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I watch, bemused, as he throws back his own glass in one long gulp, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “What are we doing?”
“We’re gonna enjoy your dumbass date’s expensive wine, and then we’re getting some real food. None of this piped wasabi and foam shit.” He stands, pushing out the chair. The waiter reappears behind us, and Zack blasts him with his megawatt grin. “It was lovely, mate.”
The waiter nods, looking dazed. “I’ll pass on your comments to the chef,” he murmurs, then lifts his notepad and pen. “Um, could you—”
“Autograph?” Zack guesses, and the man nods frantically. I tip back my glass and gulp down my wine as Zack scrawls his name across the page. “No problem, mate. Thanks for letting my girl down gently.” He offers me his hand, helping me to my feet. “Come on, love. Your night’s about to get a whole lot better.”
***
THREE
***
LAYLA
It’s almost midnight by the time we finally make it back to our building. Instead of getting food, Zack managed to convince me to stop at a bar on the way home, where I proceeded to take advantage of the Happy Hour two-for-one drink special. A few times over. My head is fuzzy as I stumble up the six flights of stairs to our floor, Zack’s arm wrapped tightly around my waist.
It’s not like me to drink a lot. Running my own business means I’m always on call, and my daily schedule is usually so packed that I can’t afford to take much time off. I know I’m going to hate myself in the morning, but right now, I just don’t care. I’ve had a terrible night. The humiliation over my date with Mike is a tight ball in my chest. I just want to forget about it for a while.
By the time Zack drags me up to our floor, though, I’m starting to regret the fourth round of mojitos. I stare at my locked apartment door and imagine climbing into my cold, empty bed. Again. My happy drunk glow suddenly fades away into sadness.
120 dates. I’ve been on 120 dates in the last fourteen months. And not one of them has worked out.
There must be something wrong with me.
“I like this,” Zack rumbles over my head, thumbing at my red bralette strap. “One of your designs?”
I shake my head. “It’s an Anna Bardet. She’s one of my favourite designers.”
“I like yours better,” he declares, looking up and down the long corridor. It’s dark and silent; all of the other tenants have obviously gone to bed already. “You got any food at your place, pet?”
I think. “Like. Maybe some granola bars?”
He tuts, pivoting me on the spot. He lives in apartment 6B, directly across the hall from me. His muscled arms band around my waist. I squeeze one without thinking, admiring his huge bicep, and he laughs. “C’mon. I’ll make you something full of cheese, and maybe you won’t feel like total shit tomorrow.”
I frown, wavering. “You don’t have to do that…”
“We have leftovers from this week’s meal kit,” he says temptingly.
I light up. The guys get a ton of free products from sponsors that advertise on their podcast. My personal favourite is Flavoroso, a company that sells weekly meal delivery kits with pre-cut ingredients.
“Tonight was like, four-cheese mac-n-cheese,” Zack says in my ear, making me shiver. “Brie and cheddar and gouda and shit.” I stare up at him, my mouth watering, and he snorts. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. C’mon, baby.”
“I’m not a baby.” I try to wriggle out of his grip.
He just laughs and kisses the top of my head, unlocking his front door and bundling me inside.
* * *
The guys’ flat is a larger, more manly version of mine. Instead of one bedroom, there’s three, but they have the same open plan lounge-dining-room-kitchen setup. Whereas my living space is papered in pink and filled with racks of product samples, the guys’ lounge is dark and neat. They have black sofas set up around a glass coffee table, facing a wide-screen telly. Above it, all their awards are lined up on a shelf: the red English Podcast Award plaque; the microphone-shaped Elias Radio Popular Choice Podcast; and my personal favourite, Top Adult Podcast. The trophy is made of hot-pink glass, and is engraved with little lipstick kisses.
Tonight, the room is a little messier than usual. The coffee table is strewn with Three Single Guys posters and markers. One of Zack’s flatmates, Luke, is sitting on the sofa, scribbling his autograph methodically onto each poster.
Zack ruffles my hair and scoots past me to the kitchen, and I shrug off my leather jacket, leaning against the wall to drunkenly admire Luke. Maybe it’s the beer goggles, but he looks especially gorgeous tonight.
Luke is turning forty this year, and he’s the quintessential silver fox. Greying and handsome in a hot professor kind of way. He’s dressed in his usual chinos, thick-rimmed glasses, and a soft-looking navy sweater. I want to lick him. “You look fit,” I drawl.
Luke glances up at me, grey eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles. “Layla. I didn’t know you were coming over tonight, sweetheart.” He caps his pen and looks down at himself. “Ah, thank you. Zack made me buy these trousers.”
