Fluffy(43)

“Mallory?” Will’s over to the left, next to a water fountain, wearing a navy blue polo shirt, jeans, and a confused smile. My eyes dart to the spot where I hit him.

No bandage.

No blood on his collar, either.

“Will!” I feign surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask the same question.”

“This is my date.”

He looks behind me. “Where is he?”

“Oh, hahaha, I mean this is where I’m having my date. With David. David, our first date,” I ramble. If this were a flamenco-dancing studio, could I snap myself to death with castanets and end this misery?

“What are the odds?” Will crosses his arms over his chest, the move making his biceps bulge. There’s not an ounce of fat on him, all of him contoured, strong, and tan.

I narrow my eyes. Was that a dig? Does he think I’m following him? Does he think I have no life and all I do is stalk him to find ways to “accidentally” run into him at the farmer’s market or his lacrosse games or when we shared the same orthodontist freshman year and I figured out his schedule?

Because that is sooooo fourteen years ago.

Okay. Fine.

Ten.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him, quirking one eyebrow. Maybe Perky and Fiona are right? Maybe Will is Dance Guy, and this is all an elaborate scheme to get me to go out with him?

Wait. That’s the entire plot of one of my ninth-grade fantasies, with the addition of the app.

Never mind.

“The wedding.”

“Wedding?”

“Remember? I’m a groomsman in a wedding. The bride requires us to take dancing lessons.”

“Hah. You got a zilla.”

“A zilla?”

“Bridezilla.”

“It’s not that bad.” Shrug.

“I’ll bet she’s an over-controlling, pedantic, neurotic freak who has a high need for perfection and she thinks objects are more important than people.”

“She’s my sister, Mallory.”

Foot, mouth, insert. Awkward.

I try to recover. “Actually, that was my sister that I just described.”

His head tilts, like he’s trying to understand me, as if that shift will somehow give him more power. “That’s right. You have an older sister, too. Hayley? Holly? Hannah?”

“Hastings. She’s four years older than us.”

“My sister is four years older, too. Bet they knew each other in school.”

I don’t know what to say to that, because I know Hasty hated Will’s sister with a burning passion she once compared to a raging yeast infection, so I just ask, “How’s your head?”

“Better. Some ibuprofen, emergency brain surgery, and an ice pack later, I’m good as new.”

I laugh, but I'm suddenly filled with remorse. “Seriously, I’m sorry I hurt you.”

His eyes soften, attention deeper. “Thanks.”

“But if you ever creep up on me like that again, I’ll do the same.”

“What are the odds that I’ll surprise you in my bedroom a second time?” He smiles, mouth closed, dimples emerging, his eyes filled with mirth. It’s as if he actually wants me to quote him a number.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

And why am I recalling Hunger Games when it comes to thinking about being alone with Will in his bedroom?

Because my entire dating life has been nothing but a post-apocalyptic race to the bottom.

Nerves get the better of me and I look down at my phone, wondering where David is so I can move from one awkward conversation to another.

“Uh, excuse me,” I say, wishing my skin didn't feel like a tingling war zone. “My, uh, date is texting me.”

I’m going to hell for that lie, but whatever.

Will takes the cue and crosses the room to a table with lemonade and store-bought cookies, pouring himself a cup as I will my date to say something.

What are you wearing? I type into the app message system.

Nothing.

Two full, sweaty minutes roll by as I wait for a guy to answer the easiest double entendre ever. One hundred twenty seconds of sheer hell pass as I watch a blonde woman talk up Will like she wants to take him home and turn him into her evening protein shake. She's wearing lululemon tights and Jimmy Choos, an unusual combination that seems to indicate she's ready for anything.

Clap clap! A man in a tight, black Lycra shirt, grey fitted slacks, and the most beautiful Italian leather shoes I have ever seen glides like melting cheese on a raclette into the center of the ballroom.

“Hello, hello! My name is Philippe, and I am your instructor tonight. Welcome! Two more minutes for refreshments, and then we DANCE!” The word DANCE comes out of his mouth in capital letters.

Philippe heads straight toward me, eyes meeting mine, his dark, wavy hair slicked off his face with curls escaping at the nape of the neck, a perfectly manscaped moustache adding to his rakish look.

“And you are?” he asks, the words a demand to reveal my soul.

“Uh, Mallory.”

“Uh, Mallory, it is nice to meet you.”

“It’s just Mallory.”

“Are you Uh, Mallory, or Just Mallory?” he asks, mouth pursing with amusement.