Page 1 of Prime Time Romance

1

Brynn

My date has cilantro stuck to his tooth.

A bright-green leaf is clinging precariously to his left central incisor, and I have been trying, rather unsuccessfully, to give him a discreet you’ve got a little something, but so far, all I’ve managed to do is draw several weird looks from our waitress.

His name is Ford LeClair. He’s a hedge fund manager at a rather large Canadian bank here in Toronto. I swiped right because he said he loved labradoodles, a good cup of coffee, and summer nights on the dock of his parents’ cottage on Lake Rosseau.

His profile had promise.

The man, however, has spent the last forty-three minutes having a one-sided conversation about cryptocurrency, his predictions for next week’s UFC fight, and his recent boys’ trip to Las Vegas.

“Have you been? It’s fucking epic!”

It takes me a minute to realize he’s finally asked me a question.

“Yes.” My cheeks flood with heat. “I’ve been there once before.”

I don’t elaborate.

Thankfully, Ford does not ask any follow-up questions. Even if he did, I’m not sure how I’d manage to navigate around my reason for traveling to the wedding capital of the world.

Something happens to my dates when I toss into a casual conversation that I’m a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée. It’s like they assign a “level failed” to my dating scorecard. Seeing as I don’t anticipate us even moving this relationship to the dessert course, I don’t see a reason to bring it up.

“So…” I change the subject, taking the pause in Ford’s side of the conversation to sneak in a few of my own questions. “Your profile said you’d love to settle in a small town one day. Is there any town in particular?”

This is my remaining olive branch. One last attempt to connect the man and the profile. However, if I’m to be perfectly honest, the majority of my hope that anything would come of this ill-fated match dissolved the moment the hostess walked me to our table, where Ford ignored my outstretched palm in favor of an obvious once-over and then proceeded to tell me, “You look different from your pictures.”

In hindsight, I should have turned right around and pretended it was all some big mix-up, or told him the hostess had accidentally brought me over to the wrong table. But I had made such an effort: new lipstick, my Victoria’s Secret push-up bra, and my sale-rack Nordstrom stilettos that make my legs look longer but also cut the backs of my heels because they’re a half size too small. So I ignored the alarm bells screaming, Run, Brynn. Save yourself, pasted on my best I am totally into you smile, and hoped my instincts were wrong.

Fifty-six minutes later, I strongly suspect that they were not wrong.

Ford leans forward, wafting a wave of expensive-smelling cologne in my direction.

“I’m going to be straight up with you. I put that small-town shit in my profile because I know women want to hear it.”

His honesty is actually refreshing.

“Oh, okay. I guess I didn’t…”

“Breanne—” he interrupts.

“It’s Brynn.”

He ignores me and instead takes a long draw of his locally crafted IPA.

“We both know what is happening here.”

I have an inkling, but I want to see where he takes it.

He flicks a glance at his Rolex-esque watch, then inclines his head toward the entrance to the restaurant.

“If you wanna do this, we should probably get going.”

I’m not naïve.

It’s quite clear that “this” means sex. Sadly, Ford is not the first overconfident Bumble date this year to cut to the chase, although he lacks the je ne sais quoi that typically accompanies this delicate dance. And even though I’ve never been one to ask for what I want in the bedroom, I have no problem telling Ford I have no intention of stepping into his tonight.