Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Look, I can tell you’re not ready for a relationship. I respect that. But you do owe them these videos, so here’s a thought—instead of finding one person you want to do these dates with, would you be willing to do five first dates?”
I let that soak in, but it doesn’t take long. First dates are easy. No commitment. No promises. “Probably.”
“No one is saying you have to meet your wife,” he reassures me.
“Good. Because that won’t happen.”
“So then if I can get Zena to reframe the contract around five first dates, you’d be willing to hold up your end of the deal?”
I don’t have any leeway; I can’t say no. And I don’t want to piss off Zena or let Wilder down. Plus, Maddox has come up with a pretty decent compromise. I can fake it through five first dates. “I would. Because…you rock,” I say.
He flashes me a professional grin. “I do. Just reactivate that profile today so Zena sees you making the effort, all right?”
I can do him one better. I whip out my phone from my back pocket, toggle over to the app that’s gone unused for so long it’s got digital cobwebs. Then I fire up my profile—my screen name is Plays Well With Others—showing the proof to Maddox on the screen. “There you go.”
My agent lifts an eyebrow in a way that says he’s impressed. “I’ll call Zena when we’re done.”
We reach the tees, and Maddox hands me one of the two clubs he’s been carrying. I line up, take a big swing, and look at that. The ball soars, and as it flies forward, so does my mind.
I’m ten paces ahead.
Wouldn’t it be easier if that first first date was with someone I already know? Because I’m pretty sure there’s someone I could ask to go on a first date with me—platonically, of course. Last night, Rachel said she owed me a favor. Does she? Hell no. But would she help me?
That’s a hell yes.
All I need to do is convince her to make a profile for the sole purpose of swiping right…on me.
8
SWEET UNBANGABLE ME
Rachel
It’s a good thing I’m not hungover. But the flip side is I can remember everything I said last night at the card table.
As in this bon mot…
I’d like to get back on the real horse.
Oof.
And I can’t even blame a couple of glasses of bubbly for my megaphone mouth.
I was buzzed light. I was sober adjacent. I wasn’t even drunk enough to blame the liquor for the way I bit my lip or eye-fucked Carter when he was just trying to say goodnight.
Where is the rewind button?
But on the bright side, at least I have some customers in my shop on Saturday, so I can’t stew in the what-do-I-say-to-Carter zone. Options include but are not limited to: Thanks for saving me and the horse my libido rode in on, and…yes, I am a bad girl who’s having very dirty thoughts about you.
Fable is chatting with a couple of tourists, vehemently discouraging them from setting foot on Fisherman’s Wharf, while I help a couple of teenagers pick out a gift for one of their boyfriends. The one with a rose-pink midriff-baring top and jet-black hair peers at the display of thick gold chains, tapping her chin. “Do you have any in silver?”
“I do,” I say, then reach into a drawer and show her a silver chain designed for a guy. “What do you think of this one?”
Her redheaded friend—the one wearing a dark pink midriff-baring top—gasps in excitement. “Yes. Get that one, Soph.”
The girl named Sophie, I presume, nods sagely, then meets my eyes. “My boyfriend has been checking out gold chains online. But I don’t like gold, so this way if I get a silver chain for him, I can make sure I like what he’s wearing. It’s what I call a selfish gift.”
That is delightfully underhanded. “Brilliant plan,” I say with a smile. “I wish I’d been that smart when my college boyfriend wore cargo pants.”
“So cringe,” they say in unison.
“Want me to wrap this for him?” I ask.
“That would be great. Thank you,” Sophie says, then her gaze catches on a small, delicate chain with a sparkly heart on it. She urges her friend over. “Oh, Aud, come see this.”
While I wrap the not-selfish-after-all gift, the tourist ladies leave with a wave and one of them gives a final, “I solemnly swear I won’t go to Fisherman’s Wharf.”
Fable punches the air. “Victory.”
I shake my head at her in amusement while the girls try on the heart necklaces. I’m surprised, though, when they turn to me rather than their phones, with Sophie asking, “How do we look?”
“Like friendship goals,” I say, grateful to have been asked.
Sophie wraps her arm around her friend—Audrey, I’m guessing—and squeezes. They remind me of my friend group. I might have lost all skills at interacting with adult men, but I can hang with the girls no problem.