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And don’t even get me started on how she chose to wear her raven hair.
Two fucking ponytails swing back and forth with each sway of her hips, ensuring that tonight, I’ll have more than enough material in my spank bank to work with, just by fantasizing about wrapping them around my wrist and using them to my advantage.
Fuck.
This is so not good.
I should not be on a date with this woman.
It’s not a real date, asshole!
Man the fuck up and stop crushing on your matchmaker!
When the waitress arrives to usher us to our reserved ax-throwing cage, I hang my head down low as I follow her and Lottie down the long hall, doing everything in my power not to stare at my matchmaker’s ass like some creeper.
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get my fucking hopes up when Lottie announced—after that fucking fiasco of a date I had last week—that the perfect woman for me to be set up with was her.
My excitement lasted all but two seconds, though.
After she went on a little tangent, explaining that all I needed was some supervised practice and tips on how to date women, my hopes that Lottie actually wanted to date me quickly went out the window.
In what universe would a woman like her be interested in me anyway?
Even if there was a sliver of a chance that she could be into me, there was still the existence of that pesky boyfriend of hers to ruin my hopes.
I don’t even know his name, and I already hate the fucker.
Lucky asshole.
“What are you in the mood for?” she asks after the waitress hands us the menus.
“You set the date. You choose,” I retort surly, not sparing the menu a look.
When she arches a confused brow at my tone, my stomach churns with shame.
I’m being a little bitch, and I know it.
So my matchmaker doesn’t want to date me?
So what?
At least she cares enough to want to try and save my ass.
Show the woman some respect, dickwad.
Argh.
Between Lottie’s long legs and my constant chastising inner monologue, this night is going to be a killer of my sanity.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude or anything. Just pick whatever you want. I’m good with whatever you decide,” I add, hoping that I didn’t fuck up our date already with my sour mood.
My tense muscles relax when Lottie throws me a sympathetic smile and turns her attention back to the waitress, who is still waiting for our order.
“We’ll have some hot wings and curly fries, please. Ooh, and a pitcher of Guinness, if you have it.” She smiles brightly.
Wings and beer.
The fucking woman is perfect.
