Spring Fling (Dating Season Book 1), Page 2

  Charlotte loves him.

  “Ooh, I bet he’s covered in tattoos under that button-down shirt.” She bumps her shoulder to mine. “Doesn’t the artist in you want to find out?”

  “What if it’s something stupid, like...money? And then I have to pretend to love it?”

  “You can draw something exciting for his next one.”

  I’m not sure it’s fair to put that kind of pressure on poor Hunter. There’s no way he can compete with the Stairway to Heaven music notes ascending up Austin’s arm. However, I could get free tax help and he has dark eyes. The scales are tilting in Hunter’s favor, much like the room after all this wine. His bio says he’s spent so much time with his friends he’s forgotten how to meet people. I can relate.

  “Okay, let’s give him a rock.”

  We muddle through the next prospects, and they’re disappointing. Not one listed nap-dates in their interests. Now that I know that exists, I’m obsessed. I’m a champion napper. I’m sure Austin and Lucy are snuggled in a perfect spoon right now while he plays with her split-end-free hair.

  “That guy mows my mom’s yard,” Charlotte exclaims, when I swipe to a beefy man with a bald head. “He’s so polite. And reliable.”

  I shake my head. “No way. No rock for Yard Guy.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too close to home. Think about it. If it didn’t work out, your mom’s yard would be the victim and she’d never forgive me. I adore your mom and don’t want to lose her.”

  She agrees and we move on. The next candidate is another person that’s too close to home. But this time, I don’t mind.

  “Nope,” Charlotte says. “Eli works with Austin.”

  Exactly. I’d see Austin all the time. “Is that so bad?”

  “Bad. Very bad. Let’s exclude some friends so you’re not tempted.”

  We make adjustments in settings to eliminate certain mutuals and resume the process. An older man with chestnut hair and light-brown eyes captures my attention. He’s into biographies and camping.

  “Oh my God. Matthew is a sleep doctor. I bet he’s great at napping.”

  Charlotte tsks and points her wine glass at me. “I need to address something. Your three picks all have something you associate with Austin.”

  Silent, I slip Matthew a rock, and slide to the next person.

  “I saw that.”

  “And? I’m trying to build upon what I like.”

  “Yes, you’re building a monument to Austin.” She commandeers the mouse. “Let’s find some variety. You need a buffet, Chloe. Load your plate with things besides basic chicken.”

  I laugh. “Did you just call Austin basic?” He’s anything but basic. “In the poultry world, he’s Granny Mae’s famous fried chicken.” And I’ll never get to taste him. Now, I’ve sunk deeper into the melancholy phase. “I should give up and move home.”

  “What? No way.”

  “Nothing is going according to plan.”

  “Sometimes you have to make a new plan.”

  If only it were that easy. I didn’t plan to fall for a friend who doesn’t feel the same.

  “Be right back,” I say.

  I scoot away from the desk and bolt toward the bathroom, so Charlotte can’t see the stupid tears welling in my eyes. The hallway teeter-totters as I sway on what have morphed into Jell-O legs. I swing open the door, rest my back against the wood, and close my eyes. I’m not sure why this is freaking me out so much. It would be nice to have someone be my better half. The hand-holding. The inside jokes. Couple stuff.

  It’s just that I always pictured that someone as Austin.

  Kurt Vonnegut said, “History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again.” Well, imagine my surprise to see I am not in the bathroom when I open my eyes. I’m in Austin’s room. I’ve never actually been in here before. It always seemed too personal.

  His guitar rests in the corner, and on his organized bookshelf is the gift I made him for Christmas. A pottery dish to hold his picks. I try not to squee aloud. His fawn-colored walls are decorated with abstract art, but what’s really grabbed my attention is the headboard of his king-sized bed. It’s a masculine dark oak with a cutout below the curve of wood. And hanging from that cutout...are steel handcuffs.

  In my inebriated state, am I seeing things? I blink a few times. I am not.

  I tiptoe closer, and yep, it’s handcuffs.

  He’s a chef, not a police officer. So unless he’s trying to fix a sleep-walking problem, Austin is kinky. I can’t even with this information. Am I into that? My body’s reaction says I am. It’s hot. And now I’m hot. And trespassing. Maybe he’ll arrest me. Okay, I need to get out of here.

  I inch open the door, peek out, and dart across the hall to where I should’ve been all along. After splashing cool water on my now-red face, I return to the living room.

  Charlotte is where I left her, typing away on the keyboard. “I’ve decided, we gotta do the exact opposite of Austin,” she says.

  “Terrible and boring?”

  “This is why you’re single. No, I mean, doesn’t play guitar at parties in his beanie. Isn’t a chef.” Doesn’t handcuff you to the bed. “Like, your guy listens to hip-hop and works in an office.”

  “Sounds terrible and boring to me.”

  “Well, I’ve messaged a half dozen who fit the description already, while you were in the bathroom.” She stands. “Let’s put the app on your phone and find more food.”

  For whatever reason, while we forage the refrigerator, I don’t disclose my discovery in Austin’s bedroom. Once the app is downloaded, it’s decided I’m staying the night so we can continue our efforts. We settle on the couch and keep swiping through candidates until there’s no one left.

  “Now, we wait,” Charlotte says. “First guy that messages back is the one you’ll go out with, no matter what.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s like the universe decides that way. Right?” She holds up her pinkie. “Pinkie swear.”

  On the third try, my finger loops around hers, and I agree.

  Drinking too many glasses of wine means you have to deal with your horrible choices the next morning. Hazy memories of pinkies and handcuffs cloud my pounding head as I untangle myself from the blanket swaddling me on the coach. I sit up and rub my temples to ease the ache. My phone makes an annoying vibration against the coffee table every few minutes.

  A notification from FriendsOfFriends informs me I have ten messages waiting. My curiosity leads me to the app. No matter what’s there, or how horrified I am at my drunken choices, I know you can’t break a pinkie swear. Please, let the universe have been kind.

  Lucky for me, the first message in my inbox is not terrible. Or boring.

  “Oh,” I murmur when I see the dark-haired, blue-eyed man smiling in the little circle.

  His name is Finn, and I don’t even remember giving him a rock. Before I read his message, I look him up to refresh my memory and dang, but the Drunk C’s have amazing taste in hot bodies.

  “Hi,” his simple message reads.

  Okay. Short and sweet. It’s charming.

  I take a deep breath and write back “Hey! Nice to meet you!” but immediately erase it. The exclamation points make me seem too excited.

  I try again. “What’s up?”

  Ugh. I erase that too. What if he says his dick? He may be ungodly attractive, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a pervert. Granny Mae has forwarded me a few articles about the scourge of internet peen pics.

  After overanalyzing and erasing a few more responses, I finally type back, “Hi.”

  While I wait for a response, I scroll through the remaining messages, but no one gives me that wow feeling like Finn. The other guys have all written paragraphs that give me immediate red flags. As I’m thanking the universe for my good fortune with Finn, the other aspect of this app hits me like a ton of—pardon the pun—rocks.

  Rejection.

  Someone i
s always going to be the loser in the game of love. That’s sad to realize. What’s the etiquette here? Do I ignore these other guys, and they’ll think I’m busy? They’re strangers, yes, but they’re also people with feelings. It seems harsh to leave them hanging.

  I’m nothing if not polite, even if they’re damn trolls, so I go through each one and reply with—

  “Thank you for your interest. You’re awesome, but unfortunately, I’m not a good match for you. I hope you find someone that rocks your world!”

  There. Do unto others and all that.

  A message pops up. From Finn.

  “That’s too bad. You intrigued me with the tiny houses.”

  Wait. What? Of course I also sent that rejection message to Finn, because life can never be easy.

  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to send that to you. It was intended for someone else.”

  “Ah, letting them down easy. I feel bad for the guy missing out on you. Glad it’s not me.”

  Oh my. A foreign rush of warmth works its way through my system. Can you blush on the inside? I remember last night’s discovery. Yes, you definitely can. Only this one is far more appropriate.

  Unsure what to say back to that gem, I type out, “That’s definitely going to get you in my panties,” but then erase, for obvious reasons. I send a safe smiling emoji with “Me too.”

  “So, how does this work?” he asks. “Do we text first? Then ease into a meeting?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. This is my first time using a dating app.”

  “Well, let’s do it. I know it’s soon, but I’m not the kind of guy to wait around. Life is short. So...are you free tomorrow? Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner?”

  Well, I wasn’t expecting a date to happen right away. I envisioned a long courtship via text would take place. Something vaguely old-fashioned to ease me in. But best not to drag it out, I guess. What if I fall in love with his words and it’s all a sham? People are much different face-to-face. Maybe he has a laugh that frightens birds off light poles. Or a habit of speaking to my chin. We could have zero chemistry. Time to rip the Band-Aid off and see what happens.

  “I’m teaching a pottery class in the morning. But I’m free after five.”

  “Cool. How about seven? You can choose the place.”

  We talk a few more minutes, and so far, this isn’t painful. He’s nice. No warning sirens are blaring from his replies. And he’s not afraid to use the app emojis. It’s cute. He promises to message me later, and when I collect my things to tiptoe past a snoring Charlotte, I’m grinning like a loon.

  Three

  The internet is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because you have endless information at your fingertips. Anything and everything is just a few clickety-clacks away. And a curse, well...because you have endless information at your fingertips. Anything and everything is a few clickety-clacks away.

  Like dating tips.

  This morning, rabbit-holing before my class arrived, I stumbled upon an article that said choosing an exciting place for a first date increases the chance of the other person falling for you. Craft fairs are probably only thrilling to me, so I’ve got about four hours to pick a place. But how exciting do I want to be? What if he falls for me and I don’t reciprocate?

  “How’s this?” Louis, a carrot-topped six-year-old asks, saving me from the Pandora’s box of anxieties I’ve opened in my mind, and preserving my hope.

  I praise his misshapen bowl. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Grown-ups are bad liars.”

  Kids are sometimes hard to deal with in my weekend pottery class. The tiny humans are amazingly intuitive.

  “Well first of all, that really depends on the grown-up. But second of all, I’m not.” I am. “Everyone sees something different in art, Louis.”

  “What do you see?” he asks.

  “I see something with character, that your mom will treasure. Something you put a lot of effort into designing.” I run my finger around the thumb-sized dent in the side. “It has a belly button. It’s one of a kind.”

  He beams, while next to him, Gwen, a ten-year-old artist in the making, frowns at her perfect round bowl.

  I lean in and whisper, “Yours is exquisite.”

  “It looks like every other bowl. There’s nothing special about it.”

  “Of course there is. You created it by hand. That’s special.” I finish lying badly and untie my apron. “Okay, listen, everyone. This class is about having fun. You can’t go wrong. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself.” You’ve got your whole adulthood to do that. “Let’s place them on the shelf to dry, and tomorrow, we’ll paint them.”

  A frenzy of chatter and energy erupts in the large classroom filled with pottery wheels. Six little bodies bounce behind me to the wall lined with cubbies where they place their creations. Finn is temporarily forgotten in a rush of washing hands and parent pickup.

  By the time I’ve cleaned up the room and headed out for my lunch break, the Hill is already bustling with people out and about in the warm sunshine.

  I stroll down the block to my favorite cafe and find an available patio table to enjoy my burger while I clickety-clack the internet for exciting date ideas. Gwen’s innocent statement about her bowl lingers in my mind. There’s always plenty to do in Boulder—shopping, museums, dining—but everything seems so not special. I’m sure Finn has explored every valley and peak surrounding the Flatirons. There’s a ton of breweries to tour, but again, that reeks of ordinary.

  My grandmother always says, “Don’t look for a man who makes you feel special. Any man can do that. Find a man who believes you are, and he’ll do things for you he’s never done for anyone else.” Well, I guess that goes both ways. And now the pressure to find a place that stands out increases twofold.

  “How’s your day going?” pops up on my phone from Finn.

  “Good! On my lunch break. How’s yours going?”

  Bonus points for Finn. He doesn’t tell me, he shows me. A photo comes through, and oh my, Finn at the gym is lethal. In a snug black T-shirt and gray gym shorts, he gives me a charming grin that’s framed by scruff along his masculine jaw. Behind him is a mirrored wall and I zoom all the way in to enjoy the reflected rear view. This is not a man who skips leg day. Or ass day. If that is a day. I’ve not seen the inside of a gym in...well, ever. I’m by no means a couch potato, but I also didn’t leave the mayo off my cheeseburger. Or my fries.

  “Impressive,” I type back. “While you’re busy working out, I’m busy working on this.”

  On impulse, I snap a photo of my food and send it.

  “Mmm...you’re making me hungry.”

  His three m’s cause me to shift in my chair. Maybe I do need to get laid.

  “Have you picked the place yet?”

  “Working on it. I’ve narrowed down my choices and will let you know soon.”

  He clearly can’t tell I am a bad-liar-grown-up through text, finishing the conversation with an adorable smiling emoji. Part of me wishes I’d let him plan the date. The pressure to find somewhere out of the ordinary very nearly ruins my appetite for more mayonnaise. Until a man, wearing a Colorado Avalanche hat, sits at the table across from me. Ah-ha! Hockey. I’m trying to do things I wouldn’t normally, and Finn is obviously an active person.

  It’s perfect. Thank you, stranger.

  My appetite is saved.

  To say I’m on the verge of hyperventilating is an understatement. I hate that stranger. What’s better than being a spectator, I had thought. Being on the ice, I had thought. I’d had the brilliant idea that we’d learn to play a game of hockey. With nothing but our first names and an email address I’ll likely get coupons on for the next decade, I was able to secure our spots for Stick and Puck at Sport Zone.

  It’s just that in all my excitement, I’d sort of forgotten I haven’t ice-skated since eighth grade.

  So as I stand outside waiting for Finn to arrive, I’m resisting the urge to cancel. I’m going to mak
e a fool out of myself in front of someone I want to like me. For the first time, my brain is percolating with dating tips instead of history facts. The internet article I found said a study came to the conclusion people determine attraction within three seconds of meeting. That’s astounding. How can you decide that in such a short amount of time? People become more attractive as you get to know them. There are nuances to personality that contribute to attraction and—

  Forget all that, apparently the study is true. I am definitely attracted to the tall, lean body dressed in jeans and a black button-down shirt striding toward me at a brisk clip.

  “Chloe?” he asks as he approaches.

  His voice is smooth and rich enough to make my bones putty.

  I smile and internally squee. “Yep. Finn?”

  His broad shoulders relax. “Thank God you didn’t catfish me.”

  “Catfish you?”

  He’s the one who looked like a magazine fitness model. But pictures did not do this man justice. Blue eyes peer at me from behind black frames and I may have just discovered a Clark Kent fetish.

  He smirks. “You could’ve been scamming me. People do crazy things. I know someone who met a girl who had a whole stock photo family.”

  “Really? Well, I guess that gives a whole new meaning to a picture-perfect family.”

  While his eyes do a sweep of my body, I can’t help but wonder if I passed the three-second test. Since the date is casual, I opted for my favorite skinny jeans, a French-tucked plaid shirt, and heeled boots. Charlotte approved but said to “show the man some titty,” because she is a classy bride-to-be. So at the last minute, I slipped open a few buttons to reveal a provocative glimpse of cleavage.

  Her suggestion worked, because his glance lingers on my breasts just a tad longer than appropriate. Sweet. I passed. God, he probably has abs under that shirt that’s clinging to him. If this date goes well, I might get to lick them at some point. Very exciting prospect.