Sandra smirks. “Oh yes. Him.”
I shake my head violently. “He’s not my type.”
“Are you mad? He’s everybody’s type.”
“I’m not his type,” I counter hotly.
“Well, you won’t know until you ask him out, will you?” she says resolutely.
Lucy spots Sandra peering out into the bar and joins us at the door. Sandra points out the chosen target, and her eyes widen as she spots him.
“Bloody hell, he’s fit.”
“Exactly,” Sandra beams. “He’s the perfect target.”
I grab Sandra’s arm desperately. “No, he’s not. Not for me. Look at him. He’s … he’s gorgeous. Too gorgeous. He’s not going to be into me. He looks like the kind of man who works eighty hours a week, closes million-pound deals before breakfast, and dates women who dare wear silk blouses because they know they’ll never spill ketchup on themselves.”
Sandra waves my words away with a careless flick of her hand. “Details. He’s the one.”
Lucy tilts her head, considering this. “He does have that executive shark vibe.”
I groan. “See? He’s not for me. He’s probably got some posh girlfriend named Camilla waiting at home with perfect hair and a trust fund.”
“Well, Pippa Fairfax is a pretty posh name too,” Lucy says.
“But I’m not posh,” I wail.
“Ah, you’ll do,” she says callously.
“What if he says no?” I demand.
Sandra shrugs. “Then your forfeit is complete. No harm done.”
“And if he says yes?”
She grins like the Cheshire Cat. Why do I keep asking?
“Then you actually have to go on the date.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
Lucy hides a smirk behind her hand. “Fair’s fair.”
“This is insane,” I hiss. “There’s no way he’ll say yes. Look at him. He’s a Greek god in a suit. I’m just … me. In a bloody cartoon costume.”
Sandra pats my arm. “Exactly. Which is why it’s perfect. It’s not like you’re going to have to go through with anything. Just ask him out, let him turn you down, and boom, you’re done.”
I gnaw at my lip, my heart hammering. She’s right. There’s no way he’s going to say yes to me. Men like him don’t look twice at women like me, especially not when I’m dressed like a parody. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“And no cheating. You have to be seductive, like you actually want to go out with him,” Lucy says.
“Whose side are you on?” I ask.
She shrugs, the picture of false innocence. “No one’s, but I’m the referee, so I have to make sure it’s done right.”
“Flutter your eyelashes and work those baby blues,” Sandra says.
