No More Horrible Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Nick lets Bruno out of the back, and immediately he dashes over to me as I’m bent over and licks my face with his long, wet tongue.

  “Thanks, Bruno,” I say as I wipe the slobber from my cheek with my shoulder.

  “You know, I just caught him licking something very suspicious on the ground,” Nick says, standing over me.

  I straighten up, but without my trusty heels, I feel like a child next to his tall, muscular bulk. “Nice.”

  He pulls his eyebrows together in mock concern. “I thought you should be warned.”

  “After the fact isn’t ideal, you know. But I do know about dogs.”

  He smiles at me, and I return it, despite myself. “Shall we call a truce?” he asks.

  “A truce?”

  “Yeah. I figured we’re in this thing together for who knows how long, so we’d may as well at least try to get along.”

  “A truce sounds reasonable.”

  He lets out a laugh.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. You’re a little prickly, that’s all.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “You think I’m prickly?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course I don’t! I think I’m a wonderful person.”

  “This alleged sweetness of yours.”

  I chew on my lip as we begin to walk from the parking lot to the beach. “Okay, a truce sounds good.” I glance at his profile and add, “I’ll try not to be quite so prickly, too.”

  I see his mouth curve into a smile.

  We reach the golden sand, warm beneath my toes. Nick throws a ball for Bruno, who goes bounding after it down the beach.

  “Sorry to say that thing about you and that guy,” he says. “I know I touched a nerve.”

  I try out a nonchalant shrug, but inside I’ve tensed right up. “It’s fine. Really.”

  He lowers his voice. “It’s true though, isn’t it?”

  I bite my lip and look up at him. I could pretend it’s not the truth. I could make up some story. Instead, I take a deep breath of the ocean air and begin. “He’s a soccer player. It was a few years back.” The memory hits me like a soccer ball to the belly. “I met him before he turned pro. Even though I was only young, I thought he was the guy for me. You know, marriage, kids, the works. Turns out I was wrong about that.”

  “What happened?”

  “He turned pro and eventually moved to Europe.”

  “He plays for a European club?” he asks, and I nod. “What’s his name?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not going to tell you who he is, because if you follow soccer, you’ll probably know him.”

  “So, he made it.”

  “Yeah, he did.” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice.

  “You broke up because he left New Zealand?”

  “Well, that and the girl my best friend caught him with.”

  He scrunches up his face. “Oh, bad form.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Bad form,” he repeats with a small smile.

  I bump my shoulder up against his arm. “You’re an idiot. Did you know that?”

  “Thank you,” he replies. “I’ve been called a lot worse.”

  “I bet you have.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I follow the news, you know, Naughty Nick, or should I say Wild Boy of Rugby?”

  “Yeah, I guess I deserved those labels. I wasn’t ‘my best self,’ as the team doctor likes to put it.”

  “Well, there is one thing to come out of your behavior.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Me.” I grin at him, and he throws his head back and lets out a laugh.

  “You think a lot yourself, huh?”

  “You’re the sports pro, not me. Remember?”

  “And you don’t like sports pro, although now that we’ve worked out why, maybe you can give us all a break.”

  My lips twitch to form a smile. “Maybe.”

  He whistles for Bruno, who zips right past us in a blur of fur up the beach. “He loves it here. If he had his way, we’d live at this beach. Just him, me, and this ball.” He holds up a battered old tennis ball with barely any yellow felt left on it. “And maybe some bitches for him to sniff around.”

  “Have you gone all gangsta on me now, or something?”

  “What? Female dogs are called bitches. Fact.”

  I shake my head and smile as he throws the ball, and Bruno scampers down the beach toward the surf. This feels nice. Easy. Whatever has shifted between us, I’m glad of it. And who knows? Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps thanks to Tim, I had misjudged him.

  We walk across the sand until we reach the shore.

  “Hey, we’re, ah, meant to hold hands. Miranda said,” he reminds me.

  “Well, if Miranda said…”

  He reaches for my hand and takes it in his. It’s so much bigger than mine, my hand fits right inside his. I feel like a little girl.

  “How about you? Has anyone broken the heart of the great Nick Zachary? Or are you above such things, what with being New Zealand sporting royalty?”

  “I’m the one who does the heartbreaking, remember? Apparently, I’ve broken hearts all over the country lately.”

  I let out a laugh. “That’s right. That was one of your monikers, Heartbreak Nick, although I prefer Naughty Nick much more.”

  He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at me. “Do you now?”

  “No flirting, remember?” I scold. “Rules of our truce.”

  “I forgot. Old habits, I guess. You don’t get to break as many hearts as I’ve broken without being an expert flirt.”

  “You must be so proud.”

  “Oh, I am. I had a certificate of achievement framed and everything.”

  “What does it say? No, wait. Let me guess.” I rub my chin as I think. “I know. Nick Zachary is awarded this certificate for outstanding services to womankind.”

  “You got it,” he says as he grins down at me. “It came with a note from a cardiologist asking me to cease and desist, too. You know, for the health of the female population.”

  I place my hand on my chest. “Mine is definitely racing right now. It must be because of your amazingness.”

  He gives solemn nod. “It’s bound to be. Maybe I should hang back while you walk ahead so you don’t go into cardiac arrest or anything.”

  “You’re very thoughtful.”

  Enjoying our banter and the feel of the wet sand between my toes, I let go of his hand and skip ahead as Bruno bounces around my heels.

  “Hey, catch this,” Nick says as he hurls the ball at me.

  I snatch for it, and it pops right out of my hands. It’s quickly collected up by a delighted Bruno, who bounds back to Nick for another throw. Nick jogs to catch up with me. “Ball skills not your thing?”

  “I was more of a crafty girl.”

  “Crafty, huh? I like the sound of that version of Ernie,” he says suggestively.

  “Oh, my gosh, Nick! Quit it, okay?” I say in exasperation. What is with this guy and his flirting? It’s like an automatic go-to for him.

  He throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Ernie, you are such an easy target. Did you know that?”

  I grin at him, despite knowing I’ve been duped. “You got me. And I’ll know for next time. But seriously, you don’t need to flirt.”

  “Okay. I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  “So, what crafty things did you do instead of learning to catch?”

  “You make me sound like I’ve got no sporting prowess at all!”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m hugely sporty. I go to the gym, and I’ve been to hot yoga.”

  “How many times?”

  “Some,” I reply evasively.

  “Some?”

  “Okay, it was once, but I stayed for the whole class, sweating up a storm and twisting myself into positions no grown person should twist into.”

  “Now it’s your
turn for a certificate,” he says with a smile. “Ernie Andrews, for achievement in hot yoga. She did the full hour.”

  I chortle. “And I pretended to like it, too.”

  “You still haven’t told me about Crafty Ernie. Was it actual crafts, like gluing glitter crap to cardboard, or something to do with witches?”

  “Definitely not witches. I sewed. I still do, actually.” I collect some of the fabric of my ‘50’s style dress with it’s full skirt and cinched-in waist in my hand. “I made this.” I feel a swell of pride as he runs his eyes over my blue and white striped dress and lets out a low whistle.

  “You made the last thing you wore, too.”

  I look at him in surprise. “You remembered that?”

  “Not just a pretty face,” he replies, circling his face with his hand. “I don’t know much about designing clothes, but that’s a great dress. You look good.”

  “Thank you,” I reply self-consciously as I glance down at the way the dress accentuates my positives—and skillfully hides the less than positives, too. “I find it hard to get clothes that fit me properly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m non-tall. I figured since a lot of the petite styles are generally regular-sized clothes made smaller, I’d create designs specifically to compliment the non-tall female population.”

  “Good for you. You’re obviously good at it.”

  “Are you flirting again, Nick? Because you know how I feel about the flirting.” I shoot him a mock serious look, my hands on my hips.

  He puts his own hands up in the air. “Don’t shoot! I wasn’t messing around with you. You’re clearly good at making clothes, and you look hot. That’s all I’m saying.”

  I blush. If I’m entirely honest with myself, the fact someone like Nick noticed my clothes makes me feel pretty darn good. And telling me I look hot? Even though I know he’s a flirt, it doesn’t hurt a girl to get called that every now and then. “Thanks.”

  He slides his eyes to mine. “Have you gone all shy on me now, Ernie?”

  “No! It’s just…” I chew on my lip for a moment before I make a call. We seem to have landed on a new-found understanding, and I can’t see it would hurt to share my true passion. “My dream is to make it as a fashion designer someday.”

  “A fashion designer, huh?” He tilts his head. “I don’t get it. Why do you work for the Hawks, dealing with imbeciles like me?”

  “Don’t call yourself an imbecile,” I scold. “Insulting you is my job.”

  “Very kind.”

  “That’s me.”

  “So, tell me about this fashion design stuff. Have you got a side business? You’re full-time at the Hawks, right?”

  “I am. Right now fashion is only a hobby. I’ve wanted to be a designer for as long as I remember.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. I wanted to be a pro rugby player, so I did everything I could to be one. Why are you a Sponsorship Account Manager if you want to be a designer?”

  “I guess there’s a certain amount of pressure on me. I’m the first person in my family to ever graduate with a degree, and my parents were so proud of my achievement. I don’t feel like I can just throw it all away.”

  “You’re being sensible.”

  I lift my eyes to his. He gets it. “That’s right.”

  “And now you’re stuck in a fake relationship with a jerk rugby player.”

  I throw my eyes to the sky. “Don’t remind me.”

  He stops in his tracks, and I turn to look at him.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You saw the chance to get your designs out there by being in this thing with me, didn’t you?”

  Suddenly nervous, I clasp my hands. Talk about being completely busted. “No,” I protest a little too strongly.

  “Oh, you so did,” he replies with a shake of his head. “I’m your ticket to a new career. Admit it, Ernie. You need me as much as I need you right now.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Nick.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  I chew on the inside of my lip. “Okay, I’ll admit it.”

  “Aha!”

  “Please don’t say anything about it. If the Hawks knew…”

  He takes my hand in his, and it feels oddly reassuring. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I feel a flood of relief wash through me. “Thanks.”

  “There is one condition, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I get to call you Ernie.”

  “You’re already do that.”

  “I get to call you Ernie, and you don’t get to complain about it.”

  I shake my head with a smile on my face. “Deal.”

  We resume our walk down the beach hand in hand.

  “You know, we’ve all got our secrets,” he says.

  “I guess,” I reply uncertainly, my interest piqued. What are Nick Zachary’s secrets, I wonder?

  He whistles for Bruno, who comes bounding back to us, his tail wagging and sand flying everywhere. He stops to shake right in front of me, and before I can get away, he sprays me with a mixture of sand, seawater, and seaweed.

  I look down at my dress. It’s splattered and gross. Not the look I’m going for here.

  “We might have to get you some new clothes,” Nick says, eyeing the damage. “You look like, well, like a dirty dog shook itself all over you.”

  “Funny that,” I retort.

  “Shall I drop you back at your office?”

  I glance at my watch and am astonished to see how long we’ve been hanging out, walking and talking together as though we’re old friends. “Since it’s already getting late, I guess there’s no point in going back to the office.”

  “Atta girl. Let’s head back.”

  I nod at Bruno, who’s found the most disgusting decayed thing on the beach and is currently rolling in it. “That’s not great for your new truck.”

  He shrugs. “That’s what trucks are for.”

  As we wander along the beach back to the car, I marvel at how far we’ve come in such a short time. I’ve gone from despising the guy to this. Easy, comfortable, fun. For as long as we’re in Project Weka, aka Project Fake Relationship together, that can only be a very good thing.

  Chapter 9

  Back in Nick’s truck, he drives a wet dog and a partially wet fake girlfriend back into the city.

  “Mind if I put on a playlist?” he asks.

  “Not if it’s that heavy rap you had on earlier in the week.”

  “Aw, come on. Live a little, Ernie.”

  “I live a lot, thank you.”

  “What music do you like?”

  “ABBA.”

  “ABBA?” he says with a laugh.

  “What’s wrong with ABBA?”

  “I’m really not sure where to begin.”

  “Oh, you’re just uneducated, that’s all. Here.” I pull my phone out of my purse, search up a song, and connect it to his car. “Listen and learn.”

  “Do I have to, Mom?”

  If he’s going to call me Mom, I’m going to act as one. “You do. Now be quiet and behave yourself.”

  The opening chords of the ABBA classic, Waterloo fill the car, and Anni-Frid and Agnetha burst into song.

  “I know this!” Nick says as I begin to sing the lyrics I’ve sung so many times before.

  “Of course you do. It’s by ABBA, and they’re amazing!”

  When we reach the chorus, he joins in, although the only word he knows is “Waterloo.” The rest he fudges.

  I snort with laughter, and he grins at me.

  “You laughing at me?”

  “I sure am.”

  “So what if I don’t know the words. I like my music from this century.”

  “I’ll convert you,” I reply as I sing and bop around in my seat.

  He joins in again with the solitary word he knows and totally hams it up to the point where I’m laughing so hard I can no longer sing. It’s fun, our old hostility well
and truly gone.

  Once the song is over, I say, “Now that you know my secret passion, you need to tell me yours.”

  “Do you mean your love for ABBA?”

  “The fashion design thing.”

  “I don’t have a secret passion. Not unless you count chocolate, that is, but I don’t go around bragging about that to the guys.”

  “Chocolate’s not manly?”

  “It’s definitely a chick thing.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s a delicious thing. And anyway, aren’t you relying on a gender cliché here?”

  “You’re gonna talk to me about gender clichés now, are you?” he asks with a laugh as we come to a stop at a red light.

  “Actually, it’s probably best if I don’t, not with a he-man rugby Neanderthal like you.”

  He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a real charmer, as well as being super prickly?”

  I tap my chin and pretend to take his rhetorical question seriously. “No, not that I can recall.”

  He laughs as the lights change, and we begin to move once more. “There’s a good reason for that.”

  “Well, did you know that if you have European blood, it’s highly likely that you’ve got some Neanderthal thrown in there too? There was some cross-breeding between them and humans back in the day.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” I confirm with a head nod. “I learned that little gem when my dad got his DNA checked.”

  “And you’re calling me the Neanderthal? You kill me, Ernie.”

  “So, back to this chocolate addiction of yours,” I tease.

  “It’s not an addiction. More a very bad habit Coach wants me to kick.”

  “I bet he does. There aren’t too many podgy jocks out there, and I don’t think you should be the one who stands out from the pack.”

  He has a look of mock outrage on his face. “You calling me podgy?”

  “You’re a god among men. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, I don’t know about being a god exactly…”

  I shake my head. “Oh, you so do.”

  “You know what I do need to know for this whole fake relationship thing, though?”

  “What’s that?”

  “How you like to be wooed.”