No More Horrible Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  No More Horrible Dates

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

  High Tea Book 3

  (Cozy Cottage Café Book 7)

  by

  Kate O’Keeffe

  No More Horrible 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: 978-1690621195

  Edited by Wendi Baker

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Before we start, there are a few things you should know about me. First up, I don’t date jocks. Ever. Which is a little bit of a problem. You see, in my job as Sponsorship Account Manager for the Hawks rugby team, I meet nothing but jocks. A “target-rich dating environment” is what one of my BFFs, Darcy, calls it. To me, dating a sports pro is about as appealing as having to follow a Great Dane around with a pooper scooper after a very large meal. Actually, now that I think about it, the Great Dane job would be an improvement.

  Secondly, I’ve agreed to a pact with my two best friends, Darcy and Sophie, to find my H.F.N. (Happy For Now, for those of you not obsessed with romance novels the way I am, and as a side note, you should be because romance novels are awesome). Secretly, between you and me, I don’t want to find my H.F.N. I want to find my Happily Ever After. My H.E.A. I want to find The One, the guy I’m meant to be with. Not that I’ve told my friends that. No way. They think I’m looking for guys to date, not to fall in love. But falling in love is what I dream of doing, and I won’t settle for anything but the real deal.

  Which brings me to the final thing you need to know about me: I’m a bit of a romantic. Okay, I’m a lot of a romantic. I love the idea of being swept off my feet by a handsome man, of grand gestures, roses, and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. I want the guy I’m head over heels in love with down on bended knee with a hopeful look in his eyes and a sparkling ring in his hand. Talk about swoon! That’s what I want. All of it. At the risk of sounding like a lyric in a rather famous Queen song, I want it all, and I want it now.

  But you know what? The world isn’t like that. Well, not anymore anyway. Maybe it was back in the Brontë sisters time or when Jane Austen was penning her romantic tales or maybe when knights roamed the countryside, saving damsels from huge, scary dragons. Not that I want to be saved, of course, even though the idea of a burly and dashing knight rushing to my aid is kind of appealing. No, Twenty-First Century New Zealand isn’t exactly packed to the gills with Mr. Darcys and Heathcliffs and handsome knights on white stallions. Quite the opposite, in fact. My world is full of arrogant, self-interested, womanizing professional rugby players who wouldn’t know romance if it leapt up and slapped them in the face.

  So, when a super cute guy starts to chat to me in the line at the supermarket after work one warm evening, the first thing I do is check that he’s not a rugby player or a jock of any description. Well, after checking there’s no ring on his finger. A girl can’t be too careful, you know, and he is holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hands. It could be a bad sign.

  “That’s kind of a weird question to ask a guy,” he says with his brows pulled in, making him look a little like a cute puppy. You know, in a totally manly, human way, of course.

  “It’s my thing, I guess. I’m not against people playing sports or anything like that, because, hello? that would be weird, right?”

  His lips lift into a smile. “Right,” he agrees. “That would be weird.”

  “I’m Erin Andrews,” I say as I proffer my free hand, which is my left as I’m holding my basket in my right. He takes it, and we do an awkward shake.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Chris Gower.”

  “Nice name.” I drink him in. This guy is cute! He’s in good shape with a mop of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes, a few adorable kid-like freckles across his nose. He’s slim with broad shoulders and is much taller than me, but that’s hardly a big deal. Most guys are taller than me. Heck, most people are taller than me. “Small but perfectly formed,” Dad always says, although at school my nickname was “Tater Tot,” which I could not stand, for obvious reasons. These days, I prefer the label “non-tall,” and now that I’m a fully-grown woman, I praise the sweet Lord for the invention of high heels, which I totter around on all day long.

  “The thing is, I know too many sports pros, and they’re not exactly my type,” I explain.

  “I would have killed to go pro, but it never happened for me. I guess I wasn’t good enough,” the cute guy with the flowers replies.

  We shuffle along the line.

  “Well, I guess that means you pass the first test, then,” I say.

  He gives a surprised laugh. “I thought this was a trip to the supermarket, not a test.”

  “Oh, it’s not. Not at all,” I reply hurriedly. “I was only giving you my opinion. We’re just, you know, talking.” I shoot him what I hope is a thoroughly enchanting smile before I look down and pretend to concentrate on choosing which brand of breath mints I want to purchase. As I scan the options—who knew there were so many breath mints choose from?—I steel a quick glance in his direction and notice him watching me.

  “Pick these,” Cute Flower Guy says as he reaches in front of me for some mints.

  As he does so, I catch his scent; an intoxicating mixture of sandalwood and vanilla. I always think you can tell a lot about a guy by his scent. Not only whether he wears aftershave or has recently washed (because eww, not washing would be a straight up “no” for me) but what sort of man he is. Too much cologne and he’s bound to be a flirt and think rather a lot of himself. No cologne and he may as well be a boy. But get it right, with the right pheromones thrown into the mix, and you’ve got yourself a serious contender.

  Cute Flower Guy holds out a packet of mints. “Here. Buy these. They’re the best.”

  I take the mints and look up into his eyes. I can’t stand the brand he’s chosen—too strong and spicy for my delicate taste buds—but I drop them into my basket and murmur, “Thanks a lot.”

  He holds my gaze, an
d I feel a surge of exhilaration. This guy might be a potential date! Sure, his taste in mints is less than stellar, but he’s cute and seems to be interested in me. Who knows? Maybe it’s finally my turn? Both my BFFs are totally loved up with their perfect matches, and I’ve been hoping, hoping to meet mine. After all, hyper-organized rule-follower Darcy and fun-loving dreamer Sophie both found love in unexpected places. Could the supermarket be mine?

  “Who are the flowers for?” I ask and resist the urge to add, “Are they for your girlfriend?” because that would be waaay too obvious.

  He looks down and bites his lip. “Oh, ah, someone died.”

  I clap my hand over my mouth. Someone died? And here I am flirting with this guy? “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say hastily as heat rises in my cheeks.

  When he doesn’t reply, I add, “And I’m also sorry for talking to you about my policy on not dating sports pros…and for the mints, and for, well, everything, really.”

  He shakes his head and smiles at me. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. She was my, ah, great aunt. Yeah, my great aunt. And anyway, you’re fun, and she was about three hundred years old. It did not come as a shock to anyone, believe me.”

  Should I feel bad that I’m relieved the flowers aren’t for his girlfriend, even if they are for a dead relative? The jury is out, but I sure am relieved. “Were you close to your great aunt? I’m super close to mine.”

  “I think the last time I visited her I was fourteen, which is half my life ago, really.”

  “Oh, right.” I do a quick age calculation. Twenty-eight. A good age. Not too young so that all he wants in a girl is fun and not too old that he has serious relationship baggage yet. It’s a fine line.

  “I’m really sorry—” I begin as he says, “How about we—”

  “You go ahead,” I say and bite me lip, hoping I know what he’s about to say, despite the whole dead great aunt thing.

  “Would you like to go out for a drink with someone who is definitely not a professional rugby player?” he answers, surprisingly playful for someone buying flowers for a funeral.

  “I would love to.” I grin at him and add, “Only on account of the fact that you’re not a professional rugby player and you like strong-flavored mints. Nothing more.”

  Going out for a drink may seem like a completely normal thing to do to get to know a guy. But there is one tiny problem here. You see, the No More Bad Dates Pact I agreed to with Darcy and Sophie has got some rules, rules that make sense, at least in theory. In practice? Well, right now, as I look at Chris smiling at me over his flowers, I wish there weren’t any rules at all. But we designed the pact to help each other find decent guys to date because all three of us were sick of dating a string of jerks, weirdos, and straight-up idiots. If neither pretty Sophie, with her blonde bob and quick wit, nor driven Darcy, with her gorgeous dark locks and legs for miles, could find good guys to date, what hope did I have? A dating pact with the girls I’ve been best friends with for almost half my life made perfect sense.

  Darcy came up with the set of rules, and even we sanctioned them, despite the fact both Sophie and I wondered whether Darcy had missed her calling as a military leader. However draconian the rules are, I know I should be taking them seriously right now. After all, I’m the only single one left in our little trio.

  I roll the list of rules around in my head. The Initial Contact happens first. That step is pretty self-explanatory and can only happen over coffee. Alcohol is not recommended because, let’s face it, decision making can be impaired when under the influence. I know. I’ve drunk dialed exes too many times to remember, and it never ends well.

  The Initial Meeting is followed by the Vetting Process, in which the three of us subject the victim—sorry, the potential date—to a series of questions to determine whether he’s a good guy or not. If he passes, we get to go out on a date.

  It’s girlfriends looking out for one another, a sisterhood amidst the wild dating jungle.

  Chris leans in to me and says, “How about we go for a drink straight from here? No time like the present, right?”

  As anticipation zings around me, I make a decision. I’m going to forget the no alcohol at an Initial Meeting. A girl doesn’t get this sort of opportunity every day. And anyway, I’m already pushing twenty-six, and this is the first time I’ve wanted to go out with a guy in, like, forever. Seriously, I think Netflix hadn’t been invented the last time I dated. Okay, not that long ago (I mean, was there even a time before Netflix?), but you get the general picture. It was a long, long, long time ago. And anyway, I’m certain Darcy and Sophie will understand.

  Either that or I won’t tell them.

  I glance at Chris’s flowers and push his dead great aunt and the dating pact from my mind. “That would be perfect.”

  “I hoped you’d say that.”

  Once outside the supermarket, Chris walks me to my car, where I leave my groceries safely tucked away inside.

  “There’s a bar down the street. We could go get a drink there, if that works for you?” he says.

  “That sounds good to me.” I keep my voice calm, while inside I’m whooping and doing high kicks.

  We take the short walk down to the bar. Conversation flows between us like we’ve known one another for years, not the mere minutes it really is. At the bar, Chris offers to buy me a drink, and I take a seat at a high table under a large TV screen. Of course, this is a sports bar with a replay of rugby being played by the Hawks above my head. Seriously, New Zealand is obsessed with rugby. We pretend we’re not, but we so are. And tonight, out for the first time with someone I’ve just met, I’d like to forget about the rugby team I work for and focus on other things, like the fact that I’m finally on a date with a guy I like.

  A moment later, he arrives at the table, drinks in hand. “One glass of Pinot Grigio for you,” he says as he perches himself on the stool opposite me.

  “Thank you so much.” I glance at his glass. It looks like scotch. Most guys my age drink beer, so it’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t follow the crowd. I lift my glass and say, “It’s great to meet you, Chris.”

  His eyes are warm as he holds my gaze, and he pushes his sandy blond hair from his face as he smiles at me. “Likewise.” He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip. “I’ve, ah, never done this before.”

  “Drunk scotch?” I reply with a wry grin before I take a sip of my own drink.

  He laughs. “Met a girl at a supermarket and asked her out. Especially one who has a policy of not dating sports pros.”

  “It’s a good policy, and one I’m sticking with.”

  “I admire a woman with conviction.” He raises his eyes to the screen behind me. “This ad is hilarious.”

  I turn to see a familiar advertisement with a group of puppies dressed in baseball caps with medallions around their necks “dancing” to hip hop music as they extoll the virtues of a brand of toilet tissue. “The one in the green vest is the cutest,” I remark.

  “No way! The one with the eyebrow ring is the best.”

  “How can you say that? That eyebrow ring is so not believable.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “For the simple reason that dogs don’t have eyebrows.”

  His lips curve into a smile. “You’re a canine expert, are you? I suppose you’re going to tell me a lot of puppies have purple fur like the one in the green vest?”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve met several puppies with that very same fur color, but not a single dog with an eyebrow ring on their non-existent eyebrow.”

  His eyes sparkle as he holds my gaze. “Gorgeous and smart. I hit the jackpot at the market tonight.”

  I blush at the compliment. “I’m not sure knowing dogs don’t have eyebrows should be regarded as ‘smart,’ exactly.”

  Chris leans forward and says, “Well, you know more than me. What’s more, I’ve got a dog, and now I’m going to have to tell him that he doesn’t have eyebrows. I’m hoping it won
’t come as too much of a shock to him.”

  “What sort of dog do you have?”

  “A Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier. His name is Bandit.”

  “Bandit is a cool name. My cousin had one of those when I was a kid. So cute and pretty crazy.”

  “Bandit is cute and crazy enough to wear an eyebrow ring in his nonexistent eyebrow.” He lifts his drink once more and throws it back. All of it, every last drop. He lets out an ah as he places the now empty glass on the table.

  I blink at him in surprise—and concern. I know some people can really hold their liquor, and he is a lot bigger than me, but that amount of scotch would send me straight to La La Land.

  “So, Erin. Tell me all about yourself. I already know you’re a dog expert and you don’t date jocks. What else?”

  I tear my eyes from his empty glass and back up at him. “What do you want to know?”

  “What makes you tick? What gets you out of bed in the morning?”

  “That’s easy. My love of fashion and my alarm clock, which I hate with a passion. I’m not a morning person.”

  “Oh, me neither. The early bird may catch the worm, but seriously, who wants to eat worms, anyway?”

  I giggle. “Exactly.”

  “So, fashion, huh?”

  “Yup. I design and make a lot of my clothes, and one day I want to make it as a fashion designer.”

  “That’s very cool. Not that I know anything about fashion. How come a girl like you is single?” He looks at me sideways and adds, “You are single, right?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course I am.”

  His smile stretches across his face. “That’s good to hear, although I don’t get why a pretty girl like you is still single.”

  “Ah, well. Being single, huh?” I begin.

  Man, I hate that question. Like, really hate that question. I get asked it by Dad, by my granny and great aunt, by pretty much anyone who’s nosey enough to ask. It’s like they’re implying that being single is some kind of embarrassing condition that needs ointment or something. Like a boil. And it’s not. It’s perfectly normal to be single. Particularly when you’re not interested in settling for just any old guy to avoid being alone.