Never Say Yes To Your Best Friend (I said Yes)

2. Mont

Chapter two

Mont

I think five-star restaurants might be overdone. Maybe, one of these times, I should change it up and pick a burger joint, but seeing as my mom always sets up these dates and picks the time and place, I just haven’t had the heart to change it. I don’t think places that have been in magazines or ones that charge three hundred bucks for a plate are any better than anywhere else, but my mom seems to think this is the proper way to have a date.

Well, given how many have gone nowhere, she might be wrong.

I really should get on finding that hole-in-the-wall burger joint.

Just because people have money doesn’t mean they don’t like a good burger and some homemade fries. Maybe a shake. Or chicken nuggets? Yeah, everyone loves chicken nuggets.

I stand outside, people-watching and trying not to shift around nervously. This might be date number I’ve lost count, but it doesn’t mean the good old butterflies aren’t still twisting through my insides. My mom does this thing where she sets up these dates so I can be here early. She tells the other mom to relay the message that I’ll be here at eight, and then she tells me seven-thirty. I didn’t figure it out for the first ten dates or so. I thought the other party was just chronically late. Once I clued in, I wasn’t that upset. It’s kind of a habit to get here early now and wait outside.

I’ve spent the past fifteen minutes wondering what kind of woman this Genevieve is. My mom sent me a picture, but that was it. I’ve had a busy week at work with my newest acquisition finally pushing through, so I had zero free time to do any background research. Honestly, once you achieve the level of date number I’ve lost count times infinity, looking someone up seems like a monumental waste of time that I don’t have.

A white cab with green writing down the side pulls up at the curb, its brake lights flashing red in the dark, then flashing again. The guy clearly doesn’t believe in using the park gear, or he’s in that much of a hurry.

It could be anyone arriving, but it’s not.

Wow . Holy banana pies.

This woman is gorgeous.

I have to admit I didn’t pay very close attention to the grainy, low-resolution photo Mom sent. I knew the basics, but this woman is so much more.

She’s gone for more of a toned-down look with her makeup. Natural. I can even see the freckles that dance across her nose. I don’t remember seeing freckles in the picture, but then again, I barely paid attention. She has lovely green eyes, long lashes, and the softest-looking lips. She went for understated in her attire, too, with an emerald blouse and a black pencil skirt with kitten heels. No jewelry except for tiny, plain silver balls in her ears. Her hair is the only thing I don’t like. I’m more of an authentic all-around guy, and the long curls look anything but natural, obviously a dye job and half extensions. It’s okay, though. The quick smile she flashes at me says she doesn’t want to be anyone but herself. She’s confident. She just likes being blonde, and it’s none of my darn business what her salon does for her.

When her smile grows, my chest gets tight. She has a beautiful smile. I notice that her top two front teeth are perfectly straight, but both the ones beside them are just a little bit crooked. She walks right up to me and holds up a hand.

“High five?”

My jaw drops. “What’s that?”

“Oh. You don’t do the bro shake? I thought a high five would be acceptable, given that I don’t know any secret handshakes, and we aren’t besties yet.”

I have no choice. I have to high-five her, no matter how weird it is. Her hand is tiny and soft and just the slightest bit wet when our palms smack.

Then, she rubs her hands together, her eyes dancing. “Jeez, I’m hungry enough to eat a horse or ten. This is a great place. It’s not cheap either, so I hope you’re paying.”

She did not just say that, did she? Yeah, she did. She’s grinning at me. This has to be a stick-up-the-bum test to see how I’ll react.

Well, two could play at this game.

“I forgot my wallet, so I was hoping you’d pick up the tab. Don’t worry, though. If you forgot your wallet too, we could always do dishes for the next six months to work off the bill.”

I don’t know why, but this time, her smile is smaller, but it seems more authentic. “Excellent. But we won’t have to worry about that. I was just kidding. I have daddy’s credit card with me. Not that it’s his. It’s in my name, but you know.”

She’s nervous. She has to be. That’s all it is. She could still be testing me. She points to the door. “So, should we go in?”

Yes. Yes, we should. I don’t know whether to laugh or be horrified, but either way, I’m intrigued. I hold the door open for her while I try to figure out if this is going to be an epic disaster or the best date of my life.

We get a table right in the middle of the place. The mood lighting is fierce in here, and those chandeliers in the ceiling don’t give off much light. One fat pillar candle burns on every table in a little lantern holder thing with real roses circling around it. This place is all fancy wine glasses, white napkins, and starched white tablecloths. If I had lived a century ago and had come here during the Roaring Twenties, I imagine the aura would have been exactly the same.

It’s the kind of place where the servers wear white pressed shirts as stiff as the tablecloths. When ours comes around, a guy probably in his mid-twenties, I’m so thrown for a loop at how this date started that I blurt out something about trying one of every appetizer.

“That’s great.” It doesn’t matter that the lighting in here sucks. Genevieve Walker is glowing . And it’s not the makeup. She just looks that young and fresh and beautiful, and I can’t stop looking at her. I should, but there’s something about her that is immediately captivating.

It’s probably the fact that she isn’t like anyone else I’ve ever dated. Or met. Uniqueness is a thing for me. It’s right up there with intelligence.

She props her elbows on the table and stares me down. It’s slightly unnerving, but I end up falling into those soft green eyes anyway. “Are you a pets person?”

This is a normal, easy conversation. Ice breakers. “I don’t have any at the moment.”

“You don’t have a dog?” she asks.

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you grow up with one?”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s a shame.” She shakes her head and gives me this strange, wounded look like I’ve missed out on the best that life has to offer, and that’s just so sad, and she feels horrible for me. “I think every household should include four dogs. If we got married, would that be a problem?”

“I…”

“Kidding. Marriage is way the heck in the future. But shacking up. If we did that, then I’d have to have dogs.”

Shacked up? Who the heck says shacked up?

I have no idea how to respond to that, so we just sit in awkward silence. Genevieve looks all around the place, studying everything from the people around us to the black and white photos of old landmarks on the walls to the man playing a grand piano near the front.

Whoever is in that kitchen must work miracles because our appetizers come in record time. Our server and another server set down dish after dish.

Genevieve doesn’t immediately dig in. Instead, she catches the server before he leaves. “Crab legs!” she yells. Half the restaurant turns to stare at her, but she’s oblivious. “That’s what I want. Do you have that?”

Our poor server does his best to smile. He’s on his own because after setting the plates down, the other guy abandoned him. “Yes, we do.” He lists off a number of options.

“Oooh, yes! I’ll have that last one. The twelve legs plate.”

Twelve ? I couldn’t eat more than a few myself. Where the heck is she going to pack that away? In her purse? A to-go bag? I’m impressed, and I’ll be the first to say it.

If we’re ordering, I might as well get my go-to. A steak, medium rare, and a baked potato. You can’t go wrong with that combo. I’ve never had a steak I didn’t like, and potatoes have to be one of the most delicious foods on the planet, no matter how they’re cooked. Baked ones are just that little bit extra.

Genevieve tries at least one of everything already set out. I watch, amazed, as she devours the appetizers. She licks her fingers, leaves crumbs all over the place, and barely comes up for air.

“Try the quiche,” she suggests with her mouth full. “Holy crapballs, it’s freaking amazing.”

Try as I might, I can’t find anything to say, so I pick at the plates of food until our server reappears twenty minutes later to save me.

“Yay!” Genevieve cheers, clapping her hands wildly.

She lets out a sports-sized hoot. You know, those loud calls that are best reserved for sports stadiums during live games outside and not indoor restaurants with five-star ratings and soft piano music being played by a real person. I swear, that loud call makes the guy up front miss a beat on the piano, but he recovers effortlessly.

I’m going to have to leave our server a massive tip because he nearly jumps out of his starched white shirt. He quickly sets the plate of crab legs down in front of her before it bounces out of his hands at another loud noise. I swear he’s still going to give the whole is there anything else we might need spiel, but she goes for it.

“I’m soooo hungry! I’ve been waiting all day for this!” She dives in, grabs a crab leg with both hands, and gives it a vicious crack. Juice sprays all over her, and our server manages to smile and walk away with some dignity.

The crab leg gives way under that furious pressure, and Genevieve takes the large piece of red and white meat and pops it into her mouth. Her eyes close, and she moans.

Moans.

Like bedroom-style moans.

I honestly don’t know if I’m mortified or turned on right now. My dick, making a half-mast tent in my pants, says he’s not sure either, but he’s leaning toward the latter. She swallows the hunk of meat, brings the part with the crab claw to her mouth, and sucks on it.

Dear god, I think it’s definitely the latter in a really bizarre, uncomfortable way. I’m not rock hard, but it’s getting there, and right now is not the time or place to have a conversation with my dick about weird kinks that I wasn’t in the least bit aware of before now.

“I’m being so rude.” She pauses, her lips and chin glistening with crab juice. She stares me down. “I haven’t even offered you any. Do you want to try it? They’re fucking…I mean freaking delicious.”

“Oh, I…” Shit. I’m obligated to be polite, aren’t I?

I go to accept the crab leg, but then she brandishes it in her hand like a sword. “En guard!” she yells. Heads turn in our direction, and the piano player misses another note. She swipes the crab leg through the air in swordlike motions, grinning so hugely the whole time that I can’t even find it in myself to be annoyed.

There’s something wrong with me because I want to laugh.

I end up catching the thing mid-swipe and set it on my plate. “Want some steak?” I offer casually since it’s the gentlemanly thing to do. When all else fails, act normal and offer beef.

I’m well aware of how wrong that sounds. Fuck.

“Me? Oh, no. I’m not a fan of cow murder.”

What? But I just watched her nibble at all those appetizers that had chicken, pork, lamb, and seafood, plus she devoured those mini quiches.

Wait. What?

“Oh my god!” I shove back my chair. “Stop!”

She freezes and gasps. I think the whole place freezes and gasps. “Eggs! There were eggs in the quiche. I was warned that you’re very allergic. That was the one thing your mom made sure my mom told me, other than the time and place. I totally forgot until right now. I…I was nervous and ordered the whole spread. I didn’t think…I thought that…”

“Oh, um, that ?” She slowly grabs her napkin and dabs the crab juice off her face. “It’s not really a thing anymore. I’ve basically outgrown it. It’s more…um…seasonal now.”

“Seasonal?” I slowly sit back down. I’m so confused. Are we dealing with a life-or-death situation here or not?

“It really acts up in the spring. Pollen. I think it interacts with pollen.”

“We literally live in Tampa. There are flowers and trees all year round.”

Her eyes sweep the place. She’s looking anywhere but at me. “I’m going to be fine,” she assures me, but she sounds nervous. A beat passes, and then she suddenly dabs at her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s really sweet of you to care. My ex was such a total douchecookie. He’d always make things with eggs, and he’d never tell me. He thought it was just a joke. I think that’s how I built up a tolerance to it over the years. Trial by fire. Those little chocolate eggs they bring out at Easter? I can even eat those now.”

This. Has. To. Be. A. Joke.

So why does she look so serious?

She can’t really believe she was ever allergic to chocolate eggs, can she? Unless they had real eggs in them? Do they?

Oh my fucking god, what is even happening here right now?

“He was such a mean man.” Shit, she’s really dabbing her eyes now, and she sounds like she’s going to break down right away. “He’d never let me pick the movie. And he’d always argue about the silliest things. He thought cucumber sandwiches were the best, and he was so into squash. Loved it. He always said he’d do anything for me but wouldn’t stop shaving his chest, and it was always so prickly and horrible. Whenever he’d hold me close at night, it would itch and burn, and it was just the worst. I kept trying to get him to get waxed, but do you think he’d take my advice? Nope. Never. And then there was me, doing anything to please him. You better believe I got everything waxed, and I do mean everything, straight down to the unmentionables, and by unmentionables, I mean butthole.”

What the hell? Did she truly just say butthole, or am I hallucinating sounds now?

She waves a hand at me and drops the napkin. A shaky smile spreads across her lips, which are so damn pretty. It’s hard not to focus on them, no matter how inappropriate the conversation is. Who talks about their ex on a first date with someone else? That’s one of the top wrong things to do, isn’t it?

“I’m going on and on.” She laughs, and it’s too high-pitched. It sounds forced. “They say not to talk about yourself on a date. So, tell me about your ex. What was she like?”

“Excuse me?” Definitely not going there. This is a trap. It has to be.

She looks so earnest, though.

“We’re both here, aren’t we? That means we haven’t found the one yet. With my ex, it was more than just the shaving issue. But what happened with your ex? Something sad and horrible? Was she mean? Did she want different things? Have you been on lots of dates before this one? Because I’ve been on wayyyyyy too many. So many that I’m surprised I haven’t called you Kelvin. That was my latest ex’s name. Kelvin. What a terrible name. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Not as bad as this date. It’s unnaturally bad. Almost like she’s trying too hard, but my mom swore up and down that Genevieve is a sweetheart through and through.

Clearly, her mom is convinced her daughter is a saint and made my mom believe in a boatload of bologna.

She giggles and then burps. Loudly. Which makes her laugh harder. “Goodness. Better out than in, I suppose. Don’t want to have a gas explosion. Holding your burps and farts gives you gastric issues. Have you heard that?”

No . This can’t be happening right now. This. Is. Entirely. Wrong. It’s too much. It’s far, far too much. I don’t care about being rude at this point. I wasn’t expecting much from yet another blind date. I’m doing this so that my parents will finally, finally, leave me be. The pressure is insane. I’m not going to let them marry me off or decide my fate, but I couldn’t handle the breakdowns my mom would legit have when I refused to go on the dates she arranged. My dad would then get mad that I upset my mom, and he’d get upset, and then we’d all be upset, and it’s just easier to agree, even if it’s messed up.

Yes, I have a set of balls. I really do. Maybe some small part of me was hoping that in all this, I’d find someone, and things would be less lonely. Maybe I thought I could find someone to laugh with, joke with, and be real with. Someone who really sees me. The fact that she comes from money means she won’t care that I’m rich. She’ll just be into what makes me who I am, and I can be into what makes her who she is because I’m not worried that she’s just into me for the money. I had a few of those dates before my mom started this endless procession of blind dates, setting me up with daughters of friends, daughters of acquaintances, or daughters of anyone, as long as she knew they wouldn’t try and use me and hurt me in the end. I wasn’t immune to it. I’m still not.

Genevieve ignores that I have my phone under the table, and I’m not even looking at her. “I swear, it’s true. The farting thing. I’ll tell you how I know that. There was this guy on TV who held his farts in. He held them in for years. He was trying to prove that it was some anomaly that he couldn’t fart, and his family was all like, no, you can fart, you’re a liar, you’re not special, and he was like, yes, I am. So, after all the years of holding these farts in, I guess it did real medical damage to him and—”

I cut her off by whipping my phone up over the table. I found the photo my mom texted me last week after setting this up. It might be grainy as fuck, but the woman in it has unmistakably blue eyes, higher cheekbones, and a far poutier mouth. No freckles.

Her face falls, and real panic sets in. She’s been caught, and she knows it.

“This is Genevieve Walker.” I don’t think my voice has ever been so dry. This is the dryness of overdone turkey and ruined Thanksgiving dinner times a thousand. “So, who the heck does that make you?”