“Right.” I couldn’t hold back the smile edging up the corner of my mouth. “You’re so hysterical.” I let my voice drip with sarcasm. “Just knock me over with a feather.”
He just gave me a look that said, See? We get each other.
“I think I like you,” I said at last. And I did. He was engaging and entertaining and there was just something about him that spoke to me. It felt like The Edric Show and I was his core audience.
Leaning back in his chair, he held my gaze, his brows drawn together in silent appraisal. “Same,” he said. “I like you, too.”
“It’s the Lucy Effect,” I explained. “I tend to have that effect on people.”
Saying nothing, he sent me a lazy grin. An utterly charming and devastating grin.
“Are you gonna get some coffee?” I asked. “Or a croissant?”
“Nah.” He chucked his keys and wallet on the table. “I’m just here to meet you. Get to know you and all that.”
“Well.” I lifted my cup to my lips and took a slow sip before continuing. “What would you like to know?”
“Usually, I like to start off every date with three questions.”
“Go on,” I said gamely. “Ask away.”
“What’s something from your Google search history that’s revealing about who you are?”
“Hmm...” I thought about this briefly then said, “The other day my mom sent me a text, telling me she’d found my spirit animal.” I smiled a little to myself. “I always thought spirit animals didn’t exist until she had me Google this pig.”
“What pig?”
“The booze-pilfering, drunken feral pig from Port Hedland, Australia.”
“Never heard of that pig.”
“Let me tell you more,” I said. “This Aussie pig stole three six-packs of beer from a bunch of campers and drank them all. Then it went on a drunken bender, running amok, causing chaos and starting a fight with a cow.”
“A cow?”
“A cow.”
“Holy cow.”
“And after that boar-ish rampage, this pig decided to swim out into the middle of the river before collapsing drunk under a tree and falling asleep.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. Seriously, every once in a while, you come across a story that is so perfect, so splendid that you can’t possibly make it up.”
He grew quiet for a heartbeat. “So you’re telling me that you identify with this pig?”
“I do, actually. The pig’s a hot mess and I’m a bit of a hot mess myself, especially when I’ve had a few drinks in me. And to be honest, I’m not very put-together. My life is sort of all over the place at the moment.”
“I see.” The faint, sexy lift of his lips told me he was amused. “All right, I have another question.”
“I have another answer.”
“Favorite show?”
Without missing a beat, I said, “The Office.”
“That’s my favorite show,” he said with some surprise.
“Sometimes,” I began, “I start a sentence—”
With a quirk of his lips, he added, “And I don’t even know where it’s going.”
“I just hope I find it along the way,” I said with a smile.
“Hands down my favorite line from Michael Scott.”
“Same,” I cried. “My other favorite one is ‘Assistant to—”
“—the Regional Manager,” he finished my sentence. “Gotta love Dwight.”
“Yes! Yes! Keep going.” This was fun. “What’s the next question?”
“What’s your number one gripe?”
Ah. My favorite topic of discussion. “Where do I even begin?” I was brimming with excitement. “I have so many gripes. It’s hard to pick one that’s head and shoulders above all the rest.”
“I can relate.” He nodded gravely. “It’s sort of like choosing your favorite child.”
“Right, right.” I nodded just as gravely. “And you can’t choose your favorite child, can you? They’re all equal in different ways.”
“You have children?”
“I do not. But if I did, I imagine it’d be hard to pick my favorite.”
“Just name one gripe that comes to mind.”
“Okay.” I twisted my lips. “When my dental hygienist makes small talk while she’s cleaning my teeth. I mean, how am I supposed to reply when she’s got her whole fist in my mouth and she’s scraping plaque from my teeth?”
“Yeah,” he said knowingly. “My dental hygienist will be hacksawing into my gums and then she’ll just casually say, ‘Hey, are you doing anything fun this weekend?’”
“I know, right?” I huffed. “All I can do is respond with a garbled, ‘Mmmph,’ all while I’ve got a pool of spit in my mouth.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m sitting there drooling myself into a pile of spittle, trying to tell her my plans, grunting with my mouth wide open, ‘Mmmphh. Mmmmmmmp. Mmphhhhhhh.’”
“Mmmmphhhssshhbbb.” I made more garbling noises and then we burst into laughter, cracking ourselves up.
“Very annoying.”
“Agreed.” I nodded once. “Oh, wait,” I said suddenly. “I just thought of another one. Couples who work out at the gym together—they’re vile!”
“They are,” he said. “So gross.”
“So gross.” Now I turned the tables back on him. “What about you?” I asked. “What’s your top gripe?”
“I’ll start with the old classic gripe,” he began. “People who say high school was the best time of their lives.”
“You know what the best part about high school was?”
“What?”
“Leaving.”
That elicited a small chuckle from him. “Well said, Lucy. Well fuckin’ said. And I have another gripe,” he said without pausing. “When someone eats the leftovers I was saving.”
“That’s a good one,” I acknowledged. “Ranks up there in my top ten.”
Now he was on a roll. The floodgates were open and I’d unleashed the gripe monster. “When the shirt I threw in the dryer last night is slightly damp. But I have to wear it because it’s the best option so I’m just damp and frumpy the whole day.” He didn’t stop to take a breath before launching into his next gripe. “And when someone parks like an idiot and then I have to park like an idiot next to them and then they leave and I’m still parked like an idiot.”
I laughed softly. “Did that just happen today?”
“As a matter of fact it did, right outside the—” He stopped midsentence.
His phone was having a seizure, buzzing nonstop with notifications. He picked it up, glanced at the display and then turned it to silent mode. “Sorry about that.”
“What was that all about?”
A muscle tightened at the base of his jaw, as if he were holding back words. “Just a bunch of haters and trolls, tweeting up a storm at me.”
“Do you ever engage with the trolls?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “It’s hard not to.”
“Let me tell you something my papa always told me. He said that the more you stomp in horseshit, the more it stinks.”
“Nice.” His mouth curled slightly. “You know what? I’m gonna make that my official motto on social media from now until the end of time.”
“Good.”
“Grand.” In the silence that followed, he sat staring at me long and hard, then, “Are you really looking to date a farmer?”
“Mmmmm.” I weighed my response.
“Because I’m not a farmer. Nor am I a rancher.”
“Really?” I kept my voice calm and collected. “I suspected as much.”
“You suspected as much?” Eyes slightly narrowed, he regarded me evenly. “How?”
“You smell like the cologne department of a European duty-free.”
“It’s Dior Sauvage,” he informed me.
“Savage,” I said with a teasing note in my voice. “It makes you smell like Raid.”
&nbs
p; “Raid?” He frowned. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s a concentrated bug fogger. Kills cockroaches.”
“Doubt it,” he said mildly. “Nothing kills cockroaches. And only two things will be left roaming this earth after the next apocalypse. Cockroaches and me.”
This actually made me laugh out loud. He was quite the character.
“Anyway, what’s a farmer supposed to smell like?” he asked. “Sandalwood? Gasoline and motor oil? Freshly churned dirt?”
“They certainly don’t smell like you.” I sat forward, leaning my elbows on the table. “So tell me... since you’re not a farmer, what do you actually do for a living?”
“Well, I’m not one to brag,” he said ultra-modestly. “But I used to be an elite professional athlete.”
“So you’re like a big deal.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Are.”
“Okay, I am,” he said coolly. “These days, though, I’m just a venture capitalist.”
“Let me guess,” I said dryly. “You gave a friend of yours five hundred dollars for his Kickstarter campaign and now you call yourself a venture capitalist?”
“Oof.” He clutched his chest. “Sick burn. You wounded my pride, woman.”
“You called yourself a professional athlete. Tell me,” I said with interest, “what’s the difference between you and an amateur athlete?”
“Amateurs train until they get it right; professionals train until they can’t get it wrong.”
“I see,” I said quietly. “And what kind of professional athlete were you?”
A smile played around his lips. “Care to take a guess?”
“Hmm,” I mused aloud. “Football player?”
“Hah.” He smirked. “Play football and have my life turn out breathtakingly fucked from all the concussions and CTEs? And by fifty I’ve got Alzheimer’s and I’m walking around with a cane? Yeah, no, thank you.”
“You’re tall,” I observed. “What are you? Six three?”
“Six four,” he corrected.
“Based on your height, I’d say you’re not quite tall enough to play in the NBA.”
“That would be a fair assumption.”
“So...” I tried again. “Hockey player?”
“Nope.”
“Baseball player?”
“No.”
“Golfer?”
“Erm, golfing is not a sport and golfers are not athletes, okay?”
“Okay.” I threw my hands up in the air. “I give up.”
“Tennis player.” Edric began flexing his arms. “And I’ve been told that my forehand is like foreplay.”
“Tennis player?” A gruff voice unfurled from the table next to us. “Did you say you’re a tennis player? That’s so fuckin’ gay.”
“Yo!” Edric flicked his gaze to the brawny man in pink golf attire. “Don’t bring gays into this.”
“What did you say?” The man’s features were rough-hewn, leathered by the sun, and he was clenching his jaw so hard I was surprised his molars hadn’t shattered.
“What?” Irritation crept into Edric’s voice. “Who are you talking to?”
“You!” he fired back. “And what did you say again? I missed it when I gouged out my left eye.”
Yikes. This man was giving me intense gym teacher vibes. The tendons and veins in his neck were literally bulging out like rope.
“Calm down,” I said reproachfully. “My friend over here just asked you very nicely to leave the gays out of this.”
Intense Gym Teacher stood upright and straightened himself. “Well, tennis is gay!” he fired back. “And your friend over there is gay!”
“Don’t let my pleasant demeanor fool you.” Edric kept his expression calm but I heard the dark undercurrents in his voice. “I don’t tolerate discrimination in any form.”
The coward was too afraid to go head-to-head with Edric. Instead, he chose to direct his ire toward me. “Let me tell you something, young lady. Golfing is a sport and golfers are athletes! You got that, missy?”
“Girrrrl.” I dismissed his outburst with a flippant flick of my hair across my shoulders. “Have a seat. In fact, have several seats.”
Intense Gym Teacher remained standing there, glaring at us.
“Hey.” A hint of warning seeped into Edric’s voice. “You heard the woman.”
At this point, Intense Gym Teacher was fuming. Fuming. I could practically see the steam rolling out of his ears.
Blatantly ignoring the dimwit, I addressed my words to Edric. “Um, were we even talking to him to begin with?”
“I know, right?” Edric said mildly which seemed to infuriate the guy even more. “I think he just wants attention.”
“For sure,” I agreed. “He’s like that one girl at a sleepover who feels the need to take a pregnancy test just for attention.”
Edric gave a definitive nod. “He’s one hundred percent that girl.”
“And,” I added, “I bet his mom had to pick him up early from sleepovers because he always locked himself in the bathroom over some petty bullshit.”
Edric kept from laughing but only barely.
Huffing and puffing, Intense Gym Teacher began grabbing his stuff off the table and right before storming off, he barked, “Fuccccckkkkk you!”
“What a doucheboob.” I shook my head in slight disbelief.
“What a Chad.” Edric smirked.
“Ugh, he’s such a Chad,” I agreed. “He’s like your toxic ex-boyfriend from high school who hasn’t grown up and now sells pyramid scheme protein shakes.”
“That was very descriptive, but okay.”
“And he was real mad. We must’ve touched on a nerve.”
“Must’ve.” Edric gave a careless shrug. “Oh well, if you don’t piss off a few people every once in a while, you’re not very interesting.”
“True.”
“Do you think it was the comment I made that set him off?”
“Which one?” I asked.
“About golfers not being athletes.”
“Who knows?” I shrugged back. “Maybe it’s ’coz I called him a petty bitch at a sleepover.”
“Probably both.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Yeesh.” He exhaled a clipped sigh. “I bet he’s that one guy on who loses every ball on the golf course and yells, ‘Has anyone seen my balls today?’”
I allowed myself a slight sneer. “Ugh, those people are the worst.”
“The worst,” he commiserated.
And just like that, a sense of camaraderie was established. We were a team. Two ordinary folks who harbored a shared hatred for homophobic golfers who acted like mean girls at sleepovers.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Edric spoke first. “Permission to be frank.”
“Permission granted.”
“I don’t date horse girls.”
My stomach plummeted and my heart shriveled to the size of a lima bean. “Then why are you here. Are you looking for a relationship?”
“No.”
“Looking to hook up?”
“No.”
“So why did you show up for this date?”
“As a favor. My friends signed me up for FarmersOnly.”
“Surrrre.” I dragged the word out with deliberate intent. “Isn’t that what they all say?”
“It’s true,” he insisted.
“Gospel truth?”
“Gospel truth,” he deadpanned. “You see, my friends have been playing matchmaker for the past two years and it’s been driving me mental. They’re relentlessly optimistic.”
“Sucks for them. Optimists are just setting themselves up for disappointment.”
“Accurate. Pessimists, on the other hand, are setting themselves up for pleasant surprises.”
“Are you surprised right now?”
“Pleasantly.”
“Yo
u seem frustrated, though.”
“It’s not you. It’s them. I swear, if they keep this up, I’m gonna turn into a pillar of ash. And just today, I learned that I have a type.” He made the quote-unquote sign with his fingers. “Apparently, I only date Instagram models.”
“Pssh.” I waved his words aside. “What’s so great about Instagram models anyway? Anyone can be an Instagram model. Even my family dog, Cheddar, is an Instagram model.”
“Wait,” he said. “Is Cheddar a huge celebrity?”
“What would you consider a huge celebrity?”
“Has Cheddar ever issued a Notes app apology to his fans on Instagram?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid Cheddar is not an A-list celeb. And who names their dog Cheddar? Cheesy much?”
“Hold on a second.” I stared at him. “You look vaguely familiar. Are you a huge celebrity?”
“Ahem.” He coughed loudly. “I took home the men’s singles title at Wimbledon last month.” He was overly self-deprecating about this.
“Ahhhh.” It slowly dawned on me. “No wonder. I saw you on the cover of People while I was waiting in line at the Target register and I must say, you look so much better in person.”
His gaze became thoughtful, then searching. “I’ve always wondered...” He stopped himself.
“What?” I pressed.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Are you telling me that I looked shitty on the cover of People?”
I suppressed a grin. “No.”
“You know how many people saw that cover? Millions,” he stated. “Millions. And you know how many people have seen me in real life?”
“Not millions?” I ventured.
“Right! So yeah, I’d rather look better on the cover of People. And I get this all the damn time. Someone will come up to me and say, ‘Hey, man! Huge fan. Huge. I watch all your tournaments on TV.’ Then he’ll follow that by saying I look much better in person. Like, what the fuck? Why would I wanna look better in person when—”
“When millions watch you on TV,” I finished his sentence.
“Exactly!” He picked up his keys and began twirling them around his index finger. “Don’t tell me I look better one way or the other. Just tell me you’re happy to see me.”
The Good Mistake (Hemsworth Brothers #3) Page 3