Page 35 of Burn the Script

NOW

Saturday, January 21st

Speed dating is still a thing. Yesterday, Carmen handed me a flyer advertising “Bon Appétit Brunch” at a French café in my neighborhood, for which she so kindly signed me up. If the event were being held anywhere else, I would’ve stayed home. Convenience is an excellent motivator to get me out of my apartment.

The dating rounds last eight minutes, and I’ve entertained three potential suitors at my table so far. The first two spoke in innuendos, and the third man is wrapping up a long-winded answer to my simple question about what he does for a living. I nod along, pretending to understand computer acronyms while smothering my yawns.

On a positive note, my coffee date from a few weeks ago is here, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Based on his table partner’s animated hand gestures, he’s getting a detailed explanation of the many, many tattoos on display. I look forward to what’s-his-name landing at my table. He needs a pep talk. I need a break and a drink refill.

The brunch part of the evening consists of mimosas and Bloody Marys with sliders and tater tots speared on plastic swords, not a crumb of French cuisine to be found. I’ve opted for a pink lemonade spritzer, minus the alcohol.

A whistle signals the end of the current round. The software engineer bolts from his seat, and a guy with shaggy brown hair and baggy clothes takes his place. The new prospect’s name tag says Gavin. With green eyes and a prominent nose, the name suits him. It’s the bushy mustache above his luscious lips that has me rolling my eyes.

“You’ve made a career of impersonating people, but this is a bit much.”

Graham smiles and sets his glass of whiskey on the table. “You say that like we’ve met before.”

“Are you also here to explore your options?”

“I thought you might need a wingman.” He glances around the room. “Have you got your eye on anyone? I spoke with the guy in the blue suit earlier. He’s a prick, but the one in the brown sweater seems nice.”

The redhead he’s referring to at table three looks our way and tosses me a flirty wink. My upper lip curls. This event may be a mixer, but he’s disrespecting his current date by being nice to me.

Graham tips his head toward the last table in our row. “What about him?”

I scrunch my nose. With that many muscles, I’d bet the guy never leaves the gym unless he needs a hit of fresh air. “Too bulky.”

“And his bald head is a no-go. Nothing for you to sink your fingers into.” That comment earns him a smile, one he returns.

I bring my straw to my lips, then remember my drink’s empty and abandon it. “Why do you like this game?”

“Because I get a kick out of watching you squirm.” He waves a hand to catch the server’s attention and points to my glass.

Whenever Graham and I would go to bars or restaurants with friends, he’d ask what I thought of other men and which physical traits appealed to me. On the rare occasion I found someone worthy of a second glance, he’d simply grin and move on to the next target.

“There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty around us,” he says. “I’m confident in where I stand. Even if your eyes wander, your body knows who it wants.”

“You have a crippling case of MVP.”

“Am I wrong? You’re not falling in lust at first sight because someone’s attractive.”

I raise my chin higher. “Maybe I’m searching for an instant emotional connection.”

He throws his head back and laughs. I miss the sound of it. Easy, lazy, but always genuine.

“Darling, it took you months to admit you love me. If anyone can seduce you emotionally, I’ll buy them a bottle of the finest whiskey.”

“Good to know my love is only worth the price of liquor.”

“Your love is priceless. The liquor will get him drunk and up my chances of winning a fistfight.”

My fingers go slack around the empty glass. “You’d fight for me?”

“Why do you think I’m here?” The tenderness in his gaze strikes deep, instantly locking me inside his orbit, my favorite place to be.

When a server delivers my fresh drink, neither of us acknowledges him. Graham and I are the only two people in the room. Content in our bubble, I sip my spritzer while he spins his whiskey glass on the table.

I hate the contacts he’s wearing. They hide his beautiful amber eyes. And the shaggy wig is a surprising choice. He’s never liked wigs. Prolonged pressure against his scalp gives him a headache. Loud noises and alcohol make his headaches worse, which explains why he’s spinning his glass instead of drinking from it.