“Yes, you.”
“Why? What have I done?”
“Everything. Nothing.” I listen to the rhythmic sound of Blake’s breath, the softthumpof his two feet hitting the track, waiting, heart racing, for what he’s about to say next. “How’s your day been?”
“Same shit, different day,” I answer on a sigh. “What do you mean everything and nothing, I—”
“How’s McAvoy been?”
I tell Blake what happened today in the staff room, hearing his feet pick up pace and his breathing quicken.
“Wish I’d gone back to the gym and taken Hudson’s offer up to box with him.”
“Boxing?”
“Yeah, so I could pretend it was McAvoy’s smug looking face.”
“It is smug looking,” I agree, grinning even though I know I shouldn’t. “But maybe it won’t be when he sees us together on Friday.”
“For our date.”
“Yep. At Asado’s. Do you want me to make—”
I can only imagine the way Blake is shaking his head. “No, I’ll ring and get us a reservation. If we’re doing this, then we’re going to do it right.”
“Do what right?”
“Date. You best believe I’m gonna be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had, Calla. You’re not even gonna know what’s hit you.”
That draws a belly laugh out of me, my cheeks beginning to ache from smiling so hard. “I don’t think it’ll be too difficult, all of my ex’s have been right dicks, but still, I’m going to hold you to that.”
“I promise.” Blake swallows thickly. “And you should know I never break my promises.”
Sliding my feet into my most comfortable pair of heels – a strappy black pair I picked up in the after Christmas sales – I smooth my hands over my jean clad hips and peek at myself in the mirror.
Piercing blue eyes, framed with lightly coated mascara lashes, stare back at me. I’ve purposefully kept my makeup simple, hoping for the attention to be on my blonde strands, messily teased into beach waves and the all black outfit I’m wearing.
A satin top clings to my upper half, highlighting the shape of my tits, whilst it swoops low behind me, showing off the entirety of my bare back. I’ve paired it with a tight-fitting pair of dark denim jeans and my heels, keeping my jewellery as simple as my makeup – a pretty gold bangle and a small set of matching hoops through my lobes. Swiping a coat of clear gloss over my lips, I dab my perfume onto my wrists and the hollow base of my neck before gathering my gold sequined clutch.
A quick check of my phone confirms I’m right on time for Blake and I’s first fake date.
I must admit, it’s felt good tonight to have a purpose to get dressed up. You might think the dating pool for late twenty-something’s like myself, in the heart of London, would be spilling over. But that couldn’t be any further from the truth. Not in my experience anyway.
A quarter of the men are already wife’d – or husbanded – off. They’re the ones who are simply out to enjoy a quiet beer and watch their single friends make a fool of themselves. Another quarter are married, as told by their desperately-in-need-of-a-clean wedding band that they’ve stored in the pocket forgetting that the tell-tale tan line around their ring finger gives them away. They’re usually out looking for the next best fling.
Yuck.
Absolutely no way.
Next, we have the men who areactuallysingle. Finally!The only issue? They aren’t – in their own words – looking for anything serious right now.
God, if I had a pound for every man who’d ever uttered those words to me, while I sipped from the drink they’d bought me, I’d be a very rich woman.
That leaves the last group – the good guys. The ones who are actually looking to commit to someone, who aren’t already involved or playing the field like a wannabe pro footballer.
The only catch?
Finding these men is liking finding a prized needle in a haystack. Near on impossible. Or at least, it has been in my experience.
