A slow smile spreads over his face. His mustache is outrageously styled tonight so that the part under the center of his nose is even more prominent, with his ’stache hairs smoothed and oiled so they point to the sides like an old cartoon villain’s pencil ’stache, but way thicker. And yet, he still falls into that box ofclassically handsome.
His jawline and the Roman nose and the hooded green eyes might overcome even the most awful of awful facial hair.
Especially when he smiles.
There aren’t a lot of shots of him smiling on his Instagram page. Or in official team photos anywhere.
Buthandsomedoesn’t equalattractiveby default.Attractiveis far more nuanced.
“You were thinking of standing me up,” he says.
Worst part?
He sounds happy about it.
Like we’re in a game and he’s winning by virtue of the fact that he sideswiped my plans to stand him up.
No, that’s not the worst part.
The very worst part is the thrill that I get from being the one winning this round, no matter what he thinks.
Competitive? Me?
Guilty. “Incorrect. I am very much looking forward to this tonight.”
“You appear to be telling the truth, and yet…”
I am one hundred percent telling the truth. And I have zero interest in letting him in on my little secret of why.
Not yet.
“You didn’t bring your dog. I thought you took her everywhere.”
“She’s having a spa night.”
I subtly test my hip. Little creaky, but not unbearable by any means, which suggests a weather front might be moving in. With all good on the mobility front, I turn down the street to head toward All Clucked Up. Good distraction in case my face is doing what I suspect it would do at the idea of a mini dachshund getting a blow-out, having her toenails done, and lying on a massage table.
I wonder if she’s in a little pink robe that matches her pink leash.
How freaking adorable would that be?
And then I decide he’s lying purely to see my reaction, and I get control of theawwthat’s likely all over me right now. “Too bad she’ll miss all of the good food.”
“I’ll take her home a doggy bag.”
Score another one for Fletcher.
Not that I mind as much as I thought I would. Chatting with him on Instagram the other night was fun. Unexpectedly so.
Fun enough that I’d be going with him tonight without an ulterior motive? No.
But fun enough that I don’t regret it? Yes.
I don’t like grudges, and there was something earnest enough in his apology at the grocery store that I’m choosing to believe him.
I’m still wary, but I believe him.
“And your personal paparazzo?” I ask. “Are you seriously here for a publicity date without evidence?”
