The Dating Playbook

by Farrah Rochon

  He grudgingly grabbed the handbasket. “Am I being graded on this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If only I’d known what I was signing up for,” Jamar mumbled as he ventured over to the potato bins. “So what started this obsessive love affair you have with produce?”

  “I am not obsessed.”

  His brow arched. “You didn’t see the way your eyes lit up when you looked at those tomatoes.”

  Her modest grin was reluctant, but Jamar still counted it as a win.

  “Well, what do you expect to happen when I walk into a store and see all these heirloom tomatoes?” One corner of her mouth twisted upward. “Okay, fine,” she said, her cheeks flushing a faint crimson with her admission. “I may be a little obsessed. It probably started back when I lived in Germany.”

  Her unexpected answer snatched his attention away from that alluring blush that had crept across her face.

  “When did you live in Germany?”

  “Much of my junior high and high school years. My dad is career Army, so I’ve spent most of my life living on different military bases all across Europe.”

  Jamar nodded, suddenly fascinated by this peek into her background. Her boot camp workouts made even more sense now.

  “I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be a military kid, living in all those foreign countries. Except for the one year I had with the Bears, I’ve spent my entire life in Texas.”

  “Texas isn’t so bad,” she said. “I wasn’t completely sold on it when I first moved here, but it’s grown on me.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight: there is no place better than Texas. None.”

  “Texans,” she said with exasperation.

  “But did I tell a lie?” His brows arched, daring her to refute his words. “After a single winter in Chicago, I realized that I never have to live anywhere but the great state of Texas.”

  “Then you definitely wouldn’t have liked winter in Stuttgart, Germany,” she said. Her expression softened. “But I loved it. I especially loved that we were able to get the Food Network when we were stationed there. This was back when they actually taught you how to cook on the channel and didn’t have a bunch of silly competition shows. I became addicted to watching Barefoot Contessa and Emeril Lagasse. I’d walk around the house yelling bam! at everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what Emeril would say when he cooked.” Her eyes grew wide. “Don’t tell me you have never watched his show?”

  He shook his head.

  She threw her head back and sighed. “You have so much to learn, young grasshopper. Okay, I’m adding this to the dating playbook. We’re going to spend an entire afternoon watching old episodes of Essence of Emeril.”

  The image of kicking back on the couch with Taylor while they watched television held way more appeal than it should for someone who was only pretending to be romantically interested in her. But he couldn’t deny the way his pulse thumped at the thought.

  Lowering his voice, Jamar asked, “How is a day in front of the TV supposed to convince the public that we’re dating?”

  “Not everything we do has to be for public consumption,” she said. “Think of it as a practice session.”

  He resisted the impulse to point out that, when it came to that particular subject, he didn’t need any practice. He would either sound like he was flirting or like he was an asshole. Or both.

  Instead, he asked, “So what made Emeril so special?”

  “It wasn’t Emeril, per se. What made it special is that I usually watched it with my dad,” she answered, slaying him once again with another of those subtle, yet radiant smiles. “It was our thing, you know? Every Saturday evening, Dad and I would try to re-create one of Emeril’s recipes. Except we could never find all the ingredients, so we had to come up with substitutes. Believe or not, jambalaya made with bratwurst is pretty good.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Jamar said. The hint of wistfulness he heard in her soft laugh caused unease to stir in his gut. He hesitated a moment before he asked, “Is your dad…still here?”

  “Oh yeah. The Colonel is alive and well. He’s in North Carolina, at Fort Bragg. My entire family is there.” She gestured to his basket. “Go for the sugar snap peas. They’re good for snacking.”

  Jamar had been so caught up in her story that he’d forgotten about his assignment. He grabbed a bag of snap peas and reached for a butternut squash. He was pretty sure he’d eaten it in a soup once without wanting to dry-heave. He added collard greens to the basket.

  He could have sworn he heard a tsking sound coming from her general direction.

  “What?” Jamar asked.

  “Nothing.” She motioned for him to go ahead. “Continue.”

  “The added pressure of you watching my every move isn’t helping here,” he said as he lifted a head of cabbage from the shelf. Coleslaw counted as a vegetable, right?

  “It sounds as if you’re afraid you’re going to fail the test.”

  “Not even. Don’t let the jock label fool you. I got all A’s in school.”

  “Did you really?” she asked, the teasing tone now absent from her voice.

  “Well, not all A’s,” he clarified with a shrug. “But I did all right.” He finished with several ears of corn that were still in the husk and a head of cauliflower, then brought over the basket. He held it out to her. “How’d I do?”

  “Hmm.” She peered at his choices. “You do have a few starchy vegetables, but I can live with that. The problem I see here is that when you cook those collard greens, you’re going to want to load them up with stuff like ham hocks, am I right?”

  “Is there any other way to eat them?”

  She shook her head. “You have so much to learn. Come on. Let me show you how this is done. I have a recipe for a healthy stir-fry that I guarantee you will love.”

  Jamar grimaced as she filled the basket with carrots, broccoli, asparagus, and other shit he hated. She picked up a slim, purple eggplant.

  “This is a Chinese eggplant. It’s sweeter and less bitter than your typical American version,” she said, dragging her fingers down the length of the vegetable.

  Was she serious?

  “Also, the skin is thinner, so there’s no need to peel it.” She wrapped her fist around the eggplant.

  “Are you fucking with me?” Jamar asked, too keyed up to police his language.

  Her brows dipped with her frown. “No. You can look it up. The thin skin makes it easier to cook with.”

  “I’m not talking about cooking. I’m talking about you giving that eggplant a hand job in the middle of Whole Foods.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit, Taylor. I’m trying to be respectful here, but come on.”

  She gaped at him in almost comical bewilderment, her eyes growing wide as her lips soundlessly parted.

  Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Jamar affected a nonchalant shrug in an attempt to camouflage the awkwardness that suddenly hung over them like a thundercloud.

  “I’m not the biggest fan of vegetables,” he said. “But when I see one being molested like that, I have to call it out.”

  A laugh shot from her mouth. She quickly pressed her lips together, but her shoulders still shook.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was not my intention at all. I love vegetables. I would never knowingly violate them.”

  “If you say so,” he returned. He flashed her a sly grin to make sure she knew he was joking. He was beyond relieved that he’d managed to defuse the weird tension he’d caused. “So, am I done picking out vegetables?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I think we’re good here. Time to move to another section.” She tucked the basket’s handle in the crook of her elbow and gestured with her head for him to follow her. She looked back over her shoulder. “You get a B minus on veggies. Now let’s see how well you handle your meat.”

  Jamar dropped his chin to his chest.

  She was going
to kill him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Taylor yanked on the bright purple metal door to Booze N’ Brush, the art studio housed in a converted warehouse on the city’s south side. Samiah had chosen it for this Friday’s girls’ night out. Taylor walked inside and spotted Samiah standing near the entrance.

  “Hey, lady! Cute shoes,” Taylor greeted, pointing to her friend’s ballerina flats. They were bright red and covered with artful paint splotches.

  “They go with tonight’s theme,” Samiah said, cocking her leg back like a 1950s pinup girl.

  The door creaked open again, and London walked inside.

  “So whose idea was it to come to this place?” she asked. Her bold yellow jumpsuit perfectly suited both London’s deep brown skin tone and her in-your-face personality. “We could have just had drinks and skipped the painting.”

  “No!” Samiah and Taylor said in unison.

  “Our mission is to find you a hobby, remember?” Samiah said. “Don’t knock it till you try it. You may discover a hidden talent.”

  “My talent is saving lives. Isn’t that enough?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being multitalented,” Samiah threw over her shoulder as she started for the reception desk.

  “You know there’s a sip-and-paint place not too far from your condo, right?” Taylor asked.

  “They weren’t interested in beta-testing my Just Friends app. The owner of this place is at least willing to discuss it.”

  That explained why Samiah had insisted they drive so far out of the way. Just Friends was designed to help people find platonic friends by matching users’ interests. Then businesses could curate one-of-a-kind experiences based on some kind of algorithm Samiah’s brilliant, tech wizard brain had developed.

  “So this isn’t about finding me a hobby at all,” London surmised. “It’s about business.”

  “Two birds, one stone. And don’t pretend you wouldn’t be complaining no matter what hobby we were trying out tonight.”

  Samiah gave her name to the greeter at the desk and the three of them were shown to their section of the cavernous studio. Each station was comprised of a medium-size canvas on a short easel, a paint palette, several brushes of various sizes, along with wineglasses and small plates of cheese, crackers, and fresh fruit.

  “Hmm,” London murmured as she picked up a strawberry. “This doesn’t look so bad. I didn’t realize it was a paint by numbers kind of thing. I can do this.”

  “Places like this are more about the booze and the socializing than the actual painting,” Taylor pointed out. “But like Samiah said, maybe you’ll discover that you actually like it.” She took her seat at the easel to London’s right. “Remember, you’re the one who wanted to find a hobby.”

  “Yeah, well, I may need to put the hobby search on the back burner for a while,” London said. “When we came up with our projects, I didn’t realize I would be dealing with a DEFCON 1–level crisis at the hospital. I don’t have the brain power to devote to a hobby.” She turned to Taylor. “Speaking of our projects, how are things going with—”

  “Good evening.” A middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair and more freckles than Taylor could count walked up to their work area. “I’m so excited for you all to join us. Now, which of you lovely ladies is Samiah Brooks?”

  “That’s me,” Samiah said, reaching out her hand. “Are you Peggy?”

  “Yes, I am. I’ll be back to talk once we’re done with the class. The app you discussed sounds right up my alley. Why don’t you all enjoy your wine and snacks, and we’ll get started on our portraits in just a few minutes.”

  “Psst,” London whispered once the woman left. “I say we finish off the wine and snacks and then get out of here.”

  “Will you at least give it a chance?” Samiah said. “Sit your cute ass in that chair, pick up a paintbrush, and have some fun, dammit!”

  “All right, all right.” London put her hands up. “You know, you’re way too mean for someone who’s getting regular sex.”

  “Actually, she’s not getting regular sex,” Taylor said. “Daniel is out of town.”

  “Yes, he is,” Samiah hissed. “And I am extra pissed off that I’ve become so addicted to his dick that my vibrator doesn’t excite me anymore.”

  “Ugh.” London shook her shoulders in an exaggerated shudder. “I never want to get to that point. Men come and go, but your vibrator is your forever friend. You gotta protect that relationship at all cost, girl.”

  “My vibrator stopped working,” Taylor said, plucking a grape from the stem. “I think it broke from too much use.”

  “I’ll buy you another one. Don’t fight me on this,” London said when she started to argue. “These days that shit is medicinal.”

  “I don’t need you to buy me a vibrator because I have money again,” Taylor said. “Umm…I said that kinda loud, didn’t I?” She looked around to make sure no one had heard her singing about vibrators.

  “I take it your new client came through with the funds?”

  “Yes, he did. Thank God. Rent is paid and Nessie’s gas tank is full!”

  “I figured as much when I saw the new braids,” Samiah said. “They look nice.”

  “That’s what I was asking before the painting lady interrupted us,” London said. “How’s it going with the football guy? This makes a week, right?”

  Had it only been a week?

  Time had stretched like a rubber band since Jamar Dixon had showed up at her pop-up class last Saturday afternoon.

  Taylor figured they would be here all night if she tried to recount everything that had happened to her since the three of them met for dinner last Friday, but she had to at least share this week’s most important highlight, if only for their reactions.

  “I’d say it’s going well,” Taylor drawled in an exceedingly blasé tone. “I mean, now that we’re dating and all.”

  “You’re what?”

  Yep, that’s the reaction she’d anticipated. Their simultaneous screeches drew stares from neighboring tables.

  “Oh my God, if you could see your faces right now.” Taylor laughed. She held up her hands. “Let me explain.”

  She motioned for them to come in closer and dished out an abbreviated version of this past week’s events, starting with her first workout with Jamar and ending with the run-in with Alec Mooney during the Longhorns’ football practice, and their decision to move forward with the story that they’re a new couple.

  “Do you really think you can pull off a fake relationship in this day and age with social media?” Samiah whispered.

  “We can pull it off if we’re smart about it,” Taylor returned.

  “You do realize this sounds like a romance novel, don’t you?” London asked. “I mean, it’s adorable, but it is such a romance novel. In the book, you two would end up getting married.” London lifted one shoulder. “I’m just saying.”

  Taylor immediately dismissed London’s theory. There would be no ugly bridesmaid dresses, or sugary wedding cake in her future—at least not with Jamar Dixon. Or any client.

  She’d learned that hard lesson two years ago, when she’d made the mistake of hooking up with Chad Lewis, an asshole of a client who’d decided that once they slept together it meant he no longer had to pay her to be his trainer. She’d discovered that the only reason his best friend hired her is because Chad had told him that she would probably sleep with him too.

  They’d laughed at her. Taylor could still hear their disgusting cackles as she confronted Chad about this idea of passing her around to his friends. No amount of positive self-talk could expunge those memories, and she hated that the experience still affected her so much.

  That incident had been the catalyst behind her move to Austin. She had been so afraid that she would acquire a reputation of being open to sleeping with clients, or that Chad and his friend Brandon would put that lie out there. It had seemed like the smart thing to just get the hell out of North Carolina.


  She’d also decided to put dating—and men in general—on the back burner for a while. She’d had a couple of coffee meetups and flirted online a bit, but that fateful date with Craig Walters back in August had been her first real date in over a year.

  Maybe she should just give up on men altogether. Her track record wasn’t worth shit.

  “That’s not happening,” Taylor assured London. “This story ends with Jamar making it onto an NFL team and telling all of his teammates how he owes his success to his amazing personal trainer.”

  “Work that hustle,” Samiah said, holding her hand up for a high five.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t do both, but whatever,” London said. She slid off her stool. “I need more wine.”

  Samiah caught her wrist. “Not yet. We’re about to start.” She motioned to the front of the room, where the freckled redhead stood. The woman held up a painting of a wineglass on the ledge of a windowsill. It was a completed version of the image outlined in gray on their canvases. Peggy instructed the class to “go with their heart” when painting their own version, but informed them that hers would remain at the front of the class as a guide.

  “Okay, that was helpful,” London said. “Now more wine.” She grabbed her empty glass and went off in the direction of the table near the check-in desk that held bottles of wine and extra food.

  “I don’t think painting is her thing,” Taylor said.

  “I’ll be president of Trendsetters before that girl finds an interest outside of the hospital,” Samiah said.

  “Hey, that may not be too far off base. At the pace you’re moving, you’ll be running that company soon,” Taylor remarked. Samiah had already achieved rock-star status at the tech firm where she worked in downtown Austin.

  “It sounds as if I’m not the only one making big moves,” she said. “This deal you made with Jamar Dixon is going to work out great for you. What about the other thing?”