The Yes Factor - Erin Spencer Page 0,18

he doesn’t. Why did I gave him my real number? I should have just made something up. And he knows where I live. Exactly why I wanted to drive myself in the first place. All of a sudden he’s about three inches from my face. I take a step back and reach into my purse for my house keys. Unfortunately, he stays toe to toe with me like a tango dancer preparing for his signature move. He leans closer and a waft of his hot, salsa breath hits me.

Oh shit. He’s going for it!

I’m frozen like a deer in headlights as his lips gently press to mine. I give it a beat to see if I feel anything. Nope. The heavens don’t open up. Fireworks don’t explode. It was fine. Not bad. Not good. Just so-so. Fine. I pull away quickly.

Attempting to break the silence, I jingle the keys in my hand. “Well, thanks again for dinner, Brandon.”

He turns his face away slightly and there, glinting in the incandescent porch light, I see a single alligator tear slide down his face.

He’s crying!

I don’t want to bring attention to the tear because then Brandon might want to talk about it and I’m so done with talking. But if I ignore the tear, does that make me a cold-hearted bitch?

I opt for cold-hearted bitch.

“Get home safely.” I completely ignore his emotional theatrics.

Brandon turns his face square to the light now, not bothering to wipe away the tear or the new ones that are starting to fall down his face. “Bex, I’ve never had this kind of connection with anyone before. I thought the day I met my ex was special. That I’d never connect with anyone like that again. But then you sat down at my bar and said Yente and it was as if this was meant to be.”

The tears keep coming as he hunches over, apparently too overcome with emotion to stay upright. Full on weeping like someone just died. I wanna die. Is this candid camera or something?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why did I have to say “Yente”?

“I gotta go.” I finally get some space between us and open the front door, quickly closing it behind me in a narrow escape. I want to shut the door on this whole night. How did Liv talk me into this fiasco? This is exactly why I don’t date anymore.

I hear Brandon whimper quietly, “I’ll call you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Liv says with utter glee. She’s enjoying this way too much and is riveted as I recount the night.

“I’m not kidding. He kissed me, then started crying.” I flop back on the pillows. “My first kiss in years and the guy weeps! What is wrong with me? Why can’t I find any ‘normal’ guys? You acted like the Yes Factor was gonna change everything but it’s already turned into one big No.”

Liv looks at me with compassion. “Come on, Bex, don’t let The Weeper get you down. He wasn’t the right fit. Let’s move on, it’s nothing to…cry about.” She laughs. “Sorry, couldn’t let that one go!” Seeing my lack of enthusiasm, she continues in a more conciliatory tone. “Listen, I’ve got something planned for tomorrow night that’s gonna be great.” I feel my eyebrows rise to my hairline with skepticism. If only I could afford Botox. “Trust me,” she adds with a smile.

I’ve heard that from her before…Well, how much worse could it be?

Chapter Four

Hollywood Rococo NoNo

LIV

I wake up to a kaleidoscope of bright LA sunshine streaming in through Bex’s guest bedroom window. In my jet-lagged stupor, I’d forgotten to close the lace curtains, not that they’d have done much to stop this solar-powered spotlight. Leafy branches of an avocado tree sweep across the windowpanes. God, this view, it’s a tonic after the gray skies and dingy brick flats that I wake up to in London. I yawn and prop myself up on a few pillows to get a better look out the window. Grapefruit hangs from a tree that is polka dotted with globes of the yellow fruit, too many to pick before they start to rot and fall to the ground, making a blanket of mushy bittersweet in the shade below. In comparison to the plastic-wrapped fruit in London grocery stores, Bex’s backyard is a cornucopia of citrus, vibrant flavors and color. It’s the picture-perfect California dream. And about a million pounds’ worth of produce. I laugh to myself, thinking of the puny, green-gray avocados at the