I’m pretty much the only person who calls my sisterBelinda, and only when she’s in trouble.
“Oh,” he says with a quiet chortle. He stands straight. “This is Reggie. My friend from work.”
“Right.” Lindy’s giggle is delirious—ugh, the girl is smitten. “And this is my sister, Margaret.”
I cough at the mention of my full name. When has the girl ever called me Margaret? “It’s Maggie.” I bobble my head, giving Lindy the tiniest of glares. “Just Maggie.”
Lindy swallows, her cheeks pinkening.
“Maggie,” Brent says with a smile. “It’s good to meet you. Belinda’s mentioned you and Wyatt more times than I can count.” He holds out a hand and I shake it, hoping the universe will open a portal to all of Brent’s intentions at our touch. Turning to his friend, he says, “Uh—Reggie, this is your date, Maggie.”
One of Reggie’s bushy brows quirks up as his eyes drawupto look at me. Yep, I’m at least three inches taller than thisculprit—I mean, man. Which, for the record, I realize also doesn’t make him insane, or a criminal, or a terrible date. But something tells me he’s all of those things anyway.
I swallow and nod as I peer down into his eyes. “Nice to meet you.” Sure, it’s not as if I’m an iceberg and he’s a crumb on the ground, but my eyes are forced downward; it’s just a fact.
“Let’s sit,” Brent says. “I’m sorry we’re a couple minutes late. I had to pick Reggie up. He’s car-less for the time being, and I underestimated how long it would take.”
“Oh.” Lindy laughs. “You aren’t late. You’re fine.”
I take my seat and Reggie takes his, moving it two inches closer to me than necessary. I scoot toward Lindy.
“You’re tall,” Reggie says. Way to state the obvious, bud.
“Yep.” My throat has gone dry. I peer at Lindy, but her eyes are glued to Brent. It’s possible she’s forgotten I’m here.
Great.
“What’s your height?” Reggie says. “Can I guess?”
Oh boy.“Menus!” I blurt, reaching across the table and picking up the stack of four menus the hostess set on the edge of the table when she sat Lindy and me. I pass one out to each person, scooting myself another inch closer to Lindy and away from Reggie.
But I haven’t distracted him yet. “5’11”?” he says. “Or an even six feet? Taylor Swift is 5’11”. Did you know that?”
I give my head a small shake.
He licks his lips. “Gwendoline Christie is 6’3”.”
My skin is crawling.
“You could be Brienne of Tarth for Halloween,” he says, bushy brows bouncing.
I swallow. “Who?”
“Gwendoline, fromGame of Thrones.” More waggling eyebrows. “Have you thought of that?”
Ew.
I lift my menu in front of my face and bury my head in the thing, refusing to answer the man. I’m not six feet or even 5’11”. Honestly, he’s giving his own height more credit than it deserves with that guess. I’m three inches taller than Reggie. At 5’9”, that means he is, at best, 5’6”. I’m not Gwendoline Somebody and he’s nowhere near 5’10”.
Again, being short is not a recipe for also being a hardcore criminal. But the way he keeps staring at me and waggling his brows—like he’s never seen a tall woman up close before—I’m believing more and more in that guilty suspect first impression.
Maybe it’s my nerves, maybe it’s my overprotective nature when it comes to my sister, maybe it’s the fact that inmate number two over here won’t stop staring, but I slap my menu down and look at Brent. He’s saying something to Lindy, but I don’t know what; I’ve been dealing withPrison Breakover here.
“I’m gonna grab a drink.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder. “At the bar,” I say, my voice too loud and my eyes extra wide. “Can I get you something, Brent?”
Brent blinks. He looks from me to Lindy and back. My sister’s foot kicks mine beneath the table, but I’m testing this man whether she likes it or not. Let’s see if he passes. Let’s see if the worst date of my twenty-eight years is even worth it.
“Um, nah. I’m set. But thanks.”
