No More Horrible Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Nick reads my mind. “It must be hard to see her the way she is now.”

  I cast my eyes down. “I need to do it. I need her to know how much she means to me, even if it is only one short visit.” I look back up at him and see the sympathy in his eyes. “You know, usually, before I go in, I play one of ABBA’s happy songs. Mom was the one who got me into ABBA, and I remember the way we used to dance around the living room together like a couple of lunatics.” I smile at the memory.

  “What song do you want to hear?” He holds his phone aloft.

  A whisper of a smile forms on my face. “Dancing Queen.”

  “A classic.”

  A moment later, the music comes blaring out of the car speakers, and my small smile blooms into a full-fledged grin. There’s something about the disco beats of ABBA’s music that totally work to lift my mood. It’s like they know the secret to unlocking all those feel-good neurotransmitters, and they flood through me.

  As I collect my purse, my notebook falls out onto the floor.

  “What’s that?” he asks, eyeing my book.

  “This?” I hold the notebook aloft. “I like to show Mom what I’m working on. She was the one who got me into sewing and designing. Even though I don’t know how much she understands, I show her my designs anyway. I guess it was always our thing.”

  “And you want to hold onto it.”

  I smile at him. “I do.”

  “ABBA and fashion design, huh? You are your mom’s legacy.”

  I feel a swell of pride. “I hope I am.”

  “I’ll wait in the car, Dancing Queen. Take your time.”

  “Thanks.” I clutch my design book to my chest as I make my way up the steps and into the care home.

  Being friends with Nick is something I never expected. And now that I’m getting to know the real him and see my assumptions about him were oh-so wrong, I’m really happy I signed up for the job.

  Chapter 12

  A few days later, I’m sitting at my desk, deep in thought about sponsor signage at games (really, I’m so lucky to get to think about these things), when my desk phone rings.

  “I’ve got a special delivery for you at reception,” Harriet, our receptionist, says down the line.

  “Oh, that must be the contract from Derek, although it’s a little early,” I think out loud as I check the wall clock.

  “Girl, if the contract from Derek comes in the form of, like, the most gorgeous bunch of red roses I’ve ever seen in, like, my whole life, then you’re totally right.”

  That gets my attention. “Roses?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’ll be right out.” Heat radiates across my chest as I skip joyfully through the office and out into the reception area, a big goofy grin on my face. I’ve never gotten flowers at work before, so this is super exciting for me.

  I’m greeted by Harriet and a very large, very red, very beautiful bunch of roses in a glass vase, tied up with a big pink ribbon.

  “I bet I know who they’re from,” she says with a knowing smile. “A certain Hawks player you were spotted with on the beach, looking very cute.”

  There were photographers at the beach that afternoon, despite the fact that we were too busy enjoying our newfound truce and burgeoning friendship to notice. The photos turned up online and even got printed in the city’s newspaper, although being a Millennial, it took Ed the Generation Xer to spot them.

  I eye the bouquet. Along with at least two dozen red long-stemmed roses, there are not one, not two, but three teddy bears holding little love hearts between their paws.

  Love heart-holding teddy bears? Seriously?

  I open the card and read the message.

  Wooing, Part 1. Nick xoxo

  My heart drops a fraction as my frankly misguided euphoria evaporates. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the generous gift. The flowers are perfect, and the teddy bears…okay, the teddy bears are a bit much, even though I know they’re totally tongue in cheek. It’s just that, as silly as this may sound, I know this is only Nick playing the fake dating game. He’s ticking an item off my wooing list.

  Red roses are meant to be from the guy of my dreams, the guy I’m head over heels in love with. He’s meant to be the one sending me flowers (without the teddy bears, of course, because there’s no way I’d fall for a guy who thought it cute to send me stuffed toys). He’s meant to be the one I can’t stop thinking about. Not the guy playacting my boyfriend who doesn’t mean it.

  I slot the card abruptly back into its envelope as Harriet says, “Girl, you are so lucky.”

  I paste on the camera-ready smile I’ve mastered in recent weeks. “I am. Really, really lucky.”

  “What’s it like to date Nick Zachary?”

  “It’s amazing. Really, really amazing.”

  “I bet it is. That guy of yours is, like, so hot.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Mom always tells me to keep my big mouth shut, and she’s right.”

  I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s fine. Most of the country thinks he’s hot.”

  “You must be quite something. You tamed the Wild Boy of Rugby.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say I tamed him exactly,” I reply with a laugh. “That makes him sound like a possum.”

  “I was thinking more of a wild and majestic tiger,” she replies wistfully.

  “A wild and majestic tiger, huh? Well, I guess that makes me Siegfried and Roy.”

  “Sieg-what and who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “What’s your secret?”

  I shake my head. “No secret.”

  “He simply fell for you. He saw you, and that was that.” She lets out a sigh, her hand over her heart. “That is, like, so incredible.”

  The flowers and assorted bears have begun to grow heavy in my arms. “As I said, it is amazing to get to date him.” I begin to walk away, but Harriet’s clearly not finished.

  “I bet we’ll be hearing wedding bells before too long.”

  A surprised laugh bursts out of me, and I’ve got to steady the flowers in my hands. They wouldn’t want a fake wedding too, would they?

  Huh. Now that I think about it, the upside would be that I’d get to showcase my bridal collection, which is currently nonexistent, but that’s neither here nor there. And I know exactly what I’d wear: an ivory dress with a lace bodice with cap sleeves, tapered into a belted waist with soft layers falling to the floor—

  “Erin?” Harriet questions.

  I shake myself to pull back to reality. This is fake dating, not fake nuptials.

  Harriet claps her hands together excitedly. “OMG, you’ve so got to invite me. Oh, and make sure Nick brings his teammates. Some of them are, like, so cute.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

  “You know we’ve only been dating a short time,” I protest as I shift the flowers to my hip. “I need to get back to work now. Nice chatting with you.”

  She’s still not done. “Any man who sends you that many red roses is in deep. Believe me.”

  “Okay. Thanks again,” I say, backing away.

  “Remember to let me know when to buy that new wedding outfit,” she calls out.

  I traipse through the office and back to my desk. The flowers and teddy bears garner heartfelt sighs and “oh, he’s so sweet” from some of the women and surprised “Nick Zachary gave you stuffed toys?” from the men. By the time I’m back at my desk, the whole office is talking about how a tough rugby player gave his girlfriend a romantic gift.

  I smile and agree with everything they say—Nick is great; I’m a very lucky girl; I guess Nick likes teddy bears; yes, that is a bit sappy, but I’m sure it won’t affect his performance on the field.

  As I place my flowers carefully on my desk, a part of me wishes that this was for real, that Nick and I were genuinely together.

  Wait, what?

  No no no no no! Have I lost my mind? There is no way I want to be in a real relationship with Nick Zachary. He might
not be the jerk I thought he was, and he might be sweet and kind and fun to be with, but he’s him and I’m me. He didn’t send me flowers because he’s got feelings for me. They’re tongue in cheek. He’s playing the game. It’s all part of making everyone think we’re together.

  Wow. Who knew being a rugby pro’s fake girlfriend could be so confusing?

  I tap out a message on my phone.

  Thanks for the public wooing.

  I add a flower emoji and a couple of kisses before I press send.

  My phone beeps with a message back a minute or so later.

  Enough teddy bears for you?

  I smile at his message. Maybe I was overacting before? So what if the gift isn’t from Mr. Right. It’s all part of the game, and I need to play along.

  I’ve barely had the chance to do any work when I receive another call from Harriet. “Did he do something wrong?” she asks on the phone.

  “Did who do something wrong?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  Other than illicit confused feelings in me and make me the center of office gossip? “Ah, not that I know of.”

  “You’ve got another delivery.”

  “Not flowers and teddy bears again,” I groan. He wouldn’t. Would he?

  “Girl, you’ll have to come out and see for yourself,” she replies before the line clicks off.

  A hurried dash down to reception once more and Harriet hands me a white box. She peers over my shoulder as I open it. Inside, nestled among red and pink tissue paper, is a large heart-shaped box and an attached card. I read it, even though I already know what it will say.

  Wooing, Part 2. Nick xoxo

  Even though I know better, as I read his words, I get that deflated feeling once more.

  “Oooh, it’s got to be chocolates,” Harriet says, salivating.

  I pull out the heart-shaped box, untie the red ribbon, and pop the top. My eyes widen as I take in the rows of expensive-looking chocolates. There’s milk, dark, white, and pink heart-shaped chocolates, all designed to send the cheesy-factor into orbit.

  “Yum! I love chocolate,” Harriet says with as much subtlety as a rugby player tackling the opposition to the ground with a loud crunch.

  “Gee, would you like one, Harriet?”

  “Oh, that’s super kind of you.” She chooses one of the white chocolate hearts and pops it into her mouth. “Mmm. You have got to try these. Are you going to tell me what he did wrong?”

  “Nothing. He’s just a very sweet guy.”

  She shakes her head. “He’s in deep, deep love, girl.”

  I smile at her. With not one but two gifts from my romance wish list, he’s in deep something, that’s for sure.

  I collect my chocolates and try to smuggle them back to my desk without being noticed. Of course, my plan fails, and everyone and their proverbial dog knows Nick sent me another romantic gift.

  I send him another message.

  Chocolates now? What are you, Casanova?

  This time there’s no response, so I offer the chocolates around and indulge in a few myself as I try to settle back into work.

  But the romantic gestures don’t stop there. Oh, no. Back then when I’d only received the flowers and the chocolates, I didn’t know how lucky I was. They pale in insignificance against the next thing Nick thinks up.

  Later in the day, when everyone’s trying to motivate themselves to do some work in the post-lunch slump, there’s another delivery for me.

  “Girl, I’ve got another one for you,” Harriet trills down the line.

  I let out a resigned sigh. “I’ll be right out.”

  “Stay where you are,” she instructs. “This one’s coming to you.”

  I sit at my desk, chewing on my lip, and wondering what fake romantic gift Nick’s come up with this time—and wondering how I can tell him to stop this lunacy without coming across as a thoroughly ungrateful fake girlfriend.

  I hear murmurs, and I look up to see something I never expected to see at the Hawks office. An oversized, very fluffy, very pink gorilla is making its way through the office, followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs. Well, when I say “gorilla” I know it’s not the real thing because a) gorillas aren’t pink, and even someone who was terrible at biology in high school, like me, knows that, and b) because sending a live gorilla into an office full of human targets would be completely insane and probably illegal, too.

  I lock my jaw. I’m going to kill him. Flowers and chocolates may be one thing, but he is in for a world of pain for this pink apparition.

  “Where is Erin Andrews?” the gorilla’s muffled voice asks, its head swiveling as it searches the office.

  I shrink in my chair, willing the inevitable not to happen. Why did I not try to escape to the Ladies the moment I clapped eyes on the thing? Or, more to the point, why did I fake date a guy who thinks it’s a fantastic idea to send me over-the-top gifts and embarrass me in front of everyone I work with? That’s the real question.

  I’m too busy contemplating crawling under my desk to respond.

  “Erin’s over there,” Ed announces helpfully from his desk, pointing at me.

  I press my lips together and shoot him a look. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy grinning his head off, thoroughly enjoying the afternoon’s entertainment.

  Ed might very well be joining Miranda in getting struck off my non-existent Christmas card list now, too.

  As the large, fluffy, pink thing comes to a stop by my desk, I look up at it with trepidation. I’m about to be a gorilla-grammed.

  The gorilla lays its oversized eyes on me. “Are you Erin Andrews?”

  I dart nervous looks at my workmates. All eyes are on me, as you would imagine they would be if a large, pink, fluffy gorilla came prancing into the office. When I give a reluctant, almost unperceivable nod, Margie, a fellow Sponsorship Account Manager, who’s the unofficial mother hen of our team despite the fact she’s only about fifteen years older than me, replies excitedly, “She sure is! This is your girl, right here. This is Erin.”

  And…Margie’s off my nonexistent Christmas card list now.

  The gorilla reaches into a pocket that’s hidden beneath the fluff, pulls out a bruised banana, and hands it to me. “Me like banana. Erin like banana, too,” he declares as a ripple of laughter flows around the room.

  People snigger, and I feel a giggle form in my throat. Despite the obvious humiliation, and the fact that a gorilla-gram is definitely a step too far and I will be slowly and painfully killing Nick later, it is quite funny.

  I take the banana. “Err, thanks, Gorilla.”

  He nods his head at me. “Bananas good.” He reaches back into his pocket. I wonder what fresh produce he’s going to pull out next?

  To my surprise, it’s a phone, and he begins to stab at it with his costumed hand to no effect.

  “You, ah, need some help there, Gorilla?” I ask as I begin to wonder at this guy’s professionalism. Really, you don’t have to do too much as a gorilla-gram. I would have thought getting the music to work that you use to humiliate your victim with would be an entry-level job requirement.

  He pulls off one of his gloves, and the next moment the completely awesome ABBA song Waterloo comes blasting out. I’m instantly transported to the last time I heard the song: with Nick in his car, when all he knew was the word “Waterloo,” and I can’t help but smile.

  The gorilla begins to dance to the music and everyone in the office claps along, calling out encouragement and generally having fun.

  The gorilla offers me his hand, and I shake my head. There’s no way I’m getting up to dance in the office. This is a place of work, not Jojo’s Karaoke Bar.

  “Come on, Erin. Dance with the big monkey! He’s got the moves,” Margie exclaims as she bustles me out of my chair to calls to loosen up and dance from people nearby.

  I try to protest, but it’s falling on deaf ears—fluffy pink deaf ears, to be precise. With everyone watching I’ve really got no choice in the matte
r, so I give in and take the gorilla’s hand. I copy his frankly hilarious moves to claps and woops and cheers. After a while, I even begin to loosen up, and though dancing with a pink gorilla in my office, watched by all my colleagues isn’t exactly something I ever thought I’d enjoy, I begin to have fun.

  Eventually, the song comes to an end, and I flop gratefully back into my chair. Everyone around us applauds, and the gorilla takes a bow.

  “Thanks, Gorilla,” I say as I catch my breath.

  “Are you going to tell us who this is from?” Margie asks, her plump cheeks rosy red with excitement.

  Not a lot happens in the office. This is one out of the box.

  “Does Erin want to know?” the gorilla asks.

  “Erin’s got a fair idea already,” I reply with an eye roll.

  He pulls off a glove once more. “Okay. This gorilla-gram is from—” He reaches up and pulls the mask off his head. “—Me.”

  My jaw drops as I gawk at him. “Nick?”

  He beams at me. “The guy who usually does these wasn’t available, so I figured I’d fill in.”

  I hear the words “It’s Nick Zachary!” spread around the room like wildfire, and my assembled colleagues break into fresh applause as people lift their phones to film us—which I’m sure Ed and Miranda will be ecstatically happy about. Another camera-worthy, touching moment between the new lovebirds.

  Nick turns and waves at everyone, still grinning from ear to ear.

  “Surprise,” he says, beaming at me.

  Despite my embarrassment, I let out a laugh as happiness spreads through me. Forget the odd way the flowers and chocolates made me feel before, Nick did this insane thing for me. Sure, I haven’t forgotten it’s all part of the game, but Waterloo is kind of our song now, and a gorilla-gram was most definitely not on my romance wish list. It would be weird not to feel happy right now. I glance at him, and we share a smile.

  I no longer want to murder him, not even a little.

  He extends his hand once more, this time ungloved. As I take it in mine, he pulls me up and collects me in a bear hug (or a gorilla hug, to be precise), and I breathe in his scent, a mixture of vanilla and spice, with a less than pleasant hint of musty old gorilla costume.