My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend - Max Monroe Page 0,53
out a response.
Me: See you then.
Senna: Can’t wait. ;)
I sigh again.
The woman is the same, the game is the same—it’s all the same.
So why does it feel so different?
Maybe
Is that him?
Oh, never mind, that guy is wearing a uniform. Pretty sure no one would schedule a date during their flipping shift.
Or wait…is that him?
Unless he didn’t offer up the information that he has a wife and a baby who he’s bringing to dinner with him, that’s probably not the right guy.
While sitting at the bar of the restaurant, I’ve been playing the “which guy is my date?” game for the past fifteen minutes, and I honestly can’t remember what he’s supposed to look like anymore.
This is exactly what you get for arriving twenty minutes before the date is supposed to start.
Definitely one of those times where fashionably late is the way to go, Maybe.
I pull my phone out of my purse and discreetly bring up the TapNext app and proceed to study Jess’s profile picture.
Okay. Just remember…Blond hair. Brown eyes. Fairly broad shoulders.
I memorize the basics of his attributes like I’ll be tested on them later.
You can do this. You can and will remember what your date looks like.
I slip my phone back into my purse just as the bartender steps up and asks me if I would like another glass of wine.
I glance down at my now-empty glass and immediately shake my head.
Considering I guzzled that thing down in a matter of five minutes and I hardly ever drink alcohol, another serving will pretty much guarantee I’m a slurring, rambling hot mess during my date.
“No thank you,” I say, conscious of self-preservation and safety. The bartender nods his head in understanding and moves to the other end of the bar to wait on a new customer.
Another few minutes go by like one of those time continuum movies, where a second feels like a year, so when I glance at the door and see a blond-haired man striding in, I immediately stand to my feet.
That’s him. I’m sure of it.
He stands at the hostess counter, most likely letting her know he’s looking for someone—me—so I decide to make it easy on everyone and walk straight up to him.
“Hi,” I say, and he looks up to meet my eyes.
“Hello.”
Shit…now what?
Do we shake hands? Or do we hug? Or do I curtsy?
Jesus…don’t curtsy.
Impulsively, I go with the hug, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “It’s so great to finally meet you in person,” I say, and I note that he just barely hugs me back.
“Uh…”
Shit. Did I just infringe on his personal boundaries?
Is hugging during the first-date introduction a big hell no?
God, why am I so awkward at these things?
Desperate to smooth it over, I search for something else to say.
“You’re even more handsome than on your dating profile.”
“Your what?” a female voice behind him shouts, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.
“Uh…” The guy looks back and forth between us. “Wait…no…”
“You have a fucking dating profile?” the woman asks, her voice practically shaking with the need to kick his ass.
“Wait…no… I don’t know…” His blue eyes go wide.
Ah, shit.
His blue eyes.
Not, as my study guide failed to help me remember, brown. Sure, I remember now, but that doesn’t do this guy’s balls a whole lot of good. Seriously. If the vein in this woman’s forehead is any indication, she’s about to go Jackie Chan on them any second.
“What in the hell is going on?” his wife, I’m now figuring out by the giant rock on her finger, asks.
“Honey, just calm down for a second,” the man—a man who is most definitely not Jess—says. “I don’t know this woman. I have never seen her before in my life!”
“She sure seems to know you!”
“Oh God,” I mutter, a quivering hand coming up to cover my mouth. “I am so, so, so sorry. I thought you were my date. But you’re not.”
“No,” he says in a firm, extremely pissed-off voice. “I am not your date.”
“He’s not my date,” I repeat myself, but this time, I meet his wife’s eyes. “He’s not my date.”
She glares.
“I’m so sorry. He looks like my date, but he’s not my date.” I look at Not-Jess again. “You’re not my date.”
The man shakes his head. “I’m definitely not your date.”
“My date’s name is Jess, and your name isn’t Jess.”
“My name is Tom,” he says with conviction to female Jackie Chan—like his wife doesn’t know what his fucking name is.