“Are you exclusive?”
“I don’t date more than one person at a time.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.” This guy is super-insistent to the point of being unnerving.
“Okay. Fine. I like that you don’t want your attention divided. I don’t like mine divided either, so when this thing with this current guy doesn’t work out, you can go out with me.”
I take that to mean he’s accepting the 20 percent chauvinist-remark discount, so I fill out the check. “What makes you think it won’t work out?”
He hitches a shoulder and motions between us. “Because there’s chemistry here, and I doubt you’ll be able to ignore it indefinitely.”
“Wow, it’s surprising you can fit through a door with the size of your ego.” I pass the check over and give him my sweetest smile. “I added four dollars and seventy-five cents for the coffee.”
He may be right about the chemistry, but there’s no way I’m going out with him. That’s a recipe for certain disaster.
CHAPTER 4
DATE
RIAN
Two days later I’m standing in front of my closet, surveying my dress options. I’m going out with Terry tonight. I’m not excited. At all.
Marley flops down on my bed. “Wear the green dress. It brings out your eyes.”
“I wore the green dress last time.” I pick out a hot-pink wrap. “What about this?”
Marley cocks her head, her long, wavy ponytail skimming my comforter. “Is that new?”
“I’ve had it for a while.” The neckline is pretty low, though, which is why it has yet to make an appearance. I shimmy into the dress, adjusting the top so the girls are mostly contained.
Marley nods her approval. “You should definitely wear that.”
I inspect my reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. “I don’t know. I think there’s too much cleavage.”
“This is a second date, right? What’s his name again? Trent?”
“It’s Terry.”
Marley makes a face. “Right. Can we rename him Trent? It’s so much cooler.”
“No, we can’t rename him.” I smooth my hands over my hips. This dress is great for highlighting curves, but the chest exposure is extreme for me. I lean forward at the waist, which only makes it worse. “I should wear a camisole.”
“Do not ruin that dress with a cami. Unless you want to send the message that you’re not interested in sleeping with him.”
“There’s no rule that says I have to make that kind of decision by date two.”
“Honestly? You’re twenty-seven, Ri. Don’t waste your time on someone who doesn’t make you tingle when you look at him. If you’re not interested in getting horizontal with this guy, why go out with him? Especially with a name like Terry.”
Typically I would agree, but I need a distraction from the dreams I keep having about a certain hot suit. Plus, Terry seems safe. “Terry isn’t a terrible name.”
“You’re only saying that because the last guy you matched with was named Eugene.” She rolls onto her back and moans, “Oh, Terrrrry, right there, that’s it, Teeerrrry.”
“Is that necessary?” I retie the wrap in an attempt to achieve more coverage.
“I’m demonstrating how unsexy his name will sound when you’re moaning it later tonight.”
“I’m not sleeping with him tonight, so you can give it up.”
“The fact that you don’t want to sleep with him is a problem.”
“I didn’t say I don’t want to, just that I’m not going to.” I don’t think I want to sleep with him.
She crosses her legs and props her chin on her fist. “Maybe you should cancel and we can go dancing or something. You can borrow one of my dresses and pick up some supersexy hot guy and hump each other on the dance floor to loud music.”
“It’s too late to cancel. And I hate nightclubs. Drunk, sweaty guys are not my thing. Besides, Terry and I have a lot in common.”
“Loving numbers and chocolate martinis doesn’t scream compatibility. Also, I don’t think men should love chocolate martinis, it seems wrong. Like guys who drink Shirley Temples.” Marley rolls off the bed and bats my hands away, adjusting the dress so I’m showing more instead of less of my lady lumps. “Maybe you have too much in common. Maybe you should be looking for someone who’s less … numbery.”
“Numbery isn’t even a word, and we’re a nine-out-of-ten match according to the compatibility test.” The whole nine-out-of-ten thing has me fascinated.
Terry is an accountant, which means he loves numbers the same way I do. The consistency and the variables turn me on. Terry doesn’t seem to have that effect on me, and while that should technically deter me, I actually find it reassuring. Lack of sexual chemistry means I’m less likely to lose my head over him.
Marley sighs. “Are there any sparks? Do you need to bring spare underwear with you when you’re on a date? Do you want dinner to be over so he can be your dessert? If no is the answer to any of these questions, then this date is pointless.”
“Relationships are not just about sex, Mar.”
She pushes me out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, forcing me to sit while she retrieves the hair dryer. “If there isn’t any chemistry, you’re friends.”
I ignore the chemistry bit. “We’re going to Fresco’s for dinner tonight.” It was his idea, not mine. Maybe the romantic setting will help with the lack of sparks.
She pauses with a brush in her hand. “Really? That’s swanky. So he must be feeling you. Now the most important question is: Who’s paying?”
“I didn’t ask. I’ll have to wait and see.” Last time we went Dutch. It was just coffee. He’s really upping his game.
My sister sighs dramatically. “Seriously? If he doesn’t pay and he doesn’t make an attempt for a real goodnight kiss, you have to cut him loose.”
The idea of his tongue in my mouth makes me shudder, but I keep quiet. Marley does my hair and makeup. I’m not the best at putting it on myself, but she’s a pro.
She forces me to wear a pair of wedges that are two inches higher than I’m used to, because they make my legs look longer. I don’t need any help in that area. I’m five eight, my legs are already pretty damn long. It’s a short walk, though, so I should be fine. I make sure I have my wallet, phone, lip gloss, and mace tucked away in my purse, and I’m ready for this date. Which I’m still not excited about.
“I’ll text in an hour to see if you need saving,” Marley says as I head for the door. “And if you’re not coming home tonight, make sure you let me know. And text me an address so I can call the cops if you stop responding to messages.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“I’m being positive.”
By the time I get to the restaurant, my feet already hurt, but dinner is a sit-down event, so I’ll be able to get some relief from these ridiculous shoes.
I spot Terry as I approach the front entrance of the restaurant. He’s sitting on a bench, head bent over his phone. He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take the opportunity to give him a full assessment with a “Marley lens.” We have very different criteria for what we consider to be viably datable, but even I can admit that Terry is a little … lacking.
Marley has a propensity for dating surfer boys and beach volleyball players. Bleach-blond hair, rock-hard abs, and a killer smile are pretty much all she requires. Conversation isn’t a top priority. Marley doesn’t do serious. Neither do I, but casual isn’t my strong suit either, which puts me in a bit of a predicament.
Terry is dressed in a pair of beige pants and a short-sleeve button-down. Both are wrinkled, which I find odd. His shoes are brown and he’s wearing sports socks. They should be white, but it appears he’s washed them with something red, because they have a slight pink hue. In fact, his shirt might also have the same slight pinkish hue.
Terry’s profile states he’s six one, but I think that’s an exaggeration. He’s maybe six
feet at best. He’s also incredibly lean. So much so that I imagine if I put on a pair of his boxers, there’s a good chance they would fit me just fine. Not that there would ever be a reason for me to put his boxers on, but for the sake of waist-size comparison.
His brown hair is parted to the side, and I note the hint of recession at his crown. I’m not so vain that he needs to have a full head of hair forever, but I think his profile said he’s thirty-one. I imagine in ten years he’ll have a horseshoe.
Like the rest of him, his face is narrow. He has a straight nose and brown eyes. I assess my bodily reaction to his physical appearance. Nothing. No tingles. No zingy zaps anywhere. Which is perfect, because it ensures that I won’t make any hormonally charged decisions.
I take a deep breath, check my dress—dear Lord this cleavage is insane—and cross the last few feet to stand in front of him.
He looks up when my shadow crosses his phone. He does a full-body scan, eyes moving down to start at my shoes and he works his way slowly up. His gaze gets caught at my chest.
“Rian. Wow.” He pushes to a stand, eyes still fixed below my neck for a few more seconds before he finally makes eye contact. His cheeks flush pink, and he jams his hands in his pockets. I think there’s a grease stain on the front of his pants, but I don’t want to look too closely since it’s near his crotch. “You look”—he gestures to my dress—“incredible.”
“You look … great.” My voice is all squeaky. If he knew me well enough, he’d know I’m lying. How great can one look in pants that are a size too big with a stain on the front and a wrinkled shirt? Also, he’s sweating. His forehead and upper lip are dotted with perspiration. I don’t remember him being this gross last time.
He glances down and then back at me, the flush in his cheeks deepening. He laughs a little and tugs on the collar of his shirt. “I came straight from work. I had a bit of an issue and didn’t want to be late.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah. Fine. Just, uh, problems after a lunch meeting. Everything’s fine.” He pulls a tissue from his pocket and dabs at his upper lip. “We should go in.” He motions me forward, holding the door open like a gentleman. With these heels on, he’s almost exactly the same height as I am. Definitely not even six feet, then.
“Would you prefer to sit inside or on the patio?”
“Either is fine with me.” My skin pebbles at the blast of air conditioning as I enter the restaurant.
He runs his knuckle along the back of my arm, and my first instinct is to step away from his touch, which isn’t a great sign. It’s one thing not to have heaps of immediate chemistry, but such an adverse reaction is way bad. “Maybe the patio will be better? It’s warmer out there.”
I glance at his glistening forehead. “Sure. As long as you’re okay with that.”
“Oh yeah. Totally okay with outside.” His eyes drop and bounce back up. Maybe the camisole would’ve been advisable after all.
The hostess leads us to a lovely little table on the outdoor patio, away from most of the other patrons. There are a couple of business meetings taking place, and one or two other couples, but we have a bit of privacy, at least until the rest of the dinner crowd shows up.
The view is spectacular, beautiful sandy beach leading to the ocean, quaint houses dot the coastline, and in the distance, the Mission Mansion rises against the bright blue sky, its once stately splendor diminished by the lack of upkeep. I take the seat facing away from it, so I don’t fixate on it.
We’re still a long way from sunset, but a few clouds streak the sky, and in a couple of hours the view will be devastatingly romantic. At least it could be without sweaty, disheveled Terry sitting across from me.
I ask how his day was and he launches into an animated monologue about an account he’s dealing with. I order a glass of white wine and he orders ginger ale—Terry doesn’t drink—and I attempt to listen. He drones on and on about the subtle nuances of an accounting mistake made by one of the rival firms in Long Island. I’d like to say it’s riveting, but he even makes numbers sound boring.
As the patio continues to fill with dinner patrons my mind wanders, and I start thinking about Pierce, who I haven’t heard from since I cut the check at Starbucks. I want to be glad that he hasn’t messaged or called since then—that means that he got the hint that I’m not interested. But, I begin comparing the two men, which is completely unfair. That’s like comparing an old, withered potato with a perfectly curved, ripe banana.
Movement to my right catches my eye. I glance over in time to see a tall, leggy blonde who looks like a much more proportional, but incredibly beautiful version of a Barbie doll, being led to the table across from us. She has a to-die-for body, wrapped in a pale-blue sundress, and her face is angelic. A man follows a few steps behind, head bowed as he scans his phone. He’s wearing khakis and a crisp white polo, paired with white deck shoes.
I have never seen that combination look so damn good on the male form before. He’s built as hell, the sleeves pulling tight around his biceps and the rear view is magical. I finally make my way up to his face.
A face I recognize. Pierce.
Sonofabitch. I can’t believe he kept pushing for a date and he has a damn girlfriend. A supermodel girlfriend. I bet they have supermodel-y sex in front of mirrors so they can enjoy the view of themselves.
I get trapped in the forest green of his eyes for a moment. They really are a piercing shade. His name is rather apt. One side of his mouth quirks up. He’s caught me checking him out. Of course he knows how hot he is. And now I’ve boosted his horrible ego with my blatant appreciation, while I’m on a date with someone else. I’m a terrible person.
I realize I’m still staring and that appreciation shifts into a leer of disgust. I can’t believe he’s dating someone so beautiful and has been flirting with me behind her back up until two days ago. What a jerkface. His gaze shifts to my date and his brow lifts as he takes a seat across from Barbie’s real-life sister. I have a disturbingly perfect view of both of them.
“Do you know him?”
Shoot. That’s my date. I turn my attention back to Terry, keeping my voice low. “I’ve done business with him before.” It’s not a total lie.
“Oh.” He nods slowly, eyes darting over to the blonde. “Do you want to say hello?”
I wave a hand around and take a gulp of my wine. “Oh no, he’s a lying a-hole.” I raise my voice and try to focus on my date instead of drilling holes in the side of Pierce’s face with my laser-beam eyes. “So tell me about your plans for the weekend.”
“Oh, well, I’ve got this conference next week in New York, so I’m leaving on Sunday morning. On Saturday I usually take my grandmother lawn bowling.”
I reach out and put my hand over Terry’s, but immediately withdraw because it’s clammy. “That’s so sweet that you do that with her.”
“Have you ever gone lawn bowling?” He’s talking to my cleavage.
Despite my irritation, which I’m unsure I have a right to, considering the dress I’m wearing, I bat my lashes, playing up the sexy angle, especially since Pierce is sitting to the right of me with his model girlfriend. “No. I can’t say that I have.”
“It’s actually a lot of fun. People think it’s just for seniors, but it’s not. I’ve been playing since I was ten. I won the regional tournament last year. I have a trophy and a plaque and everything.”
“Oh wow, that’s great.” I can’t believe I’m on a date with a man who lawn bowls with his grandmother because he likes it. And he thinks he’s a hotshot because he beat a bunch of geriatrics in a tournament.
“Maybe you’d like to come with me?”
I catch myself as I recoil and try to recover, plastering a smile on my face. “You mean this weekend?”
He fidgets with his straw and shrugs, then wipes his lip sweat again. His perspiration problem has amplified while we’ve been sitting here, in the shade. I watch as a bead trickles down his temple and lands on the ta
blecloth.
Ew.
To make matters worse, his eyes keep darting around, but always seem to end up below my neck, and he’s doing this weird swallowing thing. “If you’re not busy,” he says on a croak.
I give him my sad face. “I’d really love to, but I have to work this weekend.” This is true. We have two houses to show not far from here, on the beach. We’re also planning to canvas a few of the elderly owners who might be looking to sell while the market is hot since we’re almost at the point where we can purchase one of our own properties to flip.
“Maybe another time, then. Um, if you’ll excuse me for a second, I need to use the restroom.” He shoves his chair back, nearly tipping it over. He also almost takes out a server carrying a tray of drinks when he bursts through the door.
A snort comes from my left. I glance over to find Pierce coughing into a napkin. I throw a glare his way and covertly scratch my temple with my middle finger.
Marley was right, I should’ve cancelled this date while I had the chance.
CHAPTER 5
GLOBES OF GOODNESS
PIERCE
“Okay, what’s the story?” My sister, who’s in town on business for the weekend, kicks my shin with her pointy-toed shoes, eyes shifting to the table across the patio.
I hiss in pain. “What the hell, Amalie?”
“Did you sleep with that woman?” She tilts her head in Rian’s direction, devious smile turning up the corner of her mouth.
I rub my shin. “Stop staring, and no, I didn’t sleep with her.” I know it’s Rian and not her sister based on the mole above her lip. Also, that dress she’s wearing highlights all of her incredible assets. I’d like her in my bed. But not for sleeping.
“Did you try to sleep with her? Did she reject you? Is that why she’s glaring? She’s stunning. What’s she doing with that guy? He’s so awkward.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and makes an attempt at subtlety as we watch the guy nearly trip over his own feet and knock over a server with a full tray on his way to the bathroom. At least that’s where I assume he’s disappearing to. Maybe to puke out his nerves.
I Flipping Love You Page 4