Chapter 2
Aimee
RhettandTroyweremaking me paranoid. After a lifetime of struggling with timeliness, I was five minutes early to my next date. Why? Because I had to scan the restaurant for any sign of meddling firefighters.
Some might have called me paranoid, but after an insane confrontation involving a house plant, a circular saw, and a very handsome barista, I couldn’t trust any space to be free of the himbos that were plaguing my dating life.
The barista had kindly asked me to find a new coffee shop. Not only had they ruined my date, but they had cut off my access to my favorite coffee. In my mind, that was a cardinal sin.
Tonight’s date had matched me on a dating app. He checked all the boxes: nice, handsome, smart, and respectful. He was a greatcommunicator and worked as an actuary. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what an actuary did, but it seemed like a decent profession. And he’d never once used the word “slut” in our communications.
He arrived right on time, too, walking through the door to the restaurant at 7:30 on the dot. He was handsome in that precise, corporate way, with perfect hair, a tailored button-down that hugged his gym-toned shoulders, and a smile that told me he usually got his way.
He spotted me right away, and his face lit up as he walked over, extending a hand. “Hi! You must be Aimee. I’m Karl. With a K.”
“It’s fantastic to finally meet you!” Smiling, I shook his hand, then impulsively gave him a quick, friendly hug. He smelled nice, like cedar and sage, and didn’t take advantage of the hug to do some groping. He stepped back and gave the maitre d’ his name before turning back to me. “I feel like I know you already, from our chats. And I must admit, I listened to your podcast.”
I braced for impact, remembering Shane’s comments. “I hope the episode you heard didn’t make me look bad.”
He laughed. “No! Of course not. You interviewed a lady named Hui Shen? Your… someone’s grandmother? She was a hoot.”
“Isn’t she awesome?” I could barely focus on the conversation as the hostess gathered our menus as paranoia took over. “I’ve never been here before. Is it new?”
“Yeah. Opened about a month ago,” Karl with a K said as he pulled out my chair for me.
“Yes. Gorgeous lighting.” I pretended to be admiring the sconces as I saw a broad-shouldered Black man disappearing around a corner and peeked around a column to be sure it wasn’t Troy. I wanted to slap myself. It wasn’t like the guys were hiding behind potted plants like cartoon supervillains. They didn’t intentionally ruin my dates; they were just always around, always doing something insane. Hopefully, they were working today, busy fighting fires and being generally sexy. Or whatever they did when not cockblocking me.
The date was going almost too smoothly, and as we chatted about our menus and ordered drinks, I started to relax and enjoy Karl’s company. He showed me photos of his dog, Kandi (with a K, of course) and she was adorable enough to forgive the stripper name. This was going well. No himbos, no cockblocking, and Karl was cute enough that I sensed an end to my dry spell.
I was reaching for my phone to share some cute pet pics of my own—or rather, the animals from my brother’s ranch in Friday Harbor—when it buzzed with a text message.
Troy:
Since you’re out for the evening, we’re going to pop over and fix that drip in your bathroom faucet.
What drip in my faucet?
And what did those two idiots know about plumbing?
“Work stuff?” Karl asked sympathetically. “Running your own podcasting business must mean you’re always on. I get it, though. The insurance industry never sleeps.”
I nodded, grateful for the excuse. “Yeah, just… a lot on my mind with the next episode.” I took a hefty swig of my wine and flipped my phone face down as the server came and took our orders.
Karl was polite to the waitstaff, always a green flag. But I couldn’t stop thinking about my faucet and Rhett and Troy’s muscles flexing as they pried the pipes open with a big wrench.
Because they’d probably screw it up, not because that was getting me hot and bothered to think about.
I shifted in my chair, crossing my legs and leaning in, trying to focus on my date. “So, you’re an actuary? I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.”
Karl launched into an explanation, waxing poetic about how calculating risk made him appreciate life’s little pleasures more, and I tried—I really did—to focus on his words. But my brain kept drifting back to my apartment.
What were they doing right now? Had they found tools, or were they using my nail file and tweezers like the time they “fixed” my garbage disposal? Two weeks. It had been two weeks of nonstop Rhett and Troy invasions since the Shane debacle. Two weeks of them showing up at my doorstep with mail they’d intercepted from my box because they thought a padded envelope from a listener might be “suspicious.” Two weeks of low-slung graysweatpants that clung in all the right places and shirtless, sweaty torsos doing completely unnecessary manual labor.
That I hadn’t even asked for help with.
“So that’s why I always say life insurance is sexy,” Karl concluded with a wink.
I snapped back to attention. “Sorry, what?”
