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

3. Evilla

Chapter three

Evilla

E villa (Still pronounced the same way as before, even though I’ve actually gone and done something that could be classified as rather evil.)

Oh, shitballs for real. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Calm, calm, calm. Say you got plastic surgery. Say the photo is an old one. Say it was sent to him in error. Shit, why am I so terrible at lying? He’ll know. He already knows. Why the hell didn’t Gen warn me that he had a picture? Low quality or not, that’s clearly not me. What did I think he had? A physical description? Yes, that’s exactly what I thought he had. And I had the one Gen showed me from an online portfolio right before she tucked me, all made up, into the cab. Fudge, fuck, fucklestuckle.

I was wrong. I think right now is a good time to panic.

Screw that. I’m not panicking. I’m not going to salvage this either, but I can at least stay calm.

I grab a crab leg, crack it, and hold out a long piece of red and white meat. “Here. Try this. It’s amazing.”

Mont stares at me like I’m an alien imposter. Alright, so I kind of am. When I first got here and saw him, my insides did a little squeezy happy dance because, okay, he’s hot. He was handsome in his photo online, but I only had about five seconds to study it, and then I was too nervous in the cab. I didn’t want to look him up when I needed to focus and not have a panic attack. But I should have. I should have done as much research as possible. I should have been more prepared for this.

I shouldn’t have done this in the first place.

Mont didn’t overdress for this date. He did the black-on-black killer combo with a button-down and slacks that fit every inch of his tall, muscular frame to absolute godlike perfection. The pants sit low, right around where his hipbones and the happy trail I imagined probably start. The shirt isn’t tight, but every so often, he made movements that made it flex and pull tight over his hard arm muscles and abs.

He's fresh-faced, as in clean-shaven, but he’s also got that perma shadow of dark facial hair on a hard jawline, a very prominent and strong brow, and piercing dark brown eyes that don’t seem to match his dark hair. I expected soft brown with all that midnight mahogany, but nope. There’s nothing soft about the dark black, especially not right now. With all the planes of his face made cold and hard by anger, he’s so handsome that he could outdo the devil.

His frigid expression is currently making me squirm in my seat, but the way he’s studying me also makes my nipples stand up in my bra.

I wasn’t meant to find this man attractive, but you know. Shit happens. Hormones happen. I’ve had fun acting ridiculous enough to ruin this date completely, and it was entertaining to watch how he reacted to all the ridiculousness, but now that he’s frowning at me and his look is all smoldering sternness, my hoo-ha kind of wants to know if that’s his spanking face.

Not that I’m into that. Anyway, he looks like he’d give good spankings, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had much of anything in the bedroom except my own hand action, so yeah. My body is currently doing a little shivery dance while I’m sitting here and trying not to have a meltdown now that the game is up.

I never thought I’d be glad to see the numb state go, but right now, I’d do anything to get it and my blank chest, heart, and face back.

I enticingly waggle the crab meat at him again. His glare was bleak, but now it gets even bleaker. His beautiful eyes narrow, and his mouth flattens out.

Oh, he’d most definitely give good spanks.

Shut up. That’s not helpful right now.

You shut up. Anything would be helpful. We’re dying here. This is the driest spell ever.

Ugh. Imaginary conversations with all my lady bits and organs aren’t helping. Also, since when did they start giving a crap? After Jeff, I thought they’d shut down and gone permanently offline.

“Alright, fine.” I set the crab leg down. “I’m Evilla Cowbush.”

That scowl goes from a ten to an eleven in a hot second. “That’s a made-up name.”

Jesus, does his voice have to deepen like that when he’s pissed off? It’s all baritone and deep, and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end in a good way. My nipples might be standing on end, too. Harder than before. Just saying.

“Spell it.”

“I-T.”

“Hilarious.” He does more jaw-grinding angular stuff that sends sparks through me.

“It’s my real name!” I do something dumb and fish in my purse, get my license out, and thrust it across the table. “See?”

He picks it up, and one dark brow dips down to make that scowl so much more scowlish. “Your name is spelled Evil. How fitting.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not pronounced like what it looks like. Although, if you practice saying it, it usually does come out in the wash eventually.”

He sets my license down, and I snatch it back. I hold onto it like it can save me. I still have to explain myself, and I’d somehow like to do it without getting Genevieve in trouble. I guess sometimes honesty is the best policy.

“My best friend is the woman you were supposed to meet tonight. She broke out in hives and begged me to come instead. She said your mom mentioned to her mom that you’d been on a long string of dates, and this isn’t what she wanted. She asked me to come to ruin the date so you could get on with finding your trophy wife somewhere else, and she could tell her parents that this could never happen again.”

Ooh, I think I’ve just poked the bear in his growly spot. Mont’s eyes darken even more. “Trophy wife? That’s not what I want.”

“Hmm, well, she seemed to get that impression, and that’s not her. She’s more the marry - for - love , soulmates type. You wouldn’t have stood a chance with her, trust me.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know. We’ve been friends for ages. I know her type, and you’re not it. Especially because you’ve been churning through rich women, looking for someone to put up on your mantle and carry on your undoubtedly very blue bloodline and blah, blah, blah, gross, no thanks.”

“I am not looking for a trophy wife.”

That seems to be a sore point with him. I guess maybe I was a bit insulting. I’m supposed to be salvaging this, not making it worse.

“You’re definitely not out here looking for your soulmate like this. Not from what Gen understood, and she is usually very adept at reading a situation. What’s the point if you just want someone you can stand but don’t love? Gen’s not into that, and I personally think it’s the wrong reason to be dating. Marriages shouldn’t be built on barely liking each other. They hardly last as it is.”

“Exactly.”

“Really?” I cross my arms above the huge plate of crab. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean. It doesn’t seem like he’s agreeing with me.

“We’re not here to discuss that anyway. Not now.” He settles back and looks all dark and dangerous in his chair. He’s thinking, and I can see the malevolent wheels turning in that exceptionally beautiful manly face. “No. We’re here to discuss something else.”

Shit. The way he’s looking at me makes me want to squirm. It’s like he’s figured out the mystery of the world, and he’s about to tell me what I have to do to earn that knowledge, and I’m not going to like it. No. No, he’s just going to tell me that he has an idea as to how I’m going to salvage this so it doesn’t reach either of our parents. I can see it coming. Here it is. His way too nice manly lips part, and yup, here it comes.

“Genevieve and I might be different people, but we seem to have been backed into the same kind of corner by our parents. She was right about one thing. I’ve been on far too many blind dates that didn’t work out. I didn’t want to crush my mother’s spirit, so I kept going on them. Do I like it? Not at all. Could I abide a marriage with someone where there’s mutual respect and friendship, and would I support her in whatever endeavors she wanted to do in her life? Yes. Would I demand children? I would not. All of that said, I suppose I haven’t found the right match yet.”

Suppose? He supposes? He’s only talking like this because he’s exceptionally pissed off. I can just tell. He’s being so freaking politely sarcastic right now. And the real doozy is still coming.

“Neither of us wanted to disappoint our parents, it seems, but neither of us wanted to do this, which is why I’ve come up with a plan.”

“Right now? You’ve come up with one right now?” I have that sinking heart and bad belly feeling that I’m not going to like it either.

“That’s right. The plan is this. You pretend to be my fake girlfriend, and then, after six months, my fake fiancée. A few weeks later, we decide things aren’t right, and we go our separate ways. This way, my family stops giving me blind dates, and I can stop breaking my mom’s heart for just a few months. We all get a little peace. I’ll never let on that this disaster date switch happened. We’ll say we met somewhere else.”

“And where would that be?” I’m ultra-sarcastic, too, because there’s no way I’m playing this game.

“Work.”

“We don’t work together,” I scoff.

It’s an incredibly stupid thing to say because the lights go on behind Mont’s eyes, and when those lights go on, it’s impossible to sit here and not be both impressed and terrified. Also, my body goes through a whole secondary waking-up cycle, and I start to shiver on the spot. Not from fear, either. Does this man have to be so gorgeous when he’s being all bossy and commanding?

“Why would I play along?”

“You’re a great actress, clearly. You have to want something. Everyone does.”

Oh. This? We’re going there? “You couldn’t afford what I want.” It’s good to be snippy. I’m the worst actress, but right now, I’m rising to the occasion.

“Here’s the thing, Evil-la-la-la. I can pretty much afford anything I want.”

“Oh, haha. Nice. Like you’re the first person who’s ever butchered my name. You’re not. Just saying. I’m immune to all the stupid jokes about it. Also, I’m calling your bluff. You’re not that rich.”

“I am that rich. But even if I weren’t, I could still find a way to mess with your life.”

“What?” My voice gets sharp and deadly in two seconds. “Threats? We’re resorting to threats now? Why? Because my friend begged me to fill in for her on this silly date? No. You don’t get to be a jerk like that. The secret’s out, and alright, maybe we shouldn’t have done a swap and tried to purposely wreck this, but it was never going to work anyway. There’s been no harm done. I’ll even pay for my half of dinner. No one is any worse for wear.”

Why in the ever-loving fuck did I give this guy my real name? I should have just dashed. What would he have done? Chased me down?

He probably would have gone to his parents, who would have gone to Gen’s parents. Then, she would have been in trouble, and she would have had to come clean, and her parents would have gone to his parents and told them the whole truth, and he would have found out who I was anyway.

I stare him down. There’s no way I’m breaking eye contact, even if I’m breathing like I’ve just run for two minutes. Whatever. Don’t judge me. I hate running. Two minutes is pretty much all it takes to make it clear to anyone who’s ever tried it that it’s a horrendous sport.

“You won’t mess with my life because that would just be childish. You want to stop going on blind dates set up by your parents? Then tell them that. It’s your life. That’s what I told Gen. The whole notion is so silly, anyway. I shouldn’t even be here. None of us should. That’s the end of it. I’m going now. It was nice meeting you. Goodnight.”

I dig in my purse and toss a handful of twenties, which I hope does cover at least some of what I ate, although I don’t know since this place is pretty ritzy and probably overpriced. I want to take the crab legs because they are that good, and they shouldn’t be left behind, so I sweep them into my purse. They stick out at funny angles, but do I have any shits left to give?

Not right now I don’t.

I stand up and walk out with as much dignity as I can muster, with crab legs sticking out a foot from my bag. This whole thing has gone so far down the pooper.

Unfortunately, I have to call a cab. I’m still wearing the wig, and it itches like hell. I want to tear it off, but not until I can get into the backseat of a car and make my getaway. I’m not going to stand here with a wig cap on and crab legs sticking out at weird angles from my bag.

Come to think of it, using my purse as a to-go bag was probably the worst idea of the whole night, and that’s really saying something. I can’t imagine the smell of crab is easy to get out of leather.

Fuck.

If I’ve ruined my favorite purse, I’m going to be beyond sad.

I have to dig past the crab legs to get my phone out to even call for a cab.

Unbelievably, Mr. You Know Who blasts through the front doors.

Shit.

He has that we’re so far from finished with this conversation expression on his face.

So I do the only logical thing I can think of and make threats of my own. “Don’t come near me!” I brandish my phone. “I’ll scream. I’ll scream, and it will be embarrassing for you. I’ll scream that you’re trying to touch my crab legs, and no one will have any idea what it really means, but they’ll think it’s something perverted.”

“You work at Glamorous Pudding in Twenty-Seven Flavors. I don’t really understand the company name because it looks like they currently have ninety-nine, but be that as it may—”

My mouth drops open. “What the hell, dude? Are you some kind of human supercomputer? How did you know that?”

“Uh, my phone and your name. The internet comes up with pretty much anything in a matter of seconds. You’re in the marketing and research department, and your name is all over the place.”

“So what? You’re going to act like a spoiled, spurned child and get me fired just because I’m not going to play along with your scheme?” I have my phone in my hand. I switch it to the voice memo, press record, and hold it up. “Go right ahead. Let’s record this for our mutual protection.”

He shrugs, looking so casual now. Casually evil, more like. His eyes flash with way too much delight. “I just wanted to say that I love pudding. I love pudding so much. I love pudding extra . I’m actually a fiend for pudding. That’s all. Goodnight.”

Then, he walks away.

Just like that.

He freaking turns his back and leaves me standing there with my crab legs purse and my phone raised all threateningly in the air. My mouth is gaping open. I probably look like a bit of a wild child, and that’s the nicest term I can think of to describe myself.

How could anyone turn pudding into a threat? But that sounded like one. It sounded far more like I love pudding, and by the way, you haven’t seen the last of me.

The worst part of all this is that when I spin around to watch Mont leave, my eyes shoot straight to his ass. Why do men’s dress pants always have to make their asses look so freaking good? Mont’s, especially. He has a ten out of ten rear end, and even in the dark, I can’t stop myself from gaping over it.

Call a taxi and get back to Gen’s. This has now become about damage control.

I finally lower my arm and turn the voice recording off. My finger hovers over the delete button, but for some reason, I don’t hit it. Instead, my mind goes down the illicit, dark tunnel of replaying that deep, rumbly voice saying that he’s a fiend for pudding, and my legs get a little bit of a watery feeling.

For the love of crab legs in a purse. Really?

Ugh. No, not really.

I call a cab and vow to delete the voice memo as soon as I get into the backseat. I’ll tear off the wig, look up how to get the smell of seafood out of just about anything, and then plan what I’m going to tell Gen about this disaster, including that vague-ass threat about pudding at the end.

Mont isn’t really rich enough to buy out an entire pudding empire just to prove a point, right?

No freaking way. Never. It’s not possible.

Or is it?