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“Was he as hot in person as he is on TV?” Fabio asks when he gets his power of speech back.
I sigh wistfully. “Hotter.”
The Russian is like a freshly deep-fried Oreo with whipped cream. Just smelling that treat would make one pregnant, I’m sure.
“I bet you came when you saw him,” Honey says.
“Kind of,” I say. This is as close to the truth as I can get. “And I think he knew that I came.”
Well, that has done it. Based on all the OMGs that follow, my sister and Fabio might’ve just come too.
Eventually, they settle down, and Fabio asks, “What happened next?”
My chest suddenly feels floaty. “He asked me to dinner.”
Honey drops her skunking phone again, but Fabio manages to catch it—giving me a close-up of his dumbstruck face in the process.
“Please tell me you said yes,” Honey says when I can see her again.
I bite my lip. “He didn’t exactly give me a choice. He said, ‘We’re going to meet for dinner tomorrow night.’”
Fabio scoffs. “If you’d been insane enough to want to decline, you could’ve said, ‘Fuck no, we’re not.’ Or ‘I’d sooner go with a lime—and we’re bitter rivals.’”
I shift my phone from hand to hand. “It felt like blackmail. Like if I’d said no, he would’ve called security.”
“Boo-hoo,” Honey says. “The man of your dreams is making you go on a date with him. Sucks to be you. I guess you’ll have to make lemonade with that… Lemon.”
My adrenaline spikes, like my glucose after a cotton-candy-rolled ice cream. “It’s not a date.”
“Oh, it’s a date,” they say in unison.
I shake my head a bit too vigorously. It feels like I tore a neck muscle. “I think he’s going to blackmail me further. Ask for something. I can feel it.”
“Yeah.” Fabio waggles his eyebrows libidinously. “He wants lemon meringue.”
“No, he wants lemon curd,” Honey says, and they high-five each other.
“Hey.” My eyes turn into slits. “You said the puns would stop if I told you what happened.”
“Sorry,” Fabio says sheepishly. “I still stand by my assessment. He wants you. That’s the only reason he’d ask out someone who acts like a total stalker.”
“No way,” I say, unsure whom I’m trying to convince. “He has a whole harem of ballerina sister-wives at his disposal.”
“Who cares?” Honey asks. “You look just like me—as in, gorgeous.”
Honey’s confidence in her looks borders on delusional. But to be fair, she’s not on my signature cheesecake-with-doughnuts diet. The girl has washboard abs, not unlike the aforementioned ballerinas, whereas the closest I’ve gotten to ab definition is looking up the word “abs” in the dictionary. Or eating coconut washboard cookies. Either way, I don’t look “just like” her.
Fabio examines my all-black outfit with a wrinkled nose. “Make sure to wear something better than that to your non-date. And rid yourself of any unwanted hair.” His gaze lingers too long on my upper lip.
“And wear a G-string,” Honey says with a wink. “It’ll be something for you guys to bond over.”
I sigh in exasperation. Fabio is clearly rubbing off on her. “It was a dance belt.”
“Not to mention, there’s nothing funny about a man wearing a G-string,” Fabio says.
“Geez, relax,” Honey says to him, then looks into the camera. “What restaurant are you going to?”
“Don’t tell her,” Fabio whispers loudly. “She’ll give you a coupon and make you use it.”
