“Nah. I mean an ex.”
I watched his eyes shift a fraction to the left.
“I’m not interested in anyone,” he retorted calmly.
Too calmly.
I sniffed a rat.
“An ex. A friend. An old hookup?—”
“Why are you asking about this?”
A-ha!
Not hesitation, but annoyance. Aggravation.
Bingo.
“Know what a placeholder is?”
The glass of wine hovered in front of his lips, the trajectory freezing as he stared at me.
When he didn’t answer, I dropped the undercooked potato back into the terracotta dish. “Do you, Brad?”
A nerve in his chin flexed. “I know what a placeholder is.”
“Good!” I winked. “I wasn’t born to be one.”
Declaration made, I retrieved a twenty from my purse—not a straight fifty percent of the bill, but I wasn’t willing to pay forty bucks for undercooked potatoes in ketchup and a Rioja that tasted like sawdust when he’d picked this joint.
Gag.
Thanks to a Mexican BFF in college, I knew my shit about Latino food, and in Beatriz’s words, this place wasmalísimo.
Bewildered, he stared at the cash I tucked under my plate. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“Oh. I’ll get the bill?—”
“No.I’mleaving. You’re staying.”
“What? We were supposed to go back to my place!”
“I don’t think so.”
As predicted, that was when he turned nasty. A sneer puckered his lips, making his handsome face ugly. “Three dates with only a kiss at the end of the night, Catriona? What is this—eighth grade?”
I tapped my chin. “It’s called proper time management. I waited until you confirmed you were an asshole. Only decent guys with game get past second base.”
Before he could attempt to insult me with something original like ‘fat/stupid/insert misogynistic adjective bitch,’ I shimmied in my dress to make sure the skirt swung around my ankles, pivoted on my heel, and tossed over my shoulder, “Lose my number, moron.”
“Fat bitch. As if?—”
Sigh.
“Try for some originality if you want to hook up with anyone this century, Brad.”
