I looked up slowly from Gina’s message, trying to process the fact that my best friend had officially lost her mind.
Josh sat there like this was the most natural thing in the world, completely unbothered, taking in the mismatched chairs and fairy lights strung across the ceiling. He didn’t even look guilty.
Why Josh? She was supposed to meet me. She knew this was a trial run, a warm-up before the real blind dates began. Why would she send her brother instead?
Not mad. He’s here. But a bit of notice would have been nice.
It’s better anyway. You should practice with a guy before the real thing. Also, you and Josh are making the apartment weird.
Great. So, she’d noticed.
The weirdness between Josh and me had reached observable levels. It looked like she’d decided to fix it in the most chaotic way possible. I hadn’t thought Gina had a passive-aggressive bone in her body. Guess I was wrong.
But Josh was helping with rent.
The rent. The very wonderful, no longer full-priced rent.
If I repeated it enough times, maybe I wouldn’t freak out.
I exhaled, letting go of the text exchange and turning my focus back to the tall, just barely disheveled man across from me. He was inspecting the quirky, over-the-top restaurant decor like it was a museum exhibit. Like he had all the time in the world.
Stop. Stop it.
He noticed me watching and flashed another grin.
Since when did he smile so much?
“So,” he said, “I’m your practice date?”
“Apparently.”
“I figured you’d be out or working tonight,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d spent the day rehearsing real conversations for someone who was not him.
“Nope. Open schedule,” he said, then went on, “Been exploring a bit. Seeing friends. It’s been nice actually—just … staying still for a while.”
I tilted my head. “Since … two years ago?”
His smile faded just slightly, settling into something softer. “About, yeah.”
The server reappeared with our drinks, setting mine—a fruity something in a wide wineglass—in front of me. But Josh’s? His looked like it belonged in a sci-fi cocktail competition.
It arrived in a martini glass with a rim of cinnamon sugar. The server grinned as he pulled out what looked suspiciously like a fancy water gun. With a press of the trigger, a shimmering bubble floated out and landed perfectly atop Josh’s drink.
All the nearby tables turned to stare at the performance we’d ordered.
Josh watched the spectacle with boyish delight. Then, without hesitation, he poked the bubble, and it collapsed in a puff of cranberry-scented smoke.
“Whoa,” he said, grinning at the server. “That’s awesome. Thanks.”
“Enjoy,” the server said, vanishing like a magician after a trick.
I stared at the glass, equal parts impressed and confused. “Wow. That was … something.”
Josh raised his glass. “To practice.”
I hesitated for a beat, then clinked mine against his.
He reached to take a sip. Pouting his plush bottom lip, he managed to look a little stunned. “And it doesn’t taste nearly as much like cough medicine as I imagined.”
