No More Terrible Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  No More Terrible Dates

  A romantic comedy of love, friendship . . . and tea

  High Tea Book 2

  (Cozy Cottage Café Book 6)

  by

  Kate O’Keeffe

  No More Terrible Dates is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  ISBN: 978-1692648336

  Edited by The Letterers Collective

  Cover design by Sue Traynor

  Copyright © 2019 Kate O’Keeffe

  Also by Kate O’Keeffe

  Cozy Cottage Café Series:

  One Last First Date

  Two Last First Dates

  Three Last First Dates

  Four Last First Dates

  High Tea Series (Cozy Cottage Spin-Off):

  No More Bad Dates

  No More Terrible Dates

  No More Horrible Dates

  Wellywood Romantic Comedy Series:

  Wedding Bubbles

  Styling Wellywood

  Miss Perfect Meets Her Match

  Falling for Grace

  Standalone titles:

  Manhattan Cinderella

  The Right Guy

  One Way Ticket

  I'm Scheming of a White Christmas

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek at No More Horrible Dates

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Of all the terrible, horrendous, completely diabolical dates I’ve been on in my twenty-five years—well, more like ten years because I didn’t start dating until I was fifteen, like most normal people—this date has got to be the absolute worst. A clear winner of the much-contested “Most Terrible Date Darcy Evans Has Ever Been On” award. The Supreme Leader of the Terrible Dates World. No, the Supreme Leader of the Terrible Dates Universe.

  Get the picture?

  Sure, we met online via the dreaded swipe so my expectations were not exactly high to begin with. I’ve found the connection between an online profile and reality can be tenuous, and I fully expected this guy to be no different from the rest: all normal on the outside with some form of weirdness simmering just below the surface.

  As I nervously wait at Cozy Cottage Café for him to arrive, I wonder how different he’ll look from his photo. I have a bet with myself that the image of a hunky, athletic guy with messy mid-length hair in that Jason Momoa way I go weak at the knees for will only vaguely resemble his current physical state. What’s more, I bet his list of hobbies that includes tennis, squash, yachting, and “working hard to keep my six-pack” is more like an unobtainable wish list than anything close to actual reality.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last month, it’s that truth and the wonderful world of online dating very rarely coincide.

  So, you can imagine my unadulterated glee when the guy walks in looking even better than his online photograph. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans combo that shows me his hard work on his six-pack has definitely paid off, and when his gaze locks with mine, my hopes shoot up into the clouds and I swear I hear a choir sing the Hallelujah Chorus for a full ten seconds.

  Act relaxed, Darcy, like I meet guys who look like this guy every day of the week.

  Hastily, I sweep my hair over my shoulders (to show just how relaxed I am) and shoot him a breezy smile.

  “Are you Darcy Evans?” he asks in a voice that matches his appearance to perfection. Read: rich, low, sexy.

  Yup, I’m pinching myself here.

  I look up at the man towering over me. “I am,” I squeak and immediately clear my throat, my cheeks heating right up. Why do I have to sound like I’m a close relative of Chip ‘n’ Dale at this crucial moment? Lowering my voice a full octave, I say, “I mean, I am, and you must be Devan.” I stand up and offer him my hand, hoping he didn’t notice my chipmunk impersonation.

  If he did, he doesn’t mention it. “It’s great to meet you, Darcy. You look exactly like your photo.”

  “You do, too.” Only even better.

  His eyes rove over me. “Cute suit. You’re totally rocking it. The navy brings out the color of your eyes.”

  Okay, so my eyes are brown, but whatever. I may just have experienced a mini-swoon inside. If that’s a thing. I look up at him and smile. Yeah, that is definitely a thing.

  Self-consciously, I tug at my jacket. I’m not going to lie. I went through virtually my entire wardrobe to work out what to wear today. “Oh, this old thing?” I say, pulling out the oldest line in the book. “Do you, ah, want to take a seat?”

  “I’ll grab a coffee first. You want one?”

  “I already ordered a coffee, but thank you. Sometimes I drink tea, though. I got into it when my friend got this job running a high tea place. Tea really doesn’t deserve its reputation as an old lady’s drink, you know.” Why am I rambling on about tea and old ladies? “So yeah, I’m good.” I shoot him what I hope is a winning smile and try to push my nerves away.

  “Cool. BRB.” He saunters over to the counter, and I’ve got to hold my chin up to stop my jaw from hitting the table. Everything on this guy works. He’s the perfect build, perfect height, perfect look, perfect everything for me. If he orders an Americano, he might just be my perfect match, too.

  But I could be getting ahead of myself here. It’s only a first date, after all. Actually, I should be more precise: it’s only an “Initial Meeting,” according to the rules of the pact my friends and I have agreed to. The No More Bad Dates Pact. We came up with it a few months back. You see, we were all pretty darn sick of dating the jerks and weirdos of the world, and we figured, if we could help one another out in finding the right guys, we could avoid the pain of dating the wrong ones. And date the wrong ones we have all done. Repeatedly.

  Under the No More Bad Dates Pact rules, once one of us has met a guy we want to date, we go on an Initial Meeting over a cup of coffee. If things go well, the guy then gets vetted by the other two Pact members to weed out the undesirables. Then, and only then, can a first date take place.

  It might sound a little over the top, but when you’ve had as many terrible dates as we have, you’d be tempted to do the same. And anyway, it’s a nice feeling knowing my girls have got my back.

  A few minutes later, Devan arrives back at the table, and I get a pleasant waft of his aftershave as he takes a seat opposite me. “The guy at the counter told me he’d bring my coffee over.”

  His smile is dazzling. I mean, his teeth are so pearly white and perfect, NASA could use him to guide in the spaceships. Well, if they need bright, white things to do that. (I don’t know if they do because I’m not an astronaut.)

  “So, Darcy, is now the time I should ’fess up to you that this is my first online date? I’m a total novice at this whole thing.”

  “It is?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Crazy, I know. This is the twenty-first century, right? What rock have I been hi
ding under?”

  A happy giggle bubbles up inside me. “I know, right? Full disclosure?” I ask and he nods. “This is only my second online date. I’m pretty new to this, too.”

  “I guess that makes us both virginal. Well, me more than you.”

  “Are there degrees of virginity?” I ask and immediately blush once more. I’m so out of practice at flirting, I’m not sure how talking about virginity within five minutes of meeting someone new will land.

  He shakes his head good-humoredly. “You’ll have to ask a doctor about that. How did the first guy work out?”

  I pull a face. “Badly.” As in he was married and looking to cheat on his wife.

  His eyes light up. “That sounds like a story.”

  Wow, this guy is cute.

  “Not one I’ll tell my grandkids, that’s for sure.” I toy with my hair and add, “Let’s just say false advertising was involved.”

  He sucks in air. “Profile didn’t match reality? I’ve heard that’s a thing.”

  I look at him through my lashes. I’m pulling out all the stops here. “Not with you.”

  “Ditto.” He grins at me and those zings return full force.

  I sense someone arriving at our table and glance up to see Alex, one of the Cozy Cottage Café baristas, shoot me his characteristically cheeky grin—the one that makes me want to trip him when he’s carrying hot coffee. And yeah, I know that makes me sound like I’m a very bad person, but believe me when I say he’d deserve it. And more.

  But I’m determined not to let Alex Walsh burst my Devan bubble right now.

  “Your Americano,” Alex says as he places the cup of coffee in front of me.

  I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you,” I say stiffly.

  “And your Americano,” he says as he places another cup of coffee in front of Devan.

  We both drink Americanos? I have died and gone to heaven with this guy.

  “Thanks a lot,” Devan replies, offering Alex his dazzling NASA grin.

  Alex tucks his tray under his arm. “You two look very cozy. Is this a date?” He looks from Devan to me. “You’re all pink and flustered, and you’re,” he turns to Devan, “well, you look pretty normal. Yup, I bet this is definitely a date.”

  I shoot him a look that I hope tells him to scurry away. “Thanks again for the coffee.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome.” He doesn’t move. Instead, he says, “I noticed that you both take your coffee the same way. Do you think that means something?”

  Well, I did until you mentioned it.

  “A lot of people drink Americanos, Alex. You should know that. You’re a barista,” I say, my (fake) smile firmly in place.

  He leans his hand on the back of a chair tucked into our table, making himself quite at home. “I should do a study, you know. Work out what the top three ways to have your coffee are. It would be quite fascinating, don’t you think?”

  I grind my teeth. Why is this guy still here?

  To my surprise, Devan replies, “I bet the Americano would be right up there. It’s a classic.”

  I shoot Devan a look that screams don’t encourage him! but in a completely sweet and “I’m trying to make a good impression” k

  ind of way. I don’t want to put him off. Jason Momoa look-alike, remember?

  Alex raises his index finger. “You can’t ignore the latte. Or the cappuccino, for that matter. Two very solid offerings right there.”

  I glare at him. Just leave!

  “I do like a good cappuccino from time to time,” Devan replies.

  I know he’s just being nice and humoring Alex, but really, I did not picture spending this Initial Meeting with both Devan and our barista. Particularly not when that barista happens to be Alex freaking Walsh.

  “Thank you so much for delivering the coffee, Alex.” I raise my eyebrows at him in a meaningful way. “See you later, Alex.”

  “Oh.” The reality of the situation finally seems to have dawned on him. “Gotcha. I forgot this is a date. I’ll, ah, leave you two to chat or . . . whatever.”

  Or whatever? What does he think we’re going to do in the middle of a café at nine in the morning? Make out? I swing my eyes to Devan. Actually, that’s not a bad idea . . .

  Devan shrugs. “It’s cool. Good chatting to you. And thanks for the coffee.”

  “No worries,” Alex says to Devan before glancing back at me.

  By now, my eyebrows are raised so high, I fear they’ll permanently join my hairline.

  “I’ll get back to it. Enjoy your date.” Alex finally leaves Devan and me in peace.

  “He’s a nice guy,” Devan says.

  The word “nice” is not one I’d use to describe Alex Walsh unless the word “not” proceeded it.

  “Sure.” I smile across the table at Devan. “Now. Where were we?”

  “I think you were going to tell me about how much better I am than the last date you had.” His grin is cheeky and oh-so-adorable.

  I let out a light laugh. “Believe me, you’re a lot better.”

  We share a smile and both take sips of our coffees.

  Placing my cup on the table, I say, “Okay, so tell me, Devan. What’s life like as an advertising executive?”

  “I love it. I get to work with some fantastic clients and super talented creatives. Some of the concepts we’ve come up with have been incredible, even winning awards at times.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I’m not one to brag, but . . .” As I listen to him talk about his work, his passion for it written across his gorgeous face, I begin to imagine what it’d be like to date Devan Smith. Going to awards dinners together, him looking resplendent in a tux, me in a gorgeous floor-length, strappy dress I can only afford in my daydreams. He’s the kind of guy I could take to meet my sisters. It would make them super jealous, plus it’d get Mom off my back, that’s for sure. No more “When are you going to find a nice man and settle down like your sisters?” questions. Or my personal favorite, “When I was your age, I was already married with a baby on the way.” Yup, that’s my favorite. And no arguments that women have more choices these days could ever dissuade her.

  “—and that’s going to be my next step, so long as I land the new client this week.”

  I snap my attention back to Devan. “New client?” I question.

  “Yeah. Like I was saying.”

  Dammit! I’ve been so busy thinking about how great it’ll be to date this guy, I wasn’t actually listening to what he was saying. I can’t tell him that, though, can I? So instead, I give a knowing nod and say, “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you, Devan?”

  He gives a self-deprecating shrug. “I guess I have. How about you?”

  “Oh, as much as I’d like to, I don’t particularly have my life worked out yet.”

  “I bet you do. What’s your job?”

  “I’m a personal assistant to a celebrity.”

  “Seriously? Who?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you. You know the drill,” I deadpan.

  “Wow,” he chuckles, “that must be some celebrity. Come on, you’ve got to tell me now.”

  I shrug. I like talking about what I do. Sure, my boss can be demanding, but being a P.A. to a celebrity is never dull, that’s for sure. “I work for Larissa Monroe.”

  “Larissa Monroe?” Devan’s eyes almost pop out of his head as he utters the actress-turned-health guru’s name. “As in made it big here, went to Hollywood and starred in that movie with Todd Milson, then came back to New Zealand to reinvent herself as our very own Gwyneth Paltrow? That Larissa Monroe?”

  Could there be more than one? Gawd, I hope not, for my sake. And doesn’t this guy know an awful lot about Larissa? “Yup. That’s her.”

  His eyes are bright when he asks, “What’s she like?”

  I roll out my usual response. After all, she’s my boss, so I’m not exactly going to say anything bad about her, even if sometimes she does drive me to
insanity with her outlandish demands and hare-brained ideas. “She is so great. She’s focused and super inspirational.”

  “Oh, come on. You sound like one of my advertising logos.”

  “I’m serious. Larissa is great to work for, and I’m lucky to have my job.”

  “Okay. We’ll leave it at that, but you’re gonna have to spill the dirt some time, you know.”

  Happiness bubbles up inside me. That means he wants to see me again. I knew today was going to work out great.

  Ten minutes later, stories shared, our coffee drunk, it’s hard to wipe the smile from my face. Outside the café, I take a deep breath, preparing myself to tell him about the next step in the No More Bad Dates Pact: The Vetting Process.

  “Devan, can I ask you something?” I begin, ready to deliver my prepared speech about the Pact.

  “First up, I need to do this.” He takes a step closer to me, and before I know quite what’s happening, he places his hands on my shoulders, leans down, and presses his lips against mine. With his touch, I breathe in his wonderful scent, and although it’s totally against the No More Bad Dates Pact rules to kiss during the Initial Contact—rules we all agreed for very good reasons—my knees feel like they could buckle right here on the sidewalk outside the café.

  All too soon, he pulls back from me. Feeling as though I’m floating on a cloud, I open my eyes and gaze at him. But there’s no look of pleasure I would expect to see on his face after a first kiss like that. Instead, he looks . . . well, vaguely revolted, if I were to be completely honest.

  “Devan?” I question, suddenly unsure of myself. Was it my technique? Do I have bad breath? Oh, my God, I have bad breath! I knew I shouldn’t have had that garlic bread with my dinner last night, dammit! What was I thinking?

  I place my hand in front of my mouth and push a breath out to try to catch a whiff of garlic. It’s pointless. I get nothing.

  “What are you doing?” he asks with a frown.

  “I, ah, thought I might have bad breath.”

  He crinkles his nose. “Your breath is fine.”

  “Wh-what is it then?” I ask, not sure I really want to know the answer. “You didn’t look like you enjoyed that a whole lot.” I let out a light laugh to show him it that it really wouldn’t bother me in the least if I were the worst kisser he’s ever kissed, which of course it would. Jason Momoa look-alike and all that.