed by someone else.
As Shane gets a good look at her companion, his heart stops in his chest.
Rose taps his hand lightly before the pair reaches the table, offers a grin and a quietly smug “you’re welcome.”
Ilya follows Sveta semi-reluctantly across the room and can feel all eyes on them. Not surprising, since Sveta looks like a goddess as always, and Ilya’s no slouch either in his favourite leopard shirt and black slacks.
She lifts a hand in greeting to whoever she’s dragging him to meet, had been tight-lipped in the car as to their identity and Ilya had given up asking.
“Say ‘thank you, Sveta’,” Sveta says smugly in Russian as they’re maybe a metre away, and it takes a second for her meaning to sink in as Ilya sees Rose Landry first, recognisable instantly and what the fuck is the actress doing in Montreal?
But then his eyes catch on the man sitting next to her, tucked further into the dim lighting of the booth. A stupidly gorgeous, familiar face has Ilya almost face planting on the floor, his entire being suddenly suffused with anticipation and pure joy.
“Thank you, Sveta,” he murmurs obediently as they reach the table, unable to look away from liquid brown eyes that catch his and hold on.
Rose introduces her new friend Svetlana and Shane manages some kind of greeting, he thinks, but is barely able to process anything other than Ilya standing there like some kind of mirage.
“Mind if I sit?” Ilya asks as Rose gets up and follows Svetlana back to the bar.
“Please,” Shane nods, watches as Ilya sinks into the seat, liquid grace in a flashy shirt that is not to Shane’s personal taste but looks fucking amazing on him all the same.
They meet each other’s eyes again for a long minute, Shane barely able to believe that somehow Ilya’s here in front of him again.
“I-”
“I-”
They stop, flush as they start to speak at the same time. “You go,” Ilya says quickly, and Shane swallows but nods.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry, for the other night,” he gets out the words that he’d wanted to say since getting home after their date and realising how badly he’d fucked it all up. “I didn’t mean to, like, practically run away. It wasn’t you, I was just embarrassed, and panicking a bit, and I felt awful that I’d maybe fucked up your entire evening and-”
“Shane,” Ilya cuts him off, face soft and open and ever-so-slightly amused. “Is okay. Well, maybe I was disappointed, but only because I did not get your number.”
Shane exhales, anxious tension flooding out of him until he slumps forward against the table. “I’m still sorry,” he repeats. “It was a shitty end to the date.”
Ilya shrugs again, shirt rippling in a way that Shane’s fingertips beg to feel against them. “I am sorry that I just assumed you were William from the start.”
Shane shakes his head this time. “No, it’s not like I asked for your name either.”
Ilya’s lips curve up into a little rueful grin, hazel eyes still holding Shane captive. His heart thrums rapidly in his chest, hope and desire tugging at each heartbeat.
“So, um. Svetlana?” he asks, suddenly aware that even though Ilya had been out on their blind date a couple of weeks ago, his friend is absolutely stunning and there’s no guarantee that she’s just a friend either.
“She is just a friend,” Ilya promises, seeing the faint flicker of anxiety cross Shane’s face and willing to do pretty much anything to remove it. “I, ah, I told her about the date, how I looked for you but could not find you.”
“You did?” Shane asks in surprise, something like wonder growing in pretty brown eyes.
“I googled your name, and had a look through social media, and things, yes.”
“Oh.” Ilya can’t believe he’d almost forgotten how pretty Shane is when he blushes, freckles even more prominent as the pink heats his skin. “I’m not much one for social media,” Shane admits.
“I have realised this,” Ilya teases back. “But I suppose she must have found you instead, somehow. I guess through Rose?”
Shane glances across the room and Ilya does the same, sees both women standing at the bar, not even attempting to hide the fact that they’re watching them with wide, expectant grins on their faces.
“Must have,” Shane agrees. “I might have told Rose, too, about you and our date and how I regretted leaving so quickly.”
Ilya twists in his seat, shifts so his knee bumps Shane’s. Shane blinks, but his knee presses lightly into Ilya’s under the table, a tiny smile gracing his lips that Ilya wants to lick.
“Maybe,” Ilya starts, heart racing but he’s not fucking letting go of this miraculous chance, “maybe I can get your number now? So we do not have to risk losing each other again, or relying on friends to reconnect us.”
The smile grows on Shane’s face, mirrored by Ilya’s own.
“I’d like that,” he agrees, and Ilya takes the phone held out, inputs his contact details, knows his grin must almost be wild at this point but what were the chances?
“So, um,” Shane glances away and back, “have you, um, been on any more dates?”
“Ah, no,” Ilya replies, anticipation and relief that Shane’s asking making him giddy, “I could not stop thinking about this very handsome man with pretty freckles who ran away from me.”
“Fuck off,” Shane flushes, rubs a hand over his face as if to hide his freckles. “I am sorry about that,” he repeats for the third time and Ilya gives in, knows he’s entirely, hopelessly fucked.
“Ah, I am teasing,” he promises, shifting even closer in the booth, trapping Shane’s knee with both of his. Shane watches him, heat melting those eyes until Ilya’s entirely gone for him. “But maybe then, we could redo? Have another date, where I know that you are Shane, and you know that I am Ilya.”
“That… sounds perfect,” Shane agrees softly, eyes locked on Ilya’s mouth and Ilya feels lust bolt through him as he locks his lips and desire clearly passes through Shane’s face.
“Maybe without the two smug women watching us?” Ilya adds, and Shane laughs as he nods, leaning in another inch or two closer.
“I think maybe,” Ilya adds quietly, pushing a little and leaning forward himself until Shane’s so close that Ilya can almost feel him breathing, “we should give them what they are clearly waiting for, though? Since they helped this reunion?”
Shane’s eyes flick over to the women and back faster than Ilya can follow, but he nods, face still so close to Ilya’s that his nose brushes Ilya’s cheek, and then Shane’s lips are on his.
Ilya holds back the low groan that wants to escape as they kiss, and places one hand flat on the table to stop himself from grabbing Shane’s collar and pulling him over the table and on top of Ilya. The other cups the sharp line of his jaw, can’t stop himself from wanting more, and kisses Shane until the other man pulls back.
Shane's lips are kiss-swollen and pink even under the dim lighting and Ilya wants to ruin him, to take him home and see what else he can make pink and swollen.
“Well, boys,” Rose Landry says, having approached while they weren’t paying attention. “You’re both welcome. The tab’s still open, if you can close it before you go. But have a nice night, and if you come back to yours, Shane, please keep it down. If I don’t see you before my flight tomorrow, thanks for having me.”
Shane blinks up at her, and Ilya catches Sveta’s eye. She gives him a smug look and he's so delighted by this turn of events he can’t even muster a typical eyeroll, and simply beams at her instead. Her face softens and she shakes her head fondly, before Rose loops her arm through Sveta’s and the two women leave.
Ilya’s sure that most of the room are watching them go but he’s too busy looking at Shane again, the pink blush on his cheeks so charming Ilya feels something fond swell in his chest.
“Have you eaten?” Ilya asks, reminded that he’s hungry as his stomach rumbles at him.
Shane shakes his head.
“Would you want to have our date now, then?”
Shane’s face lights up in a grin, “Yes, I’d love that.”
Ilya grins, and holds a hand out over the table. “Hi. I’m Ilya Rozanov. Pleased to date you.”
Shane laughs, but takes Ilya’s hand and shakes it. “Shane Hollander. Very pleased to date you, too.”