one
John
Iwakeuponmy couch with a splitting headache and approximately forty-seven messages from the idiots I call friends. The group chat is titled "HAWK'S GOT A DATE ??" and I already want to commit murder.
Marshall: Remember that dating app the librarian's friend made?
Rex: We signed you up buddy
Geoff: You matched with the candy girl
Marshall: The one with the pink shop
Rex: You're welcome for the profile. "Likes long walks and cuddles" ??
I'm typing death threats when my phone pings. New message on "Rent-A-Date":
Hi! Um, this is probably super weird but I need a date to my brother's wedding on Valentine's Day (this Saturday!!!). I promise I'm normal! I own Sweet Bunny's on Main Street. The candy shop? With the giant lollipop in the window? Anyway,if you're free, could we meet at the Darkmore Lodge lobby tomorrow at 2 PM to discuss? - Bunny ??????
The pink monstrosity of a shop that looks like Candyland exploded. I've walked past it a hundred times, never been inside because I'm not five years old and I don't need diabetes.
But I'm not a coward. Grandfather's military code rings in my head: "A man keeps his commitments, even the stupid ones."
I type back:Tomorrow. 2 PM. Lodge lobby.
Three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again. Finally:OMG YOU'RE REAL. I THOUGHT YOU WERE A BOT. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU ??????
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
The next day, I arrive at Darkmore Lodge at 13:55. Military time is the only time that matters. The lobby is decorated for Valentine's Day—red and pink everywhere, cupids hanging from the ceiling. I want to leave already.
She rushes in seven minutes late.
"I'm so sorry! There was a candy emergency! A little kid dropped his lollipop and was crying and I had to make him a new one and—"
She stops mid-ramble, staring up at me. And up. And up.
I see her for the first time properly. She's short, maybe 5'2", with curves that her pink dress can't hide. Soft everywhere—round cheeks, full breasts, thick thighs. The kind of woman built for comfort, not speed. Size 20, maybe 22.
"You're very tall." She's breathless.
"You're very late."
"Only seven minutes!" She's wearing a pink dress with tiny hearts on it and her blonde hair is in what I think are called space buns. There's glitter on her cheek and chocolate on her fingers. "You're John? You look much more... intense than your profile photo."
"My idiot friends made that profile. You're Bunny?"
"Yes! Hi!" She sticks out her hand. It's covered in what appears to be chocolate. She notices, squeaks, wipes it on her dress—making it worse—then offers it again. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
I shake her tiny, sticky hand. "About Saturday."
"Right! Yes!" She plops into a lobby chair, patting the one next to her. I sit, the delicate furniture creaking under my weight. "My brother Keith is marrying Patricia. She's very... thorough. She'll interrogate us about our relationship. She made her sister's boyfriend fill out a questionnaire at Christmas. Twenty-three questions. There was a section on 'relationship goals' with subsections."
I hold back a sigh. "What's our story?"
"I was thinking we could say we met at the farmer's market? You came to my candy booth, tried my English toffee, fell madly in love?"
"I don't eat sugar."
