I tilt my head in acquiescence.
“Don’t sell yourself short. And if the chance comes to let Jensen know how you feel, promise me you’ll take it.”
I don’t answer right away. And when I do, it probably isn’t what Mila wants me to say, but it’s the best I can do.
“I’ll try.”
Chapter six
Jensen
I’m in hell. Forget fire and brimstone, Satan himself prefers packed restaurants with poor acoustics, overpriced food, and a woman obsessed with yarn.
Yup, yarn.
“Then I decided to try a merino wool. Oh, my goodness gracious, you should see the colours I bought! I just couldn’t help myself.” Gail titters. Yep, titters. That’s the only word for the bizarre, artificial sounding laugh she just uttered. “But wouldn’t you know it? My Chrishell pulled that sweater right off and shook it in between her teeth like it was a chew toy.” There’s that obnoxious sound again, only this time she pats her lip delicately with her napkin before fluttering her eyelashes at me. “So, Jensen, tell me all about your Oliver. He is such a handsome boy, just like his owner.” Gail’s voice dips low at the end. I guess she’s trying to be suggestive, but it just makes me feel uncomfortable.
Goddamn Kelly and her dating bargain.I have no idea how to handle this, how to extricate myself politely from the situation — err,date— I find myself on.
“Yeah, ah, Ollie’s great,” I say lamely, my eyes darting everywhere except at Gail. Every time our eyes have met over dinner, she’s winked at me. I almost asked her if she had something in her eye before I caught on to the fact that she’s flirting. Or at least trying to, I think.
For the last hour, I have heard more about different types of yarn and wool than I ever thought possible. I’ve heard Gail go on and on about different needle gauges and yarn tension, patterns for clothes — for her dog, of course — and all of the different types of stitches. Rib stitch, garter stitch, cable stitch, seed stitch, moss stitch, seriously. Who knew there were so many? And whatever you do, don’t ask the difference between crochet and knitting. I made that mistake and had to sit through ten minutes of this woman going on about how knitting was superior in so many ways.
I’m not entirely sure if Gail honestly believes I am interested in the subject or if she just doesn’t have anything else to talk about. The fact is, I’ve barely managed to sneak a word in. Now, maybe that’s the way dating goes these days, a one-sided info dump, and if somehow the other person remains interested at the end of it, then you know it’s a match. How would I know? The last first date I went on was with my ex-wife in high school. We went to the movies and then to a local café for hot chocolate. Pretty sure we did nothing but hold hands and stare at each other, both of us too nervous to make the first move.
There certainly wasn’t much conversation, and when the date ended, Tatyana didn’t fling herself at me like a fucking spider monkey and try to molest my face.
Gail, on the other hand, did just that. Apparently, she thought our date was wonderful, and she seemed genuinely shocked when I carefully stepped away and told her thanks, but no thanks.
When I get back home, I’m grumpy. And for good reason, if you ask me. Not only was the date a total disaster, I didn’t even get to look at the dessert menu in my desperate attempt to end things. Thank fuck, I’m currently living with a pastry chef. Kelly’s guaranteed to have something chocolate in the house somewhere.
I slam the door of Kelly’s house shut, causing Oliver to lift his head from her lap with a woof. Kelly watches me, wide-eyed, as I stomp into the kitchen, open the fridge, and spy the item I am in desperate need of right now. I tromp back into the living room and drop down onto the couch beside her before opening the container of cookies, jamming one in my mouth without even bothering to see what flavour it is. A second cookie follows, with Kelly just blinking at me innocently, before I finally speak. “I just spent an hour listening to a woman drone on and on about her hobby of knitting small hats for her Chihuahua. Whose name was Chrishell, might I add.You know, like the woman on Selling Sunset.”I pitch my voice as high and annoying as it can go for that last part.”I didn’t even stay for dessert, and you know I think dessert is the most important part of a meal.” I jab my finger at her face, where I can see she’s not very successfully holding back a laugh. “This is all your fault.”
“Why is it my fault?” my supposed best friend says in mock outrage.
“I wasn’t ready to date again. And then you had to go and put some insane profile on a dating site and force me to go out with complete strangers. Crazy strangers at that! And I haven’t dated in over a fucking decade. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
“You just need practice. And since I’m such a great friend —”
I interrupt with a wave of my third cookie. “And since this is all your fault —”
“Whatever.” Her eyes roll back into her head. “Since I’m such a great friend, I’ll help you. We’ll go on a fake date and practice your wooing skills.”
“I don’t have any wooing skills.”
She shoves me, not hard, but enough for me to narrow my eyes at her. “Pfft, I don’t believe that for a second. Gimme a smoulder.”
On purpose, I give her a look that is definitely not a smoulder.
“Huh. Okay. We’ll work on that.”
She’s serious. For fuck’s sake, she actually wants to work on my dating skills? Out of nowhere, I’m seized with a sudden desire to kiss her. But I don’t know if I want to do it out of frustration, desire, or both.
Both. Definitely both.
“Fucking hell, Kelly, this is ridiculous,” I groan, trying to forget the mental image of kissing her. It’s not exactly a good time for that, seeing as she’s trying to help me be a better date forother women.
“No, it isn’t. You, me, tomorrow night, Insignia Steak House on the pier. You can wine and dine me.”
