This should be fun . . .
“ShopGirl?”
The blonde spins around in her chair, her movements erratic and very . . . wobbly.
“IceBiscuit?”
When making a profile you had to choose a username. Can you tell Calder made mine?
Hmm, taking her in, I can’t help but think . . . I know this girl. We’ve met before. Where have we met—
It hits me.
Noely Clark, the morning show host whose friend tried to hook us up. What are the odds?
“Pecs,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes glossy, taking in my chest, trying to peer through my shirt as if she has X-ray vision.
Before I can ask her if she’s okay, her hand falls to my chest where she starts playing with the fabric of my shirt. Her face bright red, most likely a side effect of the alcohol she’s already consumed, she takes me in, observing my jeans, the black button-up shirt she’s playing with, to my face where she tilts her head to the side.
Realization hits her slower than let’s say someone who wasn’t chugging back what smells like a bottle of whiskey.
Shaking her hand away, as if my chest was on fire, she stands from her chair and with all the grace of a bottle of vodka, she stumbles forward falling to her knees right in front of me.
Popping up quickly, like a gymnast, she throws her arms in the air and bows to her left and right while saying, “Nine point five, not a perfect ten, but I’ll get there.” Laughing nervously, she rights her shirt, and lowers her arms. “They don’t score like that anymore, but who’s really going to say fourteen-point-two-six-seven? I mean, especially when the viewers don’t know the degree of difficulty. You know? Gymnastics, am I right?”
Fuck, I feel awkward for her, but I have to appreciate her ability to try to recover. “Uh, are you okay?”
“Yep, fit as a fiddle.” She motions with a low fist pump across her body.
“Good.” Scanning the restaurant, I say, “Never thought I’d run into you here. Are you ShopGirl?”
“I am but you can call me, Noely. Noely Clark.” Awkwardly she grabs my hand from my hip and shakes it. “Nice to meet you.”
Puzzled, I laugh. “I remember who you are, Noely.”
“Oh yeah, of course.” Her face seems an even brighter shade of red now. A part of me thinks she would be humiliated if she saw how embarrassed she looks, and that’s why I don’t mention it. “This is weird. I, uh, I didn’t think I’d be matched with you, so I’m feeling nervous and intimidated. Because, you know, you’re all hot and whatnot with your hockey body and strong thighs and nice hair. And I’m sure if you turned around right now, I would see your high, tight ass.” Her hands cup together as she pretends to squeeze an imaginary butt. Oh hell.
“Thanks.” I eye the bar behind her. “Started early on the drinks?”
“Maybe. Third blind date and rough day equals more drinks for me.”
That explains it. Should I suggest we do this another night? Or maybe never? It’s not that I don’t like Noely or find her attractive. She’s beautiful, but I kind of feel like I’m cheating on Adalyn, which is ridiculous. It just feels weird.
Although, Noely confessed to this being her third date and having a bad day, I can only imagine how much she would drink if I told her we should go home. From the thin thread of sanity she’s hanging on to, I’m going to assume that isn’t a good idea.
“Got ya. Should we get some food in you so you don’t pass out onto your dinner?” Food will help . . . hopefully.
“Good idea.” Oddly, she bops my nose in agreement. Don’t know what to do with that. I’m going to blame it on the booze.
“Veronica said we have the table in the back.” I guide her wobbly legs past the other patrons in the restaurant, her eyes fixed on a man in a suit having dinner with a woman who’s chest is practically resting on the table exposed for everyone in the restaurant.
Talk about obnoxious tits. Damn, not my cup of tea.
When we reach our table, I help Noely into her seat and then take mine across from her. We’re off to the side, which provides some privacy, and I’m sure it’s going to be necessary with the amount of alcohol Noely has already consumed. If she ends up passing out on her plate, at least we won’t be in the middle of the restaurant, making a spectacle.
“What are the odds we were set up with each other?” I ask, folding my napkin over my lap.
“Great ones.” In an attempt to look like a seductress, she licks the outer rim of her lips and fingers the rim of her water glass.
