Everything about this guy isn’t good for my libido. There needs to be a flaw, something that has me grabbing my hotdogs and fries and sayingadios!And I have a strong feeling whatever thatthingis it’ll appear when he opens his mouth and starts talking about stocks or market trends.
You know, the type of stuff corporate bros like him probably enjoy discussing.
I’m not usually this cynical it’s just that I swore off men.Sort of. I’ve been focused on bringing in the twenty-eighth year of my life without their drama and controlling tendencies.
Plus, I simply don’t have the time or energy to take care of another person in my world. I’m already letting my plant babiesdie because I can’t seem to manage one more living thing that requires my focus, and I definitely can’t mother a man.
“She’s not really my type,” he responds.
I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to figure out how to take that response because Vanessa Mayers iseveryone’stype.
She’s beautiful and smart. Hell, she’s even my type.
Maybe this guy is into men?Which would be totally fine. My best friend Leo is. Maybe I should get his number for Leo.You know, just being a good friend and all.
Ah, but Leo just started dating Chris and seems happy...
He chuckles from beside me, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Not sure who Leo and Chris are, and I’m flattered, but I’m into women.”
Oh, shit.
“Sorry... I just assumed.”
He shrugs. “Vanessa just isn’t my type.”
“Well, that feels impossible.” I hold my hand out and begin ticking things off my fingers like a list of accomplishments. “She’s drop dead gorgeous, Yale educated, cares about the environment, an incredible actress, and huge on philanthropy. What’s not to adore?”
He hesitates. “Let’s just say... I know her on a personal level.”
My jaw falls open and closes but nothing comes out.
Who the hell is this guy?
“Excuse me. Did you just casually drop that you know Vanessa Mayers?”
He shrugs and tugs at the back of his neck like he’s disclosed too much. He’s right, he has because now I need to know everything about her and what he knows.
“Yeah.”
My eyes narrow.
“My type is… different.” His eyes dart up and down my body with one brow raised like he’s daring me to figure it out.
Wait. Is he insinuating thatI’mhis type? If this guy took the time to get to know me, he’d realize we’re nothing alike.
My brain short-circuits for a second, trying to decode that, but then he hits me with, “Are you here with anyone tonight?”
“No,” I manage to get out way too quickly, which, wow, real smooth of me. But honestly, I already know how this night ends if he’s even a little interested. Forget my whole “no men on my birthday” resolution. I wantthisone to ruin my birthday in the best possible way.
“Then do you care if I join Vanessa Mayers’ number one fan for the movie?”
Do I care?
I shake my head, too quickly, too eager, but before I can embarrass myself further, the food truck worker rings her bell, signaling our orders are ready. The sound feels like a warning bell, one of those cinematic moments where the universe gives you a chance to back out before you make a very bad (and probably very fun) decision.
But then I glance at his forearms that are flexing under his dress shirt that’s rolled up, the way his grin turns wicked each time he looks at me, and yeah, my libido wins this argument.
I hold out a hand like a stop sign. “I have one pre-requisite if we’re going to watch this movie together.”
