I flick through random contacts, passing “Weird guy from the salon”, and “Eats tuna for lunch every day”. I freeze when I stumble upon the unknown number that texted me earlier. Not the Hopefully Yours one, the Tanner one.
UNKNOWN: Hey, I hope it’s okay your mom gave me your number. Our first date was a bust, and I’d like to make it up to you. Are you free tomorrow? This is Tanner Evans, by the way.
I scramble to a sitting position, which takes a lot more effort thanks to the swaying living room. Using the back of my hand, I swipe away my snotty tears and reread the text. I don’t believe in fate, and maybe it’s the Prosecco talking, but Tanner’s text feels…promising now. I mean, I know I blew it off earlier, but it seems kinda serendipitous.
I pick up the empty champagne glass and tap my finger against it. If being set up worked for Liza, what’s the harm in giving Tanner Boring-Pants a shot? It could be my belated New Year’s resolution to myself. After all, if you want something you’ve never had, you gotta do something you’ve never done, right?
What if I gave Tanner a chance for a full month? I can do anything for thirty days. So I throw caution to the orchard-scented wind and respond.
KATE: It was a bust, wasn’t it? But it’s not your fault.
TANNER: I appreciate you saying that. Are you free tomorrow?
I tip my head from side to side with each thought.
Free tomorrow?
Lonely tomorrow?
Lonely the next day?
I curse out loud, and it feels good. And because I’m alone, and Liza hates swearing, I’m soon spinning and spouting off every naughty word I can think of—loudly, I might add—for no other reason than because I can. The entryway table is told where to go. The refrigeratormagnets learn a lot about being conceived out of wedlock. And I call a sofa cushion a female dog. Repeatedly.
I collapse back into a sad little heap on the couch, hoping Mrs. Kovolchuk couldn’t hear my meltdown through the wall.
I wipe my nose again with the back of my hand.
KATE: I’d love to go out. Pick me up at 7?
I toss my phone aside, feeling wildly empowered.
I’m going to give Tanner a chance. Arealchance. And if things go well after this date, who knows?
Maybe he’ll be my blacksmith, and I can finally figure out what an orchardess does.
fifteen
PAST
KATE
First dates are the worst. Or is this a second date? Either way, I’m choosing to blame my jitters onthatinstead of my insane attraction to the tattooed man pulling into my driveway.
Brandon swings off the motorcycle, and my salivary glands kick into hyperactivity. I’m Pavlov’s dog when it comes to those green eyes, and if I thought Casual Brandon was hot, then I’m practically foaming at the mouth for Date Night Brandon.
Instead of his usual distressed jeans and tank, Brandon has been dipped in night. His fitted ebony button-up and tailored slacks look equally sleek and sinister. A leather belt that matches his dress shoes gleams around his waist. His dark hair tumbles over his forehead and brushes his crisp collar, which is left open enough to reveal the inky tattoo creeping up his neck.
Holy bananas, Batman.
I’m glad that I have approximately ten more seconds to get my crap together. I rush to the entryway mirror and pat down my hair. Since Brandon told me to “get fancy,” whatever that means, I curled my waist-length hair and brushed it out into voluminous waves. My smoky eyeliner is smudged to perfection.
I assumed we’d probably be riding his motorcycle, so I abandonedmy go-to little black dress and chose a trendy wide-legged pair of black trousers with a skin-tight, long-sleeved black bodysuit tucked in.
Since I’m not very chesty, the deep “v” neckline isn’t too revealing, but I wanted to wear the necklace Liza gifted me for my birthday last month. The diamond pendant closes just above my collarbones, and a long silver chain drips into my sorry attempt at cleavage. Before I’m even remotely ready, a sharp knock raps at the sorority house door.
I suck in a calming breath and remind myself that this night means nothing. He weaseled my phone number out of me just like he did this date. Brandon Roberts is nothing more than a playboy with pretty words, and I’d do well to remember that.
Iwillremember that.
