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Which is kind of a shame. Most women I meet throw themselves at my feet. What a breath of fresh air to meet someone who could give a damn about my fame or money.
And did I mention, she’s hot?
At the fundraiser, I was so incensed at wasting my time there I could hardly see straight. I remember meeting her briefly and taking note that she had brown hair and seemed to have a nice body. But as soon as the awkward introductions were over, I hit the road, not even waiting for Vince to share a ride home.
And now that I’m looking at her, like really looking at her, she’s cute as hell with her hair piled into a mess on top of herhead, her rolled-up jeans, red Converse, and hoodie zipped up to her neck.
This woman does not give a shit about me.
And I am so here for that.
7
PETAL
While I can’t zipmy hoodie any higher than it already is, I tug on the zipper pull anyway, as if that might keep the creepy little man next to me from staring at my boobs.
The other guy, the jock,Puck Head, seems somewhat normal, at least as compared to his ‘handler.’
Yes, Vince Vincent actually used that word, one I thought was reserved for world leaders or some such.
Fine. I never knew an athlete needed a handler until I found out, thanks to good old Google, that the one I’m meeting with, one Rake Hanson of the San Francisco Aftershocks, can’t keep his hot head under control, nor his big fists to himself.
Seems that’s where I come in, lucky lady I am who won him at his very first charity outing.
It’s all so stupid.
Here we are, two adults, and we have to be coached on how to behave during a date? Does this man think we are complete idiots?
Apparently so.
I’m just waiting for Vince to tell me what to wear.
And Rake, well he’s a smart-ass of the highest caliber, trying not to laugh at Vince several times during our meeting. He did let a snort escape one time but as soon as I looked at him his face went back to impassive and bored. Fine by me.
I don’t need this guy in my life. I’m only here so I don’t embarrass my mother as the highest spender at her cable car museum fundraiser. Well, I might also be here because I, like the jock sitting across from me, could use a little reputation rehabilitation myself. Even though I left my dick fiancé at the altar months ago, the story’s following me like dogshit on a shoe. Can’t seem to shake it off.
Mom was the one who pointed out that maybe if people saw me with a new guy, they’d forget my wedding debacle, and I wouldn’t be remembered for having hit someone and screaming vulgar swearwords in a church.
Personally, I don’t give a shit if someone talks about me. Let them. But Mom, as current head of our ‘prominent San Francisco family,’ as she likes to put it, wants to ensure the Parker family sets a good example of who we are and what we are about.
Whatever that means.
Actually, I kind of get what she means—essentially, stay out of the papers, keep your head down, and don’t do anything to attract attention to yourself.
I’ve done just that for the entire twenty-seven years of my life. Got good grades, only slept with one guy in high school, went to State College, and generally avoided the teenage mishaps that other kids seem to go through. The pressure to behave was so great that even my besties, Lucy and Gilly, couldn’t get me to join some of their antics, whether it was sneaking out the window at sleepovers, meeting cute boys forcigarettes in the Presidio, or lighting illegal bonfires at Ocean Beach.
I may be a snarky bitch, but I’m one of the OG good girls, and the first time I bust out of my shell, like calling out my cheating, scheming, motherfucker of a fiancé, I am condemned by everyone around me.
Such. Bullshit.
So yeah, I’m here today for selfish reasons, and that’s to get the people of San Francisco off my back. Will it work? Who knows.
The one thing I have in common with the guy sitting across from me is our clear disdain for Vince, who acts like he’s orchestrating the event of the century.
The very guy who, now that I’m looking at him with his dark blue eyes, chiseled jaw, and messy red hair, looks like a model except he’s several inches taller and wider.
I take a deep breath.I must remain polite, I chant to myself. “I appreciate what you’re saying, Vince, but I don’t know why we needed a pre-date before a date, much less one that’s chaperoned.”
