Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,67

hue dotting the apples of her cheeks.

I shouldn’t hate Kristin with an i. It’s not her fault she’s standing here, giving off all her lusty vibes toward Henry. My Henry. It’s my fault she’s here. Actually, if we’re going to split hairs, it was originally Holly’s idea. I blame Holly for this.

I pull my shoulders back and take the stance of the professional that I am. “I’m only going to ask you a couple of easy questions, no big deal,” I say. I try my best to give her a comforting smile, but I’m fairly confident it comes off as my “Are we done here?” smile—which is more of a lips-in-a-straight-line and nostrils-flared look. The fact that I tower over her only adds to it. Kristin takes a small step back from me. Probably for the best.

Miguel lets us know that it’s nearly time, and I watch him and wait for his cue for me to start. He counts down with his hand, and I lift the mic toward my mouth.

“I’m here with Kristin Paine from Ocoee—part of the ‘Date Our Producer’ feature we’re doing. Tell us, Kristin, what do you think of m . . . our Henry,” I stutter over the words. I almost said “my.” Get your head in the game, Quinn!

“Oh, he’s just amazing,” Kristin says. “I had the best time with him.”

“Would you say that you’d like to go on another date with him, then?” I ask, through a very fake smile. I feel a lot like Moriarty right now.

“Yes, of course,” she says brightly. “Please pick me, Henry.”

“And there you have it, Central Florida. Thank you to the Vineyard for hosting us tonight. Make sure you join us next Tuesday for Henry’s second date.” I smile brightly, and Miguel gives us the signal that we’re done.

“See? Not so bad,” I say to Kristin. But she’s already looking for Henry, her eyes searching for him.

“He’s still in the restaurant,” I say, hitching a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the bistro.

“You’re welcome!” I say loudly as she walks away, not bothering to thank me or even say goodbye.

I walk over to Jeff the camera man and hand him the mic.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind me, and I turn around to find Brady standing there, hands in his jean pockets.

“Hey, Brady,” I say. “What are you doing here?” I give him what I’m sure is a tired smile.

“I thought I’d come and find you after you were done and see if you wanted to get dinner or something.” His hair is hanging over his eyes today, and it makes him look younger.

“I don’t think I’m up for it tonight,” I say. I’m not offering this up as an excuse—after having to watch Henry on a date and deal with Moriarty, I kind of want to put on my most comfortable pajamas and go to bed.

“Okay,” he says, looking disappointed.

I don’t want to disappoint Brady, but the real truth is, if it had been Henry standing there, his hands in his pockets, looking vulnerable just like Brady, I’d have ditched my early bedtime in a hot second. That’s not fair to Brady.

“Actually, can I talk to you?” I say. Reaching over, I grab his arm, and then I guide him over to a corner, far enough away so no one from work can hear us.

“Brady, I—”

Brady holds out a hand. “I get it.”

“You . . . get it?”

“You’re just not that into me,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting up.

I let out a slow breath, my head tilting to the side, my shoulders slouching. “I’m sorry. I wish I were. You’re great, Brady. I’m just . . . well, I’m just not over that other guy. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be. And that’s not fair to you. I think I just need to be by myself for a while, to get my head straight.”

“Okay,” he says with a quick nod, his mouth angled slightly downward.

I place a hand on his arm, looking into his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Brady.”

“Me, too.”

I feel a pang of sadness run through me. I’ve never had to do this before. I’ve never been the dumper, only the dumpee, and it’s not fun. None of it. I think being the one kicked to the curb might be easier than this. Or maybe I’m just so used to it happening to me.

I take a small step toward Brady and put my arms around him and