I Flipping Love You (Shacking Up #3)(12)
She pauses with a brush in her hand. “Really? That’s swanky. So he must be feeling you. Now the most important question is: Who’s paying?”
“I didn’t ask. I’ll have to wait and see.” Last time we went Dutch. It was just coffee. He’s really upping his game.
My sister sighs dramatically. “Seriously? If he doesn’t pay and he doesn’t make an attempt for a real goodnight kiss, you have to cut him loose.”
The idea of his tongue in my mouth makes me shudder, but I keep quiet. Marley does my hair and makeup. I’m not the best at putting it on myself, but she’s a pro.
She forces me to wear a pair of wedges that are two inches higher than I’m used to, because they make my legs look longer. I don’t need any help in that area. I’m five eight, my legs are already pretty damn long. It’s a short walk, though, so I should be fine. I make sure I have my wallet, phone, lip gloss, and mace tucked away in my purse, and I’m ready for this date. Which I’m still not excited about.
“I’ll text in an hour to see if you need saving,” Marley says as I head for the door. “And if you’re not coming home tonight, make sure you let me know. And text me an address so I can call the cops if you stop responding to messages.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“I’m being positive.”
By the time I get to the restaurant, my feet already hurt, but dinner is a sit-down event, so I’ll be able to get some relief from these ridiculous shoes.
I spot Terry as I approach the front entrance of the restaurant. He’s sitting on a bench, head bent over his phone. He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take the opportunity to give him a full assessment with a “Marley lens.” We have very different criteria for what we consider to be viably datable, but even I can admit that Terry is a little … lacking.
Marley has a propensity for dating surfer boys and beach volleyball players. Bleach-blond hair, rock-hard abs, and a killer smile are pretty much all she requires. Conversation isn’t a top priority. Marley doesn’t do serious. Neither do I, but casual isn’t my strong suit either, which puts me in a bit of a predicament.
Terry is dressed in a pair of beige pants and a short-sleeve button-down. Both are wrinkled, which I find odd. His shoes are brown and he’s wearing sports socks. They should be white, but it appears he’s washed them with something red, because they have a slight pink hue. In fact, his shirt might also have the same slight pinkish hue.
Terry’s profile states he’s six one, but I think that’s an exaggeration. He’s maybe six feet at best. He’s also incredibly lean. So much so that I imagine if I put on a pair of his boxers, there’s a good chance they would fit me just fine. Not that there would ever be a reason for me to put his boxers on, but for the sake of waist-size comparison.
His brown hair is parted to the side, and I note the hint of recession at his crown. I’m not so vain that he needs to have a full head of hair forever, but I think his profile said he’s thirty-one. I imagine in ten years he’ll have a horseshoe.
Like the rest of him, his face is narrow. He has a straight nose and brown eyes. I assess my bodily reaction to his physical appearance. Nothing. No tingles. No zingy zaps anywhere. Which is perfect, because it ensures that I won’t make any hormonally charged decisions.
I take a deep breath, check my dress—dear Lord this cleavage is insane—and cross the last few feet to stand in front of him.
He looks up when my shadow crosses his phone. He does a full-body scan, eyes moving down to start at my shoes and he works his way slowly up. His gaze gets caught at my chest.
“Rian. Wow.” He pushes to a stand, eyes still fixed below my neck for a few more seconds before he finally makes eye contact. His cheeks flush pink, and he jams his hands in his pockets. I think there’s a grease stain on the front of his pants, but I don’t want to look too closely since it’s near his crotch. “You look”—he gestures to my dress—“incredible.”
“You look … great.” My voice is all squeaky. If he knew me well enough, he’d know I’m lying. How great can one look in pants that are a size too big with a stain on the front and a wrinkled shirt? Also, he’s sweating. His forehead and upper lip are dotted with perspiration. I don’t remember him being this gross last time.
He glances down and then back at me, the flush in his cheeks deepening. He laughs a little and tugs on the collar of his shirt. “I came straight from work. I had a bit of an issue and didn’t want to be late.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah. Fine. Just, uh, problems after a lunch meeting. Everything’s fine.” He pulls a tissue from his pocket and dabs at his upper lip. “We should go in.” He motions me forward, holding the door open like a gentleman. With these heels on, he’s almost exactly the same height as I am. Definitely not even six feet, then.
“Would you prefer to sit inside or on the patio?”
“Either is fine with me.” My skin pebbles at the blast of air conditioning as I enter the restaurant.
He runs his knuckle along the back of my arm, and my first instinct is to step away from his touch, which isn’t a great sign. It’s one thing not to have heaps of immediate chemistry, but such an adverse reaction is way bad. “Maybe the patio will be better? It’s warmer out there.”