Page 8 of Scoring a Sweet Thing

I was starting to get a little worried that I wouldn’t be able to find someone to be my plus-one on H2H. I’ve spoken to more than a dozen people, and it was either they were busy the night of the gala, or they were downright weird. I got asked for photos of my butt a few times too, and one person even asked if I would eat marshmallows from between their toes.

I’m not one to kink shame, but for me, marshmallows and feet should never be in the same sentence except when saying what not to do.

But then, just as I was about to give up, Bailey’s name popped up on my phone screen with his funny question about fighting grandmas and trampled all those worries away. He seems like fun. Maybe a little confused at times, but that’s okay because all he needs to be is a human deflector shield. I can handle the rest.

Bailey.

Such a nice name too.

My gaze bounces around the diner. It’s bustling with the lunchtime rush, and I have no idea what Bailey looks like as the app doesn’t have photos. All I know is he’s between twenty-two and thirty-two years old, because that’s the age range I put in. But other than that? I’m clueless.

I’m walking into the unknown with nothing but my fanny pack filled with marshmallows and a whole heap of hope that I might have found myself a plus-one.

As I step further into the diner, a knot of disappointment begins to form in my stomach at the sight of full tables. Maybe he changed his mind and didn’t show up? Or maybe I have the wrong diner. I mean, shit, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve turned up to the wrong place. Whenever there’s a team outing, I have Smitty to make sure I arrive at the right place at the right time. But I waved his offer of accompanying me off, telling him I had it all handled.

At the thought I may have gotten it all wrong, I quickly pull out my phone and check the message thread. Nope. I definitely have the right place, date, and time.

So, where the hell is he…

Should I call out his name? Like a mating siren. Maybe flap my arms a little and hope he doesn’t decide to hide under the table at the sight of me? Aside from going around table to table asking if they are, or know, Bailey, I don’t know what else to do.

I’m about to open my mouth and call out “Bailey!” when my eyes land on a really cute guy sitting alone in a booth. He’s dressed in all black, and his tattooed hands cradle a mug while he scowls at something out the window. There’s a jolt of awareness that travels up my spine. That must be him, right? He’s the only one sitting alone, and he looks around my age.

Here’s to hoping…

“Bailey?” I ask as I step up to the table.

He jumps slightly at the sound of my voice, like he was in a deep stare-off daze and I just interrupted it.

His forehead creases as he looks up at me. “Remington?”

“The one and only!” I grin, nodding eagerly. “Hi! Ohmigod, I was worried you might have stood me up. I walked in and was like, wowee, there’s a lot of people in here!”

Shifting my fanny pack around to my side so it doesn’t get caught on the table, I slide into the booth opposite him, and my breath catches when I get a better look at him. Damn, he’s really pretty. His hazel eyes match his chestnut-brown hair that falls in soft waves to his chin. He has a nose ring, and tattoos cover both his arms, disappearing under the sleeves of his black T-shirt, then reappearing at his collar, traveling up his neck and stopping just beneath his jawline.

But it’s his hands that steal my attention.

“Wow! Look at these!” I grab hold of both his hands, pulling them closer to me for a better look. I’ve always loved tattoos, but I’m too scared to get one myself.

I brush my thumbs over the incredible, intricate artwork on the back of his hands, taking in the symbols and tiny designs over his fingers too. “Wowww! These are so nice!”

When I glance back up at him, he’s watching me with a wary expression. His mouth is tipped up in a lopsided smile, but there’s still a pinch in his brows.

He clears his throat. “Um, thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” I sit back upright, but I don’t let go of his hands. They’re so soft and warm. I wonder if he uses some kind of cream.

He looks from me to our joined hands in the middle of the table, then back to me again. “Is this how we’re going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Have a conversation. Get to know each other, see if we’ll be able to pull off this fake boyfriend stunt.” He lifts one of our linked hands and gives it a slight shake. “While holding hands.”

“Oh!” I reluctantly let go of him, but before I pull my hands back, I give the back of his hands a gentle pat. “They’re really nice, and your hands are so soft. We talk about soft hands in hockey, but it’s not about having actual soft hands, rather than, like, texture. It’s more about having good puck-handling skills and smooth passes.”

“Uh… I…” His nose scrunches up in a cute way. “I have no idea what to say to that?”

I chuckle.