“Pump your brakes.” Brit subconsciously pumped the brakes in her own car as she whizzed through a green light, squinting at the street sign as she passed. “By the way, remind me to get my eyes checked again. I think I need new contacts.”
“Stay on subject. So this hookup guy.”
“Not a hookup. We’re meeting at a cafe, not a sleazy bar or anything. I’m going to get one 900-calorie drink and then split.”
“So what’s he like? Can you text me a picture? No, wait, you’re driving. Text me one when you stop.”
“He seems pretty chill and preppy from what his profile says, but he looks moody and artsy in his picture. Black turtleneck sweater, clasped hands, and everything.”
Barbara grunted in disapproval. “Who does the guy think he is, Steve Jobs?”
“Kind of, but think of a dangerous Steve Jobs with black hair and without glasses.”
“You have a very weird taste in guys. Eclectic. I’ll be positive and call it eclectic.”
“I’m pretty sure you said you couldn’t see yourself with a black guy, and poof. There you are, living in sin with a black guy.”
“Well, little sis. You know what they say. When you go black, you’ll never go back.”
“OK, gross. I gotta go. I should probably concentrate on the road so I can find this place sometime before my date up and leaves.”
“If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay put. However this goes tonight, remember, Brit, you’re a total babe and a major catch. He should kiss the ground and thank whoever he prays to that you even accepted this date.”
“Laying it on a little thick there, Barbie.”
“I’m not saying anything that’s not true. Have fun, Brit. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That rules out just about everything. Love ya, mean it.”
Brit tossed her phone back into her purse and focused all her attention on the road again. She considered pulling up GPS to try to find this place, but she knew she’d been there before. It was a point of pride with her to be able to find anything in Toronto if she drove around long enough. These streets were home to her, and her memory of them wouldn’t let her down.
She hadn’t spent her whole life in Toronto. Just all the best parts. For a while, she and Barbara lived in Amsterdam. Her parents met in L.A. before she was born when her dad was doing a show, and her mom was meeting some high-profile clients of hers. Her clients had wined and dined her and took her to a concert, where Brit’s dad was playing. Of course, they went backstage, and the rest was history. Well, nine months later, to no one’s surprise except Brit’s dear parents, they brought a baby into the world—Barbara.
Brit was almost ten minutes late in meeting her date, and a lap around the cafe left Brit with a rock in her stomach. She had either been stood up, or this guy was a catfish, pretending to be someone else online. There was an old man in the corner who could easily be her grandpa and two college-age-looking people, a girl and a guy, tapping away at their laptops. And it looked like a book club of some sort was meeting with five women clustered around a small table that should probably only fit two people.
Should she wait for her date to arrive before ordering? Was this really a date? The guy didn’t pick her up or anything. She didn’t know what he did for a living. Maybe she should offer to pay. On the other hand, maybe that would be emasculating to him. She didn’t mind paying, but she wanted him to at least have the chivalry to offer.
The door jingled lightly, and a man in a black shirt stepped in, flattening the collar of his jean jacket so that it was no longer standing up on end. This guy didn’t look like the moody artist that had contacted Brit on the app. He didn’t seem like the ambitious entrepreneur described on his profile. It’s not that he wasn’t OK looking, per se, but he wasn’t the guy in the profile picture. Or, he hadn’t been that guy for at least five years. She averted her eyes and waited for him to come to her.
“Britnee?” the guy asked, sticking a hand out.
Brit cringed. It was him. She politely shook his hand anyway. “Brit actually.”
“OK, Brit Actually, can I get you something to drink?”
Oh good, he came with dad jokes, too.
Brit could’ve died right on the spot when this dude—he hadn’t even introduced himself yet—pulled out his Velcro wallet. She ordered something she knew she could drink fast—a hot chocolate—and stepped back to await whatever genius order this guy was going to bestow upon the awaiting barista.
“I’ll have a venti—”
She couldn’t handle this. They weren’t at a Starbucks. In fact, he had picked the place, saying that he did lots of business here. He should darn well know he’s not at a Starbucks.
“A venti Americano with extra foam and a Splenda.”
Fighting the urge to slap her head, Brit rubbed her elbow instead, protecting herself and everyone around her from a scene erupting. It wasn’t a big deal. It’s just a drink order. Never mind the fact that this guy was nearly bald, unlike his picture, and also at least thirty pounds heavier. He looked mid-twenties in his pictures, too, but this guy in front of her was easily over thirty. Not that she minded thirty-year-olds. Lander was in his thirties, and she thought Cord was teetering around the big 3-0 mark, but neither of them tried to play it off as if they weren’t. Neither of them would have the audacity to rein in cute, young girls with their deep-thinking senior picture on a dating website.
As she stood there and thought of it, she grew more and more angry. The woodland creature on the bag of coffee next to her looked inquisitively at her with its cartoon eyes, waiting for her to snap.
She took a deep breath that came out like a sigh and opened her mouth to be proactive about the situation when the dude turned around.
“Come here often?”
This time, Brit couldn’t help rolling her eyes. She didn’t try to stop herself.
“I know, that was cheesy. I get a little nervous around pretty girls.”
The comment was nice enough, but this guy would have to bring a lot more than flattery if he wanted to win over Brit at this point. She was fine with the bald. She was fine with the weight and his age. But what was with the deception? Why the cover-up? She opened her mouth to accuse him of something when the barista called her name to pick up her drink.
She took it, and the cup warmed her hand. She wrapped both palms around it and wondered how tightly she could squeeze before the lid popped off and sent warm brown liquid all over the floor.
The guy eyed her uneasily. He must’ve caught onto the fact that she was disappointed. How could he not catch onto it? He didn’t look a thing like his picture. Brit waited until he got his drink, then trudged after him as he selected a table in a far corner. The glass door called out to Brit, welcoming her to bolt at any time. But she persevered. She at least wanted to get some answers from this guy first.
“So Brit, what do you do for a living?”
Brit dreaded this question, but she knew it would come up. She had a rich daddy, so she did nothing? How was she supposed to broach this question? Not that it mattered. It’s not like she wanted to impress this guy at all. “I work at the family business,” she said vaguely. “And you?”
He took a sip of his artificial-sugar Americano, and Brit took the opportunity to add, “By the way, I didn’t get your name. I don’t think you said it in any of your messages.”
“I didn’t? Weird. I’m Pip Roslin.” He held out his hand over the table.
“I’m sorry, Pup?”
They had already done this, but Brit pinched the end of his fingers while he enthusiastically shook them. She wasn’t going to give her own last name up so easily.
“Pip, not Pup. It’s a nickname.”
Was that better or worse? “What do you do, Pip?”
“I’m an accountant.”
Hmm, same background as Cord.
“I wouldn’t have guessed that from your profile.”
“What do I look like?”
It was a joke, but Pip didn’t seem to get the memo that he was supposed to laugh. Brit squeezed her hands around the cardboard cup again, daring it to burst open.
“You’re right about the last part. Accounting is serious business. I’m going for partner in my accounting firm. Been there for ten years. Raking in the dough. Just raking it in. You might not think accountants make bank, but this place pays out. And I’m a saver, not a spender. Good with money. Do you date much?”
Brit shook her head, and Pip took this as a sign that he was supposed to continue.
“Dating in this town is hard. In my town where I grew up, everyone knew everyone else. I loved that. You knew what you were getting. Here, people can be whoever they want. This town is fake. You mind if I get some food?”
Brit bristled at the insult to Toronto, one she didn’t believe was warranted in the least. She made an audible single “ha” when he said the word “fake.” Hypocritical much?
“I know, right? It is funny. I’ll be right back.”
Instead of coming back to the table to wait for his food, he stood at the counter chatting up the barista. She handed him his sandwich, and upon returning to the table, he chomped a hefty bite of bread and ham off the corner before continuing...with his mouth full and a glob of mustard at the corner of his lips. Brit could do little more than watch in disgust as the mustard moved with every word of his rant.
“I can’t go back home though because all the girls know my situation. They know I’m doing well, so they’d want to trick me into marrying them to be in a comfortable situation, you know? Some girls are like that. I’m sure not you. You look like you have plenty of resources. I like that top by the way.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and pointed it in her direction.
Damn. The little cleavage she had decided to show was too much, and now he was peeking at it right before her eyes. She blurted, “How old are you?”
Pip’s left eyebrow went up like he wasn’t expecting something that forward to come from this city girl. He wasn’t in the sticks anymore.
“I mean, your profile has an age range, so I didn’t know for sure.”
“How old are you?”
Brit bit down on the back of her jaw, but answered smoothly. “You come from a small town. You should know it’s not polite to ask a lady her age. Besides, I asked first.”
“Twenty-nine.”
Bull. Shit.
“And I won’t even ask you your age. You’re pretty and you’re spunky. Your age doesn’t matter. I like you.”
Jeez. How could he possibly know if he liked her? Might as well go all in.
“I’m curious, where was your picture taken? High school?”
“Oh that. You probably noticed that was kind of an old one.”
Kind of, you say?
“That was from shortly after college. My girlfriend at the time was taking a photography class. That’s my favorite picture of me.”
“You almost don’t look like the same person.”
“I believe you had black hair in your picture,” Pip pointed out, not accusingly, but like they were trying to recall facts they knew about each other from online. Which were minimal and pretty much limited to appearances from a tiny JPEG.
But at least she had hair.
“I like to change it up. What do you think of the pink?” She set him up for a compliment. This was the last chance she was giving him.
“The girls I date usually have a more natural look.”
And scene. Brit checked her phone. “Oh no, my sister needs me. I gotta go.”
“What? Now?”
“She slipped in the shower, and her fiancé isn’t home. She thinks she might have broken something. I really...I might have to take her to the hospital.”
“Do you need some help?”
“Getting my naked sister with her natural-colored hair out of the shower? Nope, I’m pretty sure I have that covered. And her fiancé is a big black guy with a bad attitude, so don’t bother following me.” Brit smiled at the last part to show him it wasn’t a threat. Hell, it wasn’t even true. Lander was as chill as they came.
“Ha, OK, good luck. Hey, can I get a hug?”
Brit went to throw her jacket over her shoulder, but she stopped and curled her lip in disgust. She leaned her torso toward Pip and rested one of her hands on his back. When they broke apart, he went in for a kiss, but Brit jerked her head away in time.
“Ah, just like hugging my grandma,” he said. “I know what that means.”
So that’s what it took to make him get the picture.
“Thanks for the hot chocolate.” Brit waved and finished putting her arms in the sleeves of her jacket.
“This is it, I’m guessing?”
“Yup.”
Safely outside of the cafe, she texted Barbara.
BRIT: If anyone named Pip asks, you fell in the shower, and I had to rescue you.
BARBIE-DOLL: Oh Britnee.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CORD WAS STANDING AT the entrance to her father’s office on Monday morning. The door hadn’t even been unlocked yet. Ten o’clock was early in their line of work, but deep down, she knew Cord would be worried about her, so she wanted to beat her dad in. She should’ve probably texted Cord more details, but he could’ve gotten the update from his brother who could’ve gotten the update from Barbara if he was really curious.
“Where’d you disappear to on Friday? One minute, I was getting you a drink, and the next minute, you were gone. I thought maybe someone had pissed you off and you up and walked out. Then Lander told me yesterday that you had been drugged.”
So dramatic, but Brit couldn’t help smiling. “I’m fine, Cord. Settle down. The scariest part was waking up to our vodka rep in my house the next day.”
“Isaiah?”
The jealousy in his voice was apparent. Why did he even care? Just because she was his boss’s daughter? Who cares if she hooks up with the vodka rep?
“Right, him. He was there with Daisy.”
“Oh, that’s good. So you succeeded in matchmaking again.”
“That was not my doing. I have someone else in mind for Daisy. Isaiah barely even likes music. Who doesn’t like music?”
“No one. Where did you even hear that?”
“Places.”
The door opened, and Sharnita whizzed by smelling like whatever delicious perfume she used every day since Brit met her that drove the male clientele crazy. As their newest bartender, Sharnita already brought in the most tips with her eyes adorned with creamy matte eyeliner that complimented her brown skin. Today she had on a Barbie pink shade.
“How was your date, Brit?”
“I thought you said Isaiah was there for Daisy?”
Brit flipped her wrist at Cord. “Stop being nosy. This is girl talk.” But none of the three moved away to provide the other party with more privacy. “Slammer guy turned out to be a total tool. He was an accountant.” Brit noticed the faintest glimmer of reaction from Cord, and she felt a tug to come to his rescue. “Not a cool accountant like you, Cord. A lame one.”
“I’m cool?”
“Sure,” Sharnita broke in. “You’re cool.” Sharnita and Brit exchanged a dubious look.
“Anyway, he just talked about his money the whole time.”
“He didn’t know who you are? You didn’t tell him you have more money than he ever will?”
“He’s not the type to read blogs.”
“Ladies, Cord.” Brit’s father had come in while they were talking about Pip the tool, and now the three socialites were blocking the entrance to his office. Sharnita scurried away with a “Good morning, Mr. Byers” in passing. He was a sweet, docile man, but he was still the boss.
Lonnie leaned over and kissed the top of his daughter’s hair. “Hi, Sweetheart. How was your weekend?”
“You didn’t hear?” Cord asked, flipping on the li
ght for them and following Lonnie into his office.
Brit considered retreating with Sharnita, but she knew someone would chase her down and make her explain herself to her father at some point anyway.
“I hear everything.” Lonnie dropped his Louis Vuitton man purse onto the desk and considered the last thing he said. “Hear what?”
Cord stared pointedly at Brit.
Brit half-expected him to answer for her, but he didn’t. Instead, he made an encouraging hand gesture to coax her onward.
Lonnie looked from Cord to Brit and then back to Cord. “Well, someone has to tell me. Cord?”
“Brit, it’s all you.” He stepped to the side so that there was nothing but a giant executive desk between Brit and Lonnie.
“Some jerk slipped me a roofie in a drink.”
Lonnie’s usually foggy expression cleared, and his stern papa bear expression came out. He would not tolerate date rape under any circumstances, but especially of his own daughter.
“You’re not to go to that club anymore. I’m calling Gary right now to report it, and then I’m calling Sarge to get you a bodyguard.” No one underestimated Lonnie Byers. At least not twice.
“Dad, you’re overreacting. I’m fine. I thought it was Cord handing me a drink, but someone else got to me first. It won’t happen again.”
“I was getting her a Sprite with lime,” Cord said quickly with his hands up.
Lonnie’s face softened in Cord’s direction. “You’re always very good to my daughter.”
“Better than her dates, too, apparently.”
Lonnie shot Brit a quizzical look.
Well, Cord couldn’t be trusted with all her secrets.
Waving off the comment, Lonnie said, “Oh, don’t bother with dates. I’ll take care of you as long as you’d like, Sweetheart. You don’t need to get married if you don’t want to. I’m not sure why Barbara wants to so badly, to be honest. Although, Lander is a catch. If she had to marry someone, I’m glad it’s him at least.”
“I have no intention of marrying, Dad. Don’t you worry about that.”
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