The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(14)

“Good answer,” I say, holding his gaze the way I’ve learned intimidates men. Once again, he passes when he tips his head to me with a smile, almost in a challenge. I reach a hand out and grab my wine, taking a deep gulp. I think I’m going to need this.

“So, did I pass your inspection?”

“You passed the entrance exam. But we’re just getting started,” I say and pull my notebook closer to me. On top is my sheet of questions I always ask, pinned beneath his application. I have them memorized by heart, but it’s become a security blanket of sorts.

“You didn’t explain yet. What does this process look like?” Somehow, I now feel like I’m being interviewed instead of the other way around. I’ve never had to explain my process to a man. He’s always agreed to my process well before we get to a date.

“We’ll go on two dates. Each will be a meal and an activity. This one is planned by myself; the next is in your hands. I’ll get to know you, your tastes, likes, wishes, and hopes, and hopefully, by the end of the second date, I’ll feel confident in setting you up with one of my clients. You’ll get added to my files so we can pair you.”

“Ah, so that’s why it’s called Ex Files. So it’s a file of men you’ve already dated?”

“Exactly.” I smile. The number of times I’ve had to explain what I thought was an obvious name is exhaustive.

“I thought you might have a thing for Scully and Mulder.”

“Nope, just a silly name I thought of in college that stuck.”

“Your job has been to date men since college?”

“It’s more than that, but yes.”

“What does your man think about this gig?” he asks, sitting back in his chair and resting his hands on his chest. It’s like he’s sitting around a bonfire instead of at a nice restaurant. Part of me is horrified and fighting the urge to look around and see who might have caught his blip in etiquette, but part of me… part of me is jealous he’s so at ease with himself.

“My man?”

“Yeah. A gorgeous woman like you has to have a man of some kind. He cool with you going out every night and dating a new man?”

“I don’t have a man.”

“You don’t?” I shake my head, glancing down at the salads on the menu as if I haven’t seen them a million times. “You’re telling me the matchmaker is single?”

“My mom calls me a single Pringle.” Why did I just say that? His laugh booms, and heads turn our way as my cheeks burn with heat.

“Single Pringle! Q would love that.” He leans forward before leaning back again, this time with his beer. “So, why are you single? If anyone is qualified to find themselves a suitable man, it would be you.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“What?”

“I ask you questions. That’s how this works. It’s how I decide if you’re a good fit.”

“That doesn’t sound like a date.”

“It is. It’s my date.”

“But how would you know the important things? Like if I’m able to ask intuitive questions or care about women. If I can hold a conversation?”

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem holding a conversation.”

“Yeah, it’s you who bulldozes people, isn’t it? How long did it take you to figure out I wasn’t the Roadside Assistance tech?” Blood burns on my cheeks once again, but he’s still smiling. At least he’s not holding it against me.

“I figured it out today.”

“I tried to tell you, you know.” I do know, of course. I’ve replayed the situation more than once, over-analyzing the entire embarrassing experience until I was nauseated. More than once, he tried to stop me on my tirade and let me know he was not Roadside Assistance, instead of some random guy in the right place at the right time.

“I know. I was rude and didn’t let you speak. I feel bad about it, if it helps, but in my defense, I was in a state.”

“The mascara was a dead giveaway.” I groan, remembering the black tear tracks I scrubbed off when I got home. Those two hours alone in the cold tested me more than I’d like to admit. Realizing I had no one who would notice my absence quickly was worse than any midlife crisis I’ve heard of. Because really, what am I doing with my life? I have no friends, no reliable family, no boyfriend. And while I don’t think by any stretch of the imagination a woman needs a man in her life to be happy, the thought that the road I’m walking down now means I’ll remain single and lonely... it’s not making me feel like I’m enjoying life to its fullest.

“I kind of hoped that you couldn’t see that in the dark.”

“A blind man could have seen it, sweetheart.” The term of endearment, one he used last night as well, sends a warm shiver down my spine. Instead of answering, I sip my wine. “So, questions. I’ll answer whatever, but for each you ask, I get one.” I stare at him for long moments, deciding how to answer.

On one hand, absolutely not. This is not how this works, and he doesn’t need to know anything about me. On the other, I’m pretty sure if I decline his offer, this is over. He won’t answer any more questions. And I can tell myself all day long I want him to answer these questions for research, for work, but the reality is I’m dying to know more about him for some sick reason.