Fluffy(44)

I cannot tell whether I like him or hate him.

“Mallory.”

Eyeing me up and down, his expression changes to approval when he sees my shoes. “You have come prepared.”

Will chooses that exact moment to walk over, a lemonade in each hand, and offer me one. I smile a thank you as Philippe watches us like he’s judging a couple on So You Think You Can Dance.

“You are here together?” he asks.

“OH, NO!” I call out, as if it’s the word DANCE. “I’m waiting for my date.”

“Date?”

“First date, actually. I don’t know what he looks like, but...”

“Was his name David, by any chance?” Philippe asks, mouth twisted with disgust.

“Yes!”

“Corporate,” he hisses. “Again!”

Will exchanges a confused look with me, then takes a sip of his lemonade, choosing to stay out of this. One hand goes to his hip as he politely looks away, drinking like it's his job. I can see his profile out of the corner of my eye.

“Excuse me?” I ask Philippe.

“Did you meet him–this David–on an online dating service?”

“Yes.”

Philippe takes my hand as if I’m a mourning widow at her beloved husband’s wake. “Then I am sorry to inform you, Mallory, that David is not coming.”

“Why not?”

“Because David is a salesman.”

“No, he’s not! He’s a conversion consultant.”

Will’s mouth tightens as if he knows something.

“Mallory,” Philippe says sadly, “David works for the corporation that owns Bailargo. He is one of their best salesmen.” Anger flashes in his eyes. “Because he toys with women’s emotions and sets them up for this.”

“This?”

Gesturing at me, he says, “This. You. The poor, lonely single woman looking for love on apps.”

“HEY!”

Are Will’s shoulders shaking?

“Watch,” Philippe says, clapping twice again. “Are any women here for a date with David? First date?”

Two hands go up.

“Oh, God,” I mutter, my hands flying to cover my burning hot, deeply embarrassed face. “What does this mean?”

“David has developed a new technique. He goes to dating apps and pretends to be original, asking women to have a first date at a dance lesson. He is charming and funny and–”

A feral sound comes out of my mouth.

“Sound familiar?” Will asks, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, looking really sympathetic on my behalf.

Which makes me feel even stupider.

“And then the women come here, there is no David, but some of them stay for class,” Philippe finishes.

“You’re telling me your corporate headquarters is hiring a guy who goes on dating sites and convinces single women to come to a dance class with him, then ghosts on them? On the chance that a certain percentage of us will sign up for dance lessons and convert to paying customers?” My voice goes higher and higher, until I start sounding like Mariah Carey the second everyone finishes Thanksgiving dinner and it's time for her songs to start on the radio again.

“Yes.”

“That's horrible!” I cry.

“That’s ingenious,” Will says. My glare makes him add quickly, “And completely unethical, of course. Some men are disgusting pigs.” His brow drops, eyes troubled with vicarious empathy, but they move in patterns that tell me he's processing this information and finds David's business acumen to be worthy of note.

“If you will excuse me, I need to find some tissues for those two women who are, like you, expecting a date with the charming David. Since he started doing this four months ago, sales have increased eleven percent, but my operating supplies have gone up 286 percent with all the tissues!” Philippe glides across the floor and approaches the two women, who are whispering and comparing phone screens.

Bet mine makes us triplets.

I take mine out and open the message app, livid.

You asshole, I type, hitting Send.

I told you women normally say that after the date :) he responds immediately.

There is no date. And no, I’m not buying dance lessons because you lured me here, I add. I’m complaining about you to corporate!

Come on. I’m sure dance lessons will lift your mood.

I hold the camera up to my left hand, middle finger flying high. I text that back with the message: This is the only thing I’m lifting when it comes to you.

And then I delete the damn app.

Will appears again, this time with more lemonade and a box of tissues under his arm. “Here,” he says, holding out the cup.

“I don’t need to be patronized.” But I take it anyhow and drink some, wishing it had vodka in it.

“Need these?” He offers the tissues.

“NO!” I’m not letting that weasel ruin my night. Who cries over someone with a username like NiceGuysFinish?

Wincing, Will gives me a look that says he’s judging me. I agree. I’m totally judging myself now.

The door is to my right. Without another word, I head for it.

“Mallory!” Philippe calls out as the other two David victims stroll along the room’s perimeter, talking about getting dinner at the new Mongolian barbeque in town. “Please don’t leave!”