Take A Number: A Fake Dating Romantic Comedy

by Amy Daws

  “No! He’s not an average white boy donut hole,” I state defensively and then lower my voice and lean in close. “In fact, he’s…well above average. He’s dark chocolate with a champagne filling croinut level, okay?”

  She hoots with laughter, and I can’t help but laugh along with her. This is so, so embarrassing. But also so, so fun. I’ve been neglecting this part of my life for so long, and it feels good to gossip with a friend about something other than work.

  I lick my lips and lean in close to add softly, “And I am a bit sore, which makes it impossible to stop thinking about it. God, I feel like such a kid.” I adjust my Journey bandana on my head and shoot wide eyes at her. “I’m thirty years old for goodness’ sake. I shouldn’t be this sex-crazed. What is wrong with me?”

  “You’re finally living a little, girl,” Rachael replies and sticks her tongue out at me playfully. “You’ve had your head down and focused on the bakery for so long you forgot what it’s like to let your hormones rule you for a hot minute. Just embrace that feeling. It’s fun. And it’s clearly helping you in more ways than one.” She points at the sex-inspired croinuts, and I can’t help but giggle.

  “That’s very true,” I reply smugly as I prepare to start on the next batch.

  “So, what now?” Rachael asks, grabbing her mug of coffee on the back counter and taking a sip.

  I drop the hot croinuts into the cinnamon-sugar mix. “I don’t know exactly. I’m assuming he’ll be coming into the bakery today because it’s Monday, and he always comes in on Mondays, so I’m going to feel him out when he gets here.”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Rachael exclaims, her dark eyes accusing. “You do not wait until he decides when you do it again. You want more donut hole, right? It was good, and you’d like seconds?”

  “I’d like seconds of his very sizeable croinut, yes.”

  Rachael’s dimples pierce into her cheeks as she smiles at me. “Then you call him right now. Take the croinut by the balls ’cuz you need all the sex you can get, honey,” she booms, her voice carrying out to the entire bakery.

  “Oh my God, lower your voice,” I hiss and grab the tray of finished croinuts off the counter and shove them at her. “I thought our euphemisms were working quite well!”

  “Sorry, I got carried away.” She gets a guilty look in her eyes and glances at the customers.

  I relax. “Just go deliver these before they get cold, please.”

  She takes the tray from my hands. “Okay…I’m just saying this croinut you’re working with has an expiration date, so if I were you, I would watch my timer very closely and try to get in a lot of batches before that bell dings.” She shoots me a dirty wink and slinks off to deliver the goods.

  However, her parting words leave a lasting impression because anxiety creeps inside me. I don’t want to wait until Dean comes into the bakery. What if he doesn’t come in today? Maybe he’s going to do that guy thing and wait three days so he looks aloof and cool. I’m zero aloof and cool. I have zero chill. I managed not to be horribly awkward yesterday morning in the car ride home with him, but if this is all fake, then there’s no need to play it cool. How can I make the most of this arrangement while I have it?

  Rachael returns, and it’s like she can read my mind. “Just call him and invite him over tonight for dinner. No man would turn down a well-cooked meal by you. He’ll know what you want.”

  I bite my lip and nod. “You don’t think I’ll look desperate?”

  Rachael quirks a brow. “I repeat, no man will turn down a well-cooked meal, especially the no-feelings-attached kind of dining.”

  I nod knowingly. “Okay, here…take over.”

  I hand her the chocolate frosting and wipe my hands on my baker’s coat before pulling my phone out of my pocket. Rachael is watching like a hawk, and I can’t handle that sort of pressure, so I head toward the back alley. I prop the phone on my shoulder and begin picking up some stray trash while the line trills.

  “Hello?” Dean’s deep voice reverberates into the line, and my stomach clenches with unease.

  “Hey, Dean?”

  “Hey, sugar butt.” I can hear the laughter in his voice.

  “Are you coming into the bakery today?”

  “Should I be coming into the bakery today?”

  “Oh well…that’s up to you, I was just wondering…”

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if you were going to have dinner tonight?” I ask a little too fast and cringe with thankfulness that he can’t see me right now. I begin to pace, hoping it will quell my nerves.

  “I eat dinner most nights, Norah.”

  “Right…of course.” I scratch the bandana on my forehead nervously. “It’s just…I had these two really nice cuts of salmon, and I was thinking about making them.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Do you want some?”

  “Of your salmon?”

  “Yeah…I, um…thought you could come over, and I could cook for us.”

  The line goes quiet for a second before Dean replies, “Norah, is this a booty call?”

  My eyes widen, and I cough out, “No…a booty call? No. I just…I had the salmon.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  I exhale heavily. “Forget it, okay?”

  “Norah…”

  “What?”

  “I’d love to come over and have some salmon.”

  Ugh, I hate my life. “If it’s an inconvenience, I can eat the salmon myself.”

  “Oh, can you?” he asks with a teasing tone in his voice.

  My lips thin as I sarcastically respond. “Yes…if you recall from our trip, I’m well equipped to consume on my own.”

  Dean’s deep chuckle vibrates through the line, making the hairs on my arms stand as I recall how it feels when he laughs into my neck. “I’d really hate to see you eat alone.”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “No, you’re not,” he replies smugly. “But hey…I’m good with hooking up tonight, but I have a better idea.”

  “What?”

  “You come over to my place and let me cook for you.”

  “What? But…the salmon,” I stutter, not really liking the idea of being out of my own space.

  “You cooked last time. It’s my turn.”

  My brows wrinkle at the loss of control, but I hear myself grumble back, “Okay then.”

  “Okay then. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “See you tonight.”

  “And Norah?”

  “What?”

  “This will get easier.”

  I sigh heavily. “You could make it easier by torturing me less, you know.”

  “But where’s the fun in that?”

  We say our goodbyes, and I drop onto the bench, and a million nervous butterflies leave my belly. Dean was spot-on: I totally just made my first booty call. And I sucked at it. Not only did I suck at it but I also lost all the control I was subtly trying to claim.

  However, if letting Dean take charge this weekend inspired a whole new croinut flavor, maybe letting him cook for me can inspire a whole new pastry. The creative side of my brain alights with that exciting possibility because let’s face it, my creative brain has been shoved to the backburner for far too long while I’ve been focusing on the Denver location and the franchise plans.

  Now might be the perfect time for creative Norah to come out and play.

  Dean’s townhouse is on the edge of Boulder, a little off the beaten path for a guy who loves the nightlife so much, but as I pull up, I can see the appeal. The homes look brand new with great views and a really nice bike path just across the street. Based on the people milling around, it seems like a community of young twenty and thirty-somethings. I never gave much thought to where I lived after moving out of my parents’ place when I opened up the bakery. I knew if I was getting up before the sun rose to prep dough, I needed as much convenience as possible.

  I ring the doorbell and straighten out my slouchy
pastel pink sweater that I threw on over a simple white V-neck tee and ripped skinny jeans. Rachael said since this was technically a third date, I should dress casually. She then added that since this was a casual sex situation, fire engine red lingerie underneath was a must. Thankfully, I have drawers full of this stuff so that was the easiest choice I made for the night. However, now that I’m standing outside Dean’s house visualizing sex again, I’m starting to feel highly uneasy.

  Dean opens the door, and his scent immediately hits me, causing me to bite my lip to hide my pleased smirk. God, he always smells so good. It’s hard to resist the urge to press my nose into his chest every time he’s near. His cologne probably costs more than my car payment, though.

  He props his arm on the doorframe, offering me an easy smile as he stands barefoot in a pair of jeans and an untucked button-down, looking all tall, dark, and Boulder. He’s trimmed his beard to a five o’clock shadow again, and I have to admit, I prefer him this way.

  I thrust the Tupperware into his hands that I brought and swipe at the sweat collecting on my upper lip. “It’s a seven-layer strawberry cream cake.”

  “I already made dessert,” Dean replies, narrowing his eyes at me. “I told you I was cooking tonight, Norah.”

  “You can save it for later then. I’m a baker, Dean. I rarely show up anywhere without something.”

  Dean tilts his head and adjusts his glasses while his penetrating gaze takes a slow inspection of my body. “I’m glad you ditched the baker’s coat and classic rock bandana because you look good enough to eat.” He winks before stepping back and gesturing for me to come in. As I walk past him, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “And I’m not just saying that because you’re probably wearing sexy lingerie underneath those clothes.”

  “Um…thank you?” I chirp while biting my lip and trying my best to ignore the flurry of butterflies that once again take flight in my belly at the feel of his hot breath on my neck.

  As I walk through the entryway and enter the living room, the swirling in my stomach stops when I see the image before me. “I thought you were rich,” I blurt out, pointing at the floor.

  “What?” Dean laughs and strides past me toward the attached kitchen.

  I point at the seating. “What kind of rich guy has beanbags for furniture?”

  “Those are surprisingly comfortable.” He pulls two beers out of the refrigerator and uses a bottle opener before returning to where I’m standing. “Come on, try one out.”

  He passes me the beer, and I take a sip, wincing at the bitter taste of the IPA. “Refreshing.”

  He pins me with a seductive look. “Now have a drink while sitting on my beanbag.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Not when you say it like that.”

  “How did I say it?” His eyes dance with mirth as he watches me with a delighted smirk.

  My nose wrinkles, and I curl away from him. “Like you just asked me to sit and spin or something.”

  Dean lets out a deep, genuine laugh that brings those butterflies back fast and furious. “It’s just a beanbag chair, Norah. Not a sex swing.”

  He takes a drink, and my eyes fixate on his Adam’s apple as it slides down his thick neck. “Do you have a sex swing?”

  “No.” He nearly spits out his beer. “Do you?”

  “That’s a firm no,” I retort and shiver at the thought. “My kinkiness ends at lingerie and pink vibrators.”

  “Works for me.” He waggles his eyebrows and takes another sip before gesturing back to the chairs. “C’mon, Norah, squish around in the beanbag chair. It’ll be fun.”

  “Sitting is fun?” I roll my eyes before turning to lower myself onto the noisy seat. I look at him, completely unimpressed. “It…feels like a beanbag chair.”

  “I know, right?” Dean replies excitedly and flops down next to me. He takes a sip of his beer before frowning at me. “What gave you the impression I was rich?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…maybe the fancy clothes you wear and the car you drive…and that pesky half a million you invested in my bakery.”

  Dean rolls his eyes “The clothes and car are kind of like your lingerie obsession. You wear sexy lingerie to feel powerful, and I wear nice clothes and drive a nice car to feel successful. I actually agree with you. You get out what you put into the universe.”

  “Okay…” I take another drink, my brows still furrowed. “And the bakery?”

  He shrugs casually. “That’s business.”

  “So…you’re not rich?”

  He lifts his shoulders. “I’m comfortable.”

  “Why are you being so cryptic?”

  “Why are you being so nosy?” He laughs. “Are you rich?”

  “Um…I was starting to feel pretty comfortable, but now I’m pretty poor because I’ve re-invested a lot of my money back into my business. It doesn’t mean I can’t afford a decent couch, though.”

  Dean sighs heavily and runs a hand through his dark hair, pushing the loose strands off his forehead. “I’m not home very much, so I don’t really see any point at dropping loads of money on furniture.”

  “Why aren’t you home very much? Where do you go?”

  “Your bakery, my co-working space…wherever.” He shrugs dismissively. “I used to hang out at Kate and Lynsey’s a lot when they lived in this complex, but that’s obviously changed now. And I keep hoping someday I am going to move somewhere more exciting than Boulder. Having a bunch of shit would just tie me down.”

  My lips purse at that surprising remark. “Where would you want to move to?”

  “I’m not sure yet…I’m waiting for inspiration to strike.” He winks playfully at me. “And when I am home, I’m usually upstairs in my bedroom because my bed is very comfortable.” He waggles his brows suggestively. “Want to see?”

  A flush runs up my cheeks, and that nervous sweat threatens to return. My voice is thick when I reply, “Maybe we should eat first.” I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans and play with one of the frayed holes. “I’m kind of excited to see the culinary delights you’ve crafted for us tonight.”

  He shoots me a boyish smile and lifts his brows. “Oh Norah…you’re in for a treat.”

  He heaves himself out of the beanbag chair and offers me his hand. When he yanks me up, our bodies brush against each other, and a flurry of desire rushes through me at the contact. Dean drapes his arm around my shoulders and guides me to the wooden stool at his breakfast bar. As I sit down and glance into the kitchen, my eyes widen in horror.

  Dean’s kitchen is…a disaster. A horrible, dirty-dishes-and-food-everywhere, filthy disaster.

  “Is that cream of mushroom?” I ask, pointing at the opened tin can sitting out beside an empty can of green beans.

  “Yep! This is my mom’s recipe.” He winks and hunches over to peer into the oven.

  “What recipe?” I ask, anxiety creeping inside me as I wonder what he’s about to pull out of there. I can smell it, but I can’t place it.

  “I made you”—he pauses as he grabs a glass casserole dish with a pot holder and spins around to face me—“tater tot casserole.”

  “What?” I stare down at the strange dish and try not to laugh.

  “Tater tot casserole,” he replies excitedly and sets it on the counter, shoving several dishes out of the way to make room. “Ground beef, green beans, and cream of mushroom with tots and cheese on top. It’s the best.”

  “You don’t eat tater tot casserole,” I reply with an accusing frown and point at his body. “You can’t look like that and eat stuff like this. It’s scientifically impossible.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You can’t make baked goods like this”—he points at my Tupperware dessert that I spent ninety minutes making and is now lost in the mess that is Dean’s kitchen—“and look the way you look.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sporting a six-pack.”

  “You’re perfect,” he says, taking a nibble of a crispy tater tot. “And we can have cheat days. It’s about mo
deration.”

  I sigh as he proceeds to dish the food into bowls…not plates. Bowls that he probably uses for cereal. He truly is a bachelor. This is a side of Dean Moser I could have lived without seeing. He places a bowl in front of me and gasps dramatically. “I almost forgot.” He turns around and finds something in a bag buried below a few other bags on his counter and retrieves a sprig of…

  “Mint? Are you actually garnishing tater tot casserole with…mint?” I am horrified.

  “Presentation is one of the five senses, right?” He blinks back at me with wide-eyed innocence that would be annoying if he wasn’t so sexy. He brings it to his nose and sniffs. “Plus, it smells good. Double whammy.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “I feel like I’ve entered some sort of alternate universe.”

  He laughs and moves around the counter to sit on the barstool beside me with his own mint garnished bowl. I point at the mess in the kitchen. “You’re not going to clean any of that up?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Maybe later. Eat now, it’ll get cold.”

  I shake my head while taking a bite and…well…actually…it’s really good. It’s comfort food, so of course it’s good. And I’m not opposed to comfort food. Not at all. I love a good pot roast with some chutney potatoes and a nice spring salad mix.

  This meal here, though, it’s not what I expected from Dean. He’s polished and poised. He puts off a metrosexual vibe as a young urban professional in Colorado. A guy who is well-versed in the art of charcuterie boards isn’t the kind of guy I’d expect to serve tater tot casserole in cereal bowls.

  However, he’s also not the kind of guy I’d expect to go on a fake date with a newish friend just to help her out of a jam. Maybe there’s more than meets the eye with Dean.

  “You said this was your mom’s recipe?” I ask, trying to dig a little deeper into the mystery man beside me.

  “Yes, she made this all the time growing up.” He takes a drink of his beer. “It was cheap and easy.”

  “Cheap?” I ask, furrowing my brow. “Were you guys on a budget?”

  Dean finishes his bite before replying, “Not really, but my mom grew up poor—like trailer park poor—so I think those habits sort of stuck. My dad always hated it because he grew up with money and enjoyed spending it, which always drove my grandpa nuts.”