Yes, I planned this.Do little things to show him how you’ll make his life easier, the list instructed.Catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
“Good as new,” I announce once I’ve finished buffing—but instead of handing them back, I slide them onto his face myself, then squint at him while pretending to check the lenses for dust. “Perfect.”
It’s a shamelessly flirtatious move, one that brings our faces within millimeters of each other, our mouths just a hair’s breadth apart. I feel ridiculously obvious, brazen to the core, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he holds my gaze, completely ignoring the scattered applause marking the end of a particularly spirited point. The corner of his mouth hooks up in a half smile and I mirror his expression, half smiling back at him.
He tilts his head. “You’re different.”
No shit, Sherlock!I want to scream.I’ve practically given myself a lobotomy!
“Oh yeah?” I say instead, feeling my stomach muscles constrict.Is the jig up? Has he seen through my facade?“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
I wish I could see his eyes. “Neither, really. Just an observation.”
I wait, but nothing else is forthcoming. “Well, you can’t just leave me hanging like that!”
He chuckles and shifts in his seat, angling his body toward me. “I think I just expected more...” He stops, searching.
“Ball-busting?” I supply after a beat.
He barks a laugh. “Kind of, yeah.”
“I told you, you just caught me on a bad day.”
He hums. “Wasn’t all bad.”
I stare at him. “Wait a minute. Did youlikeit when I was mean to you?”
He purses his lips, considering.
“You did!” I smack my forehead.
“Well, not exactlymean, per se,” he says, still chuckling. “Though I suppose there was a novelty to it. I’m used to taking hits at my job, of course, but it’s not often a woman calls me out to my face.” He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “I guess I found your candor... refreshing.”
Translation: He loves a challenge. Boy, am I tired of beingrightall the time.Ugh, men. So transparent. So pathetically easy to manipulate.
I toy with the string of pearls Nat insisted I wear, running my fingers over the smooth beads. “You like to be treated poorly,” I say with atskand a mournful shake of my head. “I’m sorry, but that’s a red flag.”
He plays along. “Uh-oh. Any others you’ve noticed?”
Another golden opportunity for Betty:Tell him he’s handsome.
“Too good-looking. Sorry, but I have a rule about dating men who are prettier than me.”
“Ha! That’s a funny one.” He slaps his leg like I’m a real hoot.
I side-eye him to see if he’s serious. “Um. Do you own a mirror?”
“Doyouown a mirror?” he parries back.
“Uh, yes I do. And it’s not the fun-house kind that distorts your body or plays tricks on the eye, either. Just a regular old mirror that shows my actual reflection.”
He slides his sunglasses down his nose and peers at me over the rims. “Do you have Ugly Duckling Syndrome or something?”
“I’msorry?”
“You know, like were you a late bloomer? Go through a prolonged awkward stage? Buck teeth? Ears that stuck out?”
I regard him suspiciously. “How’d you get ahold of my teenage photo albums?”
