Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Yes, that’s one of my profile shots. From May,” I say pointedly.
“There was another at the same time of day, maybe at a rooftop cocktail party.” He groans and drops his face into his hand. “I’m such a fool. I know what happened, and you’re right. They are recent…but you took them at the golden hour. That’s what tricked me into thinking you were twenty-five.” He shakes his head, offering a weak smile. “I should have known better. I really can’t continue this date.”
“You’re rejecting me based on good lighting?” I ask, struggling to process the absurdity of his reason.
“I feel terrible, but I do have an age limit. It’s the only way I can survive online dating. My sincerest apologies.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Please know that I truly did try to look past the age issue because of our mutual interest in cheese. But I can’t, and this is all my fault.” He sounds genuinely remorseful now, so remorseful I almost feel bad.
Almost, but not quite. “How considerate of you,” I deadpan.
His chair scrapes against the wood floor as he pushes back, readying to take off. “I only date women who are under twenty-six. You’re such a nice lady. I’m sure you understand.”
He says it like I couldn’t possibly find this unreasonable, when, in fact, I find his rejection the height of dating bullshit. I’m about to say as much when a hand lands on the back of my chair, and I catch the scent of cedar and old books.
“She does understand,” says a familiar masculine voice. “She also understands that you owe her an apology.”
Is that really Monroe? Here at my date? I glance up at him, then back at Elijah, who looks genuinely perplexed.
“But I already apologized. Many times.”
“Not for being a douche,” Monroe corrects. “Say ‘I’m sorry for being a judgy jackass.’”
Holy smokes. Monroe is stern. And bossy. And not at all off-base.
Elijah’s jaw comes unhinged. He gulps. “I…didn’t…Are you her boyfriend? Because I was just leaving anyway. Sorry, man.”
“That’s not what this is about. Say you’re sorry.”
I’m tempted to say this masculine show isn’t necessary, but it’s too delightful to watch Monroe school this ageist, cheese-ist prick.
“I-I’m sorry I was a judgy jackass,” Elijah stammers. “Can I go now?”
Monroe scoffs. “Pay first.”
Elijah squeaks—actually squeaks. “Of course, of course.” He opens his phone, swallows, and meets Monroe’s steady gaze with watery eyes. “What’s your Venmo?”
Seriously? I wave off Elijah, ready to be done with him. “It’s not necessary. I’ve got this.”
“No. It is necessary.” Monroe tips his head toward the bar. “Also, pay the damn bar, not me. I’ll escort you.”
Monroe guides my former date to the bartender. Alone for a minute, I contemplate my life choices. My bad dating streak remains unbroken, despite all my efforts. I brought my most positive mindset. I tried so hard to speak his language, to find common interests, and to look past his cheese snobbery.
Where did that get me? Feeling foolish and no closer to finding the one.
Maybe I should just admit dating is my kryptonite.
The man in the obnoxious hipster scarf rushes out of the bar, free to find a woman young enough to ride his ride. My prickly podcast partner returns to the table and parks himself in the abandoned chair across from me, flashing me a smug smile as he rolls up the cuffs on his shirtsleeves like he’s just finished a hard day at work.
Great. Just great. Now I have to deal with Monroe when he’s not dispensing advice and saving women from bad dates. When he’s just prickly, prodding Monroe with the inked forearms and the grin like he knows all my secrets.
I swallow my embarrassment and put on my armor. “Did you show up to rub it in?”
His smile widens, turns a little wicked. “Nope.”
“To gloat? To collect your winnings early? Fine. You were right. He didn’t even last through a special reserve cheese-tasting seating. You win.”
Another shake of his head. “I’m not here about the bet. I showed up to make your day.”
I’m not in the mood to wander lost down this road. “What are you talking about?” I ask, exhausted by these dating shenanigans.
He slides open his phone, swivels it around, and shows me a document. It looks like the title to a home in Darling Springs.
His hometown, where eight years ago I spent a summer that included one week of perfect dates and one fantastic night with this man.
A night we’ve never acknowledged since.
3
THAT’S A THANK-YOU GIFT
Monroe
She stares slack-jawed at the document on my phone. “Is this for real?”
Like I’d show up here without doing the research. “Fun fact—you can gift a house to someone,” I say.
“Without them knowing?” Her eyes are wide.
“Yes. I googled it this afternoon. It’s what’s known as a gift deed.”
The crease in her forehead deepens. “Eleanor gift-deeded us her house? In Darling Springs? Your hometown?”