The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(12)

With that in mind, I live my life with one true rule: be me and nothing else. Take me or leave me.

Maybe that’s why I’m still single.

This is my thought when I enter the hip Thai fusion restaurant I’d typically avoid like the plague. Still, when I told Tara where we were going, she gave me a long list of what I’d like and what I should try, knowing the complex menus that don’t also feature a burger and fries as a fallback are too overwhelming for me. I think Q and Tara are more excited about this date than I have ever been about anything, with my receiving no less than three calls from each during the day to ask what time I was going, what I was wearing, and reminding me to be on my best behavior. That’s when I reminded them I will be who I am and nothing less.

“Welcome, do you have a reservation?” the cute, young girl dressed in all black asks when I walk up to the hostess stand.

“Yeah, I’m meeting someone here, Cassandra….” I look at the screen of my phone where my sister texted me the matchmaker’s name. I probably should have memorized it, especially if I’ll be spending at least four hours with her today.

Four hours. That’s probably the longest I’ve spent with a woman not in my bed in… God. Years. Should I be embarrassed by that? Does that make me a piece of shit? Probably.

“Oh, Cassie! Yes, follow me.” Since the ‘rules’ state she sets up this first ‘date,’ I assume she probably has a rotating list of restaurants she goes to, dates she plans with the intent of learning the most from random men as humanly possible. It’s strange how something that should be intimate, a first date, probably feels clinical and textbook to her. I can’t help but wonder if she goes on non-business-related dates or if they all feel the same to her at the end of the day. I wonder how her man feels about this if she has one. Or if maybe it’s a case of, “If you can’t do, teach.”

These thoughts tumble through my mind, which rarely stops moving, as I follow the hostess to the back of the restaurant. Then, slowly, a woman comes into focus, sitting alone at a table with a notebook next to her.

And for the second time in twenty-four hours, the chaos in my mind quiets.

It’s her.





Seven





-Cassie-





“It’s you,” I say when he comes into my line of sight. Can I catch a damn break this week?

He’s not in the uniform he wore yesterday, instead, in a sweater and jacket I recognize as a popular menswear designer. His hands are in his pockets, casually pushing back the bottom of his jacket. Regardless of his classy clothes, when my head to toe hits his toe, beaten leather boots are peeking out. As much as I want to dock points for a faux pas—the mix of workwear and date wear?—it’s oddly endearing on him, and he makes it work.

But it’s not the outfit or the boots that make me remember. In the dark, with only headlights and the moon to light the roadway, I wasn’t able to see that. No, it’s the smile I notice.

It’s big and bright and casual. So warm. Shiny white teeth sit in a perfect line, making me want to use my lips to cover the small gap between my own my parents couldn’t afford to fix when I was a teen. And he’s got a dimple. A dimple!

His head is topped with what can only be described as an achingly adorable mess of dark hair he clearly made little attempt to slick back. As one hand leaves his pocket and combs the hair back, it becomes obvious that’s the extent of the styling he gives it. Big blue eyes are framed with thick, long eyelashes all gorgeous men seem to be blessed with, leaving us women to coat ours with mascara and falsies until we have an emotional day and cry them off in the driver’s seat of our car when we’re stranded on the side of the road.

Why is he here?

Something in my gut knows it’s not a coincidence—he’s my date.

But why? Why the hell does he need my services?

There has to be something wrong with this man.

There is no reason for him to be single.

Much less single and looking.

He’s not here for me. He’s not my client.

“It’s you,” he says in reply, and I’m confused for a split second before I remember that’s what I just said.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m Luke Dawson. Your date, I believe.”

“No, you’re not. You’re—” But when I look down at the printout of basic information Gabrielle left on my desk, there he is. Hair slightly more styled, smile a bit forced, a tux pulling tight against his chest. He’s there, smiling at me and looking nothing like the man I met last night. Except he does. “But you…” I stumble on words before I just stare at him with my mouth slightly open like I’m a star-struck teenage girl and he’s the lead singer of some boy band.

“Is everything okay, Cassie?” Sara, the sweet hostess who knows me since I come here for dates often, asks. It pops me out of my daze, thankfully.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Yes, Sara, thanks.” I shake my head before gesturing a hand at the seat across from me. “Sit.”

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Bossy.” He says the words with a smirk like he’s telling a joke instead of poking fun of me, but it’s not a joke I’m in on. I hate that kind of joke. It’s the kind of joke my cousins and aunts on my dad’s side share when I have to see them. The whispered under breath kind.