Hot Boss - Anne Marsh Page 0,21

took her somewhere nice, right? Not tacos on the beach?

Me: Technically she’s in the ladies’ room and you like tacos on the beach.

Hazel: But I’m the backup plan. Woo her. Ask yourself, what would Prince Harry say? You can’t go wrong there.

Me: 10 out of 10. You’re good at this.

Hazel: Pfft. I’m the best. You can thank me with lattes. If all else fails, do the billionaire bad-boy thing.

* * *

May bounces back and I feel like I’ve just plunged my head inside a greenhouse full of very exotic flowers. Taking a deep breath might actually incite dizziness.

“Let’s get to know each other!” she chirps.

I decide the bright smile on her face is—mostly—genuine. It occurs to me that she might be nervous about tonight, too. The only things she knows about me are what Max has programmed into his stupid dating app.

“I’d love to,” I tell her, and I think she believes me, because her eyes light up.

May opens her purse and pulls out a stack of pink cards. “You go first. Pick one.”

I take a card. There’s a question written on the back in flowery script.

If you had all the money in the world, what would you do?

I go with Hazel’s suggestion and play the royalty card. “I’d open an elephant sanctuary in Africa, where orphaned and injured children could come to work with the animals and recover.”

“Wow.” May possibly goes a little slack jawed. She definitely leans into me, which just proves Hazel’s favorite point, namely that Hazel is always right. “That’s so noble.”

My fingers itch to text Hazel about my newfound nobility—she’d cut me down to size with a pointed insult.

Instead, I salute May with my wineglass. “Your turn.”

She grabs a card, flipping it over.

What’s the most expensive thing you’ve ever bought?

It’s like freaking kindergarten but without the crayons. May launches into a lengthy description of a handbag and I zone out. I’m not a fan of games. I think I’d prefer a more direct approach. I try to remember how Molly and I met, but the details are gone. I know there was a college party and far too much cheap beer. We took a couple of classes together, including a required PE class, where we had to square dance. Molly was even worse than I was.

The food is good, the wine is better and there are worse ways to spend an evening, even if I do have to list the contents of my car trunk—emergency flares, first-aid kit, gym clothes. And list three words my closest friends would use to describe me—organized, reliable, loyal. And choose my favorite Christmas present ever—the Lego Death Star, hands down.

May’s game turns out to have thirty questions—naturally—and we work through twenty during the main course, saving the last ten for dessert. After we finish our mains, we opt for a stroll around the restaurant’s deck while the waitstaff clear our table and prepare a chocolate soufflé.

May loops her arm through mine, her boob brushing against my arm. I don’t think it’s an accident, although I shift away like a vestal virgin. Max would die laughing. May’s pretty, I inform my dick. She’s friendly, fit and probably a whole lot of fun in bed. When we pause to gaze out at the ocean, she leans back against me, as if we’ve known each other for weeks or months. I could slide my arms around her or rest my cheek against her hair or catch her hand with mine. I could kiss her.

The problem is that I don’t want to do any of those things. May’s lovely, but I’m not interested in getting to know her better. I don’t want to find out if she’s a morning or an afternoon or a midnight kind of person, or whether she starfishes in bed or sleeps straight and still like a vampire in a coffin. And as much as I want to have sex again before I reach Viagra territory, I don’t want to have sex with her—May—who turns out to love yachts and pink nail polish, tequila cocktails and seafood, glue sticks and holiday crafts. Sleeping with her just because I’m lonely isn’t fair, no matter how willing she is to be romanced by a billionaire bachelor.

While May makes a second call to the ladies’ room, I hightail it back to the table and tap out another SOS to Hazel. I need an exit strategy. A nice one.

Hazel’s response is almost instantaneous. Option A: Fake a food allergy.

My bad food experiences are