He looks at the bar and then back at me, his smile falling slightly. “I’m good,” he says. “But feel free to grab something. I can’t do caffeine after five. It messes with my sleep.”
“Oh, well, there are other things on the menu,” I say. “Do you want a cookie or something?”
He looks at the watch on his wrist. “I actually need to make this short,” he says. “I’ve got another meeting in an hour and a half, and it’s on the other side of town.”
Another . . . meeting?
“Okay,” I say, my spidey sense tingling.
“Do you want to grab something, or should we get started?” he asks.
Get started? For a date?
“I’m . . . good,” I tell him. I’m not sure I want to prolong this by ordering a drink. He has another “meeting,” after all.
As far as the start to a date, this could be in the running for the weirdest one. And I once had a guy ask me straight out of the gate if I thought the moon landing was staged because that was a deal-breaker for him. I don’t, but that night I sure did. Needless to say, he was not any of my forty-nine first kisses.
“Great,” he says. “So, tell me a little about yourself, Claire.”
“Sure,” I say, not trying to mask the apprehension I’m feeling in my tone. “I work in PR. Just down the street from here, actually. And I live in NoHo.”
“Cool. I live in the Valley.” He gives me a thumbs-up, which is . . . odd.
“Good place to live,” I say. “What do you do for work?”
He points to the logo on his shirt. “ZenFuel.”
“Right,” I say with a quick nod. Silly me.
“So.” He places his elbows on the table, leaning in toward me. “Tell me about your health goals.”
Huh?
I’m just about to ask him what the heck he’s talking about when the door opens and in walks . . . Luke.
Crap.
I mostly avoid this place during work hours, sending Tessa to grab my coffee. But I figured after work I’d be safe from running into him. No such luck. Because of course he’s here right now.
He gives me an eyebrow raise, his face askingWhat are you doing here? And I give himNone of your businesswide eyes.
He walks to the counter, where a barista he knows by name (of course) takes his order.
I focus back on my date. “Um . . . my health goals?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Like, what are you doing right now to take care of your body?”
So, this is a first.
“Well, I do a lot of walking for my job,” I say. But truthfully, it’s mostly pacing in my office. I get my heart rate up, but it’s usually from stress, not exercise. Shoot. I might need to add a workout to my daily routine if I don’t want to end up like Simone.
“That’s good; walking is great for you,” he says.
“What . . . are your health goals?” Asking seems like the polite thing to do, even though I have zero interest in his answer.
“I’m in the best shape of my life,” he says, sticking out his chest, just a touch.
I mean, he looks trim, for sure. There are some decent biceps bunching up the sleeves of his polo. And his forearms are quite sinewy.
