Nobody Does It Better(29)

“I was happy to help,” I say, drawing one more clandestine inhale before we separate. Yup, just a hit, and damn, it goes to my head.

I could get high on her.

But I force myself to focus on what she just said. “Archives for what?”

She waves a hand like it’s no big deal. “I run a fashion site, and I blog about fashion too. What to wear, what not to wear, that sort of thing.”

“Can I see it?”

She shoots me a curious look. “You want to see a fashion video?”

I want to see her video. I want to keep talking to her. I want another excuse to sniff her hair. I guess that makes me a hair pervert. I’ll get that on a T-shirt next.

“Yeah, I do. Show me.” I egg her on. “C’mon. Show the geek what to wear.”

She laughs. “You already dress well. You have mastered the casual California look.”

I nudge her with my elbow. “Show me.”

She seems to fight off a grin. “If you insist.” Grabbing her phone, she clicks over to Instagram, where I catch a glimpse of her follower count. It’s half a mil. “You’re popular,” I say.

“I just like to have fun and post pics. Somewhere along the way, people started following me.”

She hits play, and within seconds I can tell she has charisma.

She’s funny. She’s self-deprecating. She’s accessible.

She’s exactly who she is—adorable and relatable, and so damn easy on the eyes.

There are no two ways about it. McKenna Bell loves the camera, and the camera loves her. Too bad she’s talking about fashion. Otherwise, she’d be perfect on my show. It’s also too bad she’s talking about other guys in her video and a date some dude asked her on.

All things considered, I’d rather this other dude not date her. Which makes me a selfish prick. But there it is.

“You’re a natural,” I say, shaking my head in appreciation. And because I need to know her situation, I stir up the hornet’s nest, referring to a comment she made in her video. “You haven’t dated in a decade? How does that happen? You’re fun and bright, and despite your predilection for being whacked by shower doors, you’re kind of awesome.”

“Why, thank you.” She takes a drink of her coffee, sets it down, and sighs. But it’s not an unhappy sigh. She manages a small smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story before. Girl is left at the altar, licks her wounds for a year, and decides to try dating again, so naturally makes it an online quest, and includes fashion tips too.”

Instantly, I hate the guy. I bristle. “Your ex-fiancé is a complete asshole for a million reasons, but most of all because he’d have to be crazy to leave you.”

Her eyes are soft. A sheen of wetness flickers over them. She swallows, answering quietly, “Thank you. Thank you for saying that.”

“It’s his loss, McKenna,” I say in a fierce tone. I barely know this woman, but what kind of jackass leaves a woman the day of her wedding?

She clears the emotion from her throat. “It’s all for the best. I’m better off without him.”

“But he should have figured that out a week or a month before.”

“True.” She raises her mug and offers it in a toast. “But I’ll drink to learning it before I said ‘I do.’ Besides, one of the biggest red flags was there from the get-go. He liked to steal the first sip of Diet Coke every time I opened a new can. And hello! That’s kind of a passion of mine.”

I smile at her ability to make light of a difficult situation, lifting my mug and clinking back. “To never stealing first sips.” I take a drink of my espresso then ask a question. “And now you’re out there and dating again?” The words taste like sawdust.

Or maybe that’s jealousy. Which makes zero sense, since I barely know her. Must be a standard territorial guy thing I’m feeling. Yeah, that has to be it.

“I’m kicking it old-school.” She slashes her hand through the air, like she’s making a no sign. “No apps, no online matching, no swipe this or that. I’m going to try my luck the old-fashioned way. I was asked out the other day on the street by a guy who owns a restaurant. Lucky me.”

The smile she gives makes it clear she’s 100 percent excited for this date, and then some.

“Lucky guy,” I say, and I mean it 100 percent.

Her eyes lock on mine for a second, the flecks in them sparkling. “What about you? You must be inundated with date requests all the time.”

I scoff. “I’m not on the apps.”

“Of course,” she says quickly, as if she’s correcting herself. “You don't need to be. You probably get asked out when you walk into coffee shops.”

She’s not wrong, but that’s not why I’m not on the apps.

I heave a sigh, and serve up the truth. “I’m honestly not focused on that right now. I have what’s known as trust issues,” I say, trying to make light of it.

“Ooh. Sounds fascinating.” She leans closer, her tone like those used in a 1940s detective flick. “I have those too. Tell me, Chris. What are your trust issues?”

I picture Carly, the producer I dated at work last year. She was fun, ambitious, and fiery. Trouble was, she was also a bit vengeful. “I dated a woman I worked with for about six months. She wanted more, and I didn’t. No particular reason, but I just didn’t feel the same level of spark. It didn’t work out.”