I sighed and picked up the spork. Twisting the pasta around the short plastic prongs, I pondered the irony that was my life right now. I should’ve just texted him—wasn’t that how people were handling breakups these days?
I’d been worried about being rude. Apparently, I shouldn’t have been so concerned about his feelings. He clearly wasn’t concerned about mine. And he definitely wasn’t worried about humiliating me. But I’d been raised better than to get snarky with the clinically insane. Call it good manners.
Ha.
Richard’s cell phone dinged with a new text message, lighting up from beside his untouched ravioli. He ignored it.
“I need someone who supports my dreams, you know?” Richard’s plea sounded more like a whine. He crossed his arms over a scrawny chest in what I assumed was a gesture to man-up his side of the conversation.
How had I completely misjudged his character? I’d seen him around Bradshaw Insurance, even before Cat had thought to set us up. He’d seemed like such a nice guy, fixing computers, saving the corporate day. The guy sitting across from me was no IT superhero; the guy across from me was a ruthless public-dumper.
I set down the spork and leaned forward to whisper, “Richard, I barely know you. I don’t even know what your dreams
are
.”
Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. He’d told me he wanted to play video games professionally, but I didn’t even know if that was a real and attainable goal.
I added, “And we weren’t dating. We just ate lunch together. Once.”
Richard looked at me as if I’d dropped from Mars or something. “Of course we’re dating.”
“No, Richard.” I pointed at my spaghetti. “A lunch and almost-supper does not make a relationship.”
I sounded a bit desperate, but I really needed him to come back from the dark side. I didn’t need this kind of false information spreading around Bradshaw Insurance. In an office building that employed most of the city, gossip spread like wildfire.
My right eye started twitching. I clenched my hands into fists on the top of the table on either side of the plate of spaghetti in front of me and focused on the light fixture behind him.
Stay cool,
I told myself and counted—
one, two, three, four, five...
I wasn’t sure where I’d read it, but counting in one’s head was supposed to help reduce the loss of self-control and a possible onset of Tourette syndrome. I didn’t have any confidence that counting would help in this particular situation, not when I entertained thoughts of dumping his pasta on top of his head and rubbing it in slow, purposeful circles.
As if sensing my agitation, Richard reached across the table and patted my hand. “Now, Gen, there’s no reason to get worked up. I’m sure you’ll get over me in no time.”
I sucked in my cheeks and worked on the deep-breathing technique, but it wasn’t working.
My God, you’re going to have a nervous breakdown and create a violent act in public. You’ll spend the rest of the year in jail.
That wouldn’t work, not at all. I’d look horrible in an orange jump suit.
The eye-twitching wouldn’t stop. My cheeks burned and I told myself to keep it together. But then there was another giggle from the tweens at the table beside us, and I reconsidered the good manners my mom had preached at us Gorecki girls since birth.
I kept an unwavering stare on Richard until he finally got the point—I wasn’t impressed. He fidgeted in his seat and flinched. Good.
I tried reason. “Richard, you are making a much bigger deal out of this than it really is. We’re just two people who were set up. It didn’t work out. No big deal.”
But my words fell on deaf ears. He was working himself up to an Oscar award-winning performance and something told me he wouldn’t appreciate an interruption. Next, he’d be thanking his parents, his second grade teacher, and then he’d end by giving me a big fat “thank you” for the opportunity to dump someone in public. Maybe I’d made some kind of sadistic bucket list of his: Join a gamer role-play club, check; Engage in world domination via geeky tech toys, check; Humiliate a girl in public, check.
I clasped my hands together under the table to keep from reaching out to flick him in the forehead right above his wire rimmed glasses.
“And really, I’m looking for a relationship with someone who’s got a five-year plan, you know?” He chuckled as if he’d just told an amazingly hilarious joke instead of delivering a line that might possibly be his last. His snicker sounded more like a cartoonish
a-hu-a-hu-a-hu
and sent my eye-twitch on overdrive.
Throwing the five-year plan in my face crossed the line. I’d spilled to him over our lunch date that I was truly worried about not having one. I’d only shared that little snippet of information because he’d mentioned he still lived in his parents’ basement. I figured a twenty-seven year-old man living his parents’ basement wouldn’t judge my innermost fear of not knowing what to do with the rest of my life since a marriage to my cheating ex wasn’t on the table, and neither was my job as an art consultant at the gallery.
“Well, that’s great. I think we’re done here.” I glanced around the room and caught sight of two guys sitting a couple of booths behind my right shoulder. One of them immediately ducked out of sight. The other only stared, a four-eyed man-Bambi paralyzed by the glare of my suspicious eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“
Ooohhh
,” Richard moaned. I whirled around in my seat to glower at him.
“Aren’t those your friends from IT?”
Richard’s face paled. “No.”
“Really? So why is that guy wearing a name badge that says Bradshaw Insurance on it?”
“I, uh, have never seen him in my life.” Richard’s hand inched toward his dinging phone. I glanced back to the table of miscreants. The guy who’d ducked now sat up straight, mad-texting into his phone and I had no doubt who the recipient of the message was.
I turned. Richard held his cell phone in a white-knuckled grip. He pushed himself back from the table, hurrying to avoid the storm raging in my eyes.
“I should go and let you have some space.” He laughed,
a-hu-a-hu-a-hu
, and I cringed as if someone had scraped their nails across a chalk board. He took a step back from the table and flashed a phony smile. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And then he got up and scurried away with amazing speed for a guy whose idea of recreational activity was a couch, a delivery pizza, and a video game remote-thingy. The two IT guys hurried past as if their lives depended on it. And it did, because I was livid. It took all I had not to follow them out and rip their immature asses.
He’d left me fuming over a plate of uneaten spaghetti and complimentary breadsticks, all served over a red and white checkered tablecloth made of cheap plastic. Seriously, how the hell had he justified it? By telling himself at least I’d be fed afterwards?
And why the hell would he call me, ever, after the stunt he’d just pulled? With a sigh, I stared at the white slip of paper in the middle of the table. He’d also left me with the check.
And who said chivalry was dead?
I tapped my fingers on the table and daydreamed a freak accident involving him and my little yellow Bug. Hitting him with my car wouldn’t change the fact he’d humiliated me, but after the bumper connected with his knees, he’d at least know where I stood on this whole dumping-a-girl-in-public nonsense.
The image of him beneath my car, his black sneakers with the roller wheel heels peeking out from underneath, brought a smile to my lips. Of course, in my fantasy he wasn’t dead—I’m not a monster! But he was maimed a little. Like maybe with a short-term limp. I could nickname him Gimpy.
Ah, sweet fantasies.
I pushed away the plate of spaghetti and turned in my seat to grab my purse hanging on the back of the chair.
And ended up face-to-crotch with a man in a pair of slacks.
If the guy had been wearing jeans, I wouldn’t have felt every single curve of the male anatomy. Under the soft material of his slacks, nothing was left to my imagination. My nose rolled over his penis and when I gasped, my lips brushed against the slacks, like a kiss. I jerked around in my seat and clutched the edge of the table with both hands, my shoulders squared and back ramrod straight.
“
Oh my God
,” I choked out in a mortified whisper. Could this day get any worse? I wanted to go home, crawl under the bed covers and never come out. There was no way I could screw that up!
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” said a man in a deep, husky voice.
Don’t worry about it? Not likely!
I inhaled a shaky breath as he walked around the table and planted himself across from me. The sight of him rendered me speechless. His hazel eyes were crinkled at the corner from the smile on his lips, coupled with a pair of dimples under the shadow of a dark close-shaven beard. It was hard not to stare—he was gorgeous. And I’d just put my face in his crotch. I slouched in my seat and blinked in devastated humiliation.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Sure.” I waved a trembling hand, speechless in the face of this guy whose crotch I’d just sniffed. The tweens giggled again. A glance told me they were all as mesmerized by him as I was. He had that sultry, smoldering thing going on, with dark, thick eyebrows. A dark lock of hair fell over his forehead and I itched to brush it back, all the way through to the hair curling at the nape of his neck and around his ears, as if he’d missed a couple haircuts.
He shed his suit jacket revealing a light gray button up shirt. The jacket ended up draped over the back of the chair Richard had vacated. He loosened his tie and sent me a lopsided grin, one dimple deepening, the other just a shadow.
Is this guy for real?
I had forgotten to breathe during my blatant admiration and I sucked in a lungful of air on a wheeze. He was the first guy I’d ever met who’d had the ability to render me speechless, breathless even.
“I’m sorry about…you know.” It was the best I could come up with in my state of embarrassment. He was lucky he’d even gotten that much—I was amazed I could even speak at this point.
“It wasn’t the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had.” His grin was infectious and I returned it with a much weaker one of my own. When he held his hand out across the table, I took it and gave it a small shake. He said, “I’m Matt.”
“Imogen—Gen.”
His shirt strained against his chest when he crossed his arms and leaned back into his chair. God, he smelled amazing. He could be a model for a cologne commercial with his look and smoldering gaze. I had to blink a couple of times to stay focused. And I needed to stay focused. It was probably his tan that had me speechless—a nice change from the pasty guy who’d just skipped out on paying for his meal.
“I swear I don’t make a habit of…er…that.” It wasn’t just my face that was warm, either; my entire body blushed.
“Good. I’d hate to think you give this same treatment to all the guys you meet.” He flipped the tie back over his shoulder and my tummy did a little somersault.
I didn’t know how to contribute to this conversation so I tried for another smile. It was shaky at best. I had no idea what my problem was—as if I’d never had a good-looking guy flirt with me before! I was all but drooling and making a fool of myself. Quite possibly I was going into heat; understandable after four months of celibacy. Any tiny bit of attention from a gorgeous man like him was bound to get me all hot and bothered.
“So, what did you hear?” I finally asked, praying he hadn’t heard a thing.
“Not much,” Matt said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. And then he added, “But don’t worry, it’s not you, it’s him.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. My nerves melted away and I relaxed a little. “I guess that’s about right.”
“So what’s the story?” Matt shook his head. “That guy doesn’t seem like your type.”
I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “He’s not.”
“I guessed as much.” His eyes were on the hot pink highlights framing my face.
He waited for me to elaborate, so I said, “My older sister, Cat, set us up. He works in the same building we do.” I gestured with my hand. “Bradshaw Insurance, around the corner. She’s friends with his aunt and they both decided we’d make a cute couple. I can’t for the life of me figure out why Cat thought we’d mesh. Unless…”
I crinkled my nose.
“Unless?” he smiled, picking up a spork to poke at the fettuccini he’d brought to the table. It didn’t look any better than the mushy spaghetti I’d been stabbing at. His Alfredo sauce was lumpy; nothing like my mom’s smooth, homemade Alfredo.
“Unless they think I’m incapable of finding a decent date on my own.” I sighed and plopped my chin into my hand, leaning into my elbow resting on the table. “This is all my twin’s fault. She just got engaged.”
“How dare she.” The smile tugging at his lips hit me deep in the stomach and I couldn’t look away.
“That came out wrong,” I laughed. In an effort to plead my case, I leaned forward and stressed, “My ex is in the wedding. I’d rather poke my eyes out than see him again.”