The hostess led us to a table by the window, and I should’ve been giving my stomach a mental pep talk—preparing to eat as much food as Reed’s wallet could buy—but my mind was too preoccupied with cataloguing every detail about him.
I hated that his tousled brown hair appeared thick and lustrous—the kind of hair your fingers wanted to slide through—and I hated his eyes, too. They held some sort of black magic with their hypnotic, deep ocean-blue color. The flecks of silvery light interspersed throughout only intensified their power. And his stupid face was so strong and defined, his features might as well have been molded from granite.
I watched his strong hands, slightly roughened and callused around the edges of his palms, flex as he took the offered menu from the waitress. “Thank you,” he responded and flashed an annoying smirk that somehow made his face appear playful and sexy.
It also highlighted his lips. Stupid lips. They were full and pink and were the exact kind of lips most women prayed would be ripe for kissing.
Obviously, I wasn’t one of those women. At least, I was trying not to be.
I can walk above him as he feeds off the bottom, for God’s sake. I can.
He was handsome all right, but he was also an asshole. I just had to keep reminding myself of that very fact.
I mean, he had pretty much fucked me over.
Bashing my column in a vlog for the entire world to see? Yeah, even if his intentions for that god-awful video had been good in some twisted way, he’d done a shitty job of executing. And if his intentions hadn’t been good… Fuck, don’t hit him, Lola. That’s assault, I reminded myself.
The waitress giggled softly and a hint of blush rosied her cheeks as she handed me a menu, but her gaze never left Reed’s orbit.
I couldn’t deny he had the kind of face and confidence that stopped most women in their tracks. I guessed he must’ve been used to it, the sudden pause in a person’s natural expression when they looked his way, followed by overcompensating with a nonchalant gaze and a weak smile—or, in our waitress’s case, blushing and soft giggles—because he didn’t bask in it like I theorized he would.
Actually, it was almost as if he didn’t even notice.
But how is that possible?
Our waitress was on the “this guy is fucking hot” train, telepathically screaming, “All aboard, here’s my ticket, and where should I put my pants?”
Internally, I scoffed.
“I’ll give you a moment to look at the menu,” she finally said, her eyes still fixated on Reed.
“I know what I want,” I announced without hesitation or concern if he still needed that offered moment to peruse the meal selections. “I’ll start off with the baked mac ’n’ cheese and fried pickles,” I said and pointed at the appetizer section on the menu. “And then,” I singsonged as my finger slid to the meal options, “I’ll have the barbecue chicken sandwich and the brisket.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion as she scribbled down my ridiculous order. “Uh…and what would you like to drink?”
“A Coke to drink, please.” I smiled sweetly. “Oh, and can you add a double order of fries to the brisket?”
“Yeah…but…” She paused in hesitation. “That’s a lot of fries.”
“Fantastic,” I said, and my eyes met Reed’s. “I’ll take it.”
No big eyes or furrowed brow, he didn’t give me the reaction I wanted. His expression remained relaxed and calm, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a human being to order two appetizers and two meals for dinner.
I hated how much that intrigued me.
“Hungry?” he asked when the waitress finally sopped up her arousal and headed for the bar.
“I’m starving, but don’t worry,” I said and patted my stomach, “I’ll save room for dessert.”
He smirked but didn’t offer any sort of rebuttal or sarcastic retort. Instead, he glanced at the bike helmet sitting beside my feet and then out toward the window. His eyes met mine again. “How did you get here?”
“Dais—” I started to say, but quickly corrected, “My bike.”
“Dais?” he repeated in question.
Of course, he noticed that little slipup. The least he could have done was politely ignore it.
God, this guy was annoying. He wasn’t following the normal rules of social interactions, and that didn’t fucking help me strike preemptively.
Looking like a regular—albeit, irritatingly attractive—douchebag, but refusing to follow my bait?
He was unlike anyone I’d ever met.
And did I mention I hated him? I did.
“Daisy,” I admitted in a bitchy tone. “My bike.”
“You named your bike?”
“Is that a problem for you?” I questioned with a challenging raise of my eyebrow. “Are you going to post another video about why humans are too materialistic and use my penchant for naming my bike as proof?”
He grinned, and I immediately wanted to smack that grin straight off his face. He didn’t let my cloud of anger phase him, though.
“Why’d you name your bike, Lola?”
“Why’d you post a poorly recorded YouTube video and bash my column, Reed?” I retorted, but my sarcastic words didn’t hit a nerve. Nope, they did the exact opposite and made that naturally confident smile of his grow wider.
“So, it’s safe to assume you’re not a fan of my video.”
“Uh. Yeah.” A baffled laugh escaped my lips. “I’d say that’s a pretty fucking safe assumption.”
“It appears that it irritated you.”
Appears that it irritated me? I’d love to know the person who could watch a video like that, about their column, and not be irritated.
I ignored his fondness for stating the obvious and asked the one thing I wanted to know. “Why’d you post it?”
He shrugged. “I had an opinion, and I had the urge to speak my opinion.”
“Do you make a point to give in to all of your urges, no matter how fucking ludicrous they are?”
His lips quirked up, and soft lines appeared at the corners of his cheeks. “Are we still talking about the video? Or have we veered off toward a different kind of topic?”
“First of all, if you’re insinuating that I was just asking you about sexual urges, you can stop right there,” I scoffed and held up a determined hand. “I do not currently, nor will I ever, want to know about your sexual urges.”
“I never said anything about sex,” he answered with ease, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers against the scruff covering his jaw. “But it’s interesting that you brought it up. Do you do that often with people you’ve just met?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Can anyone have a conversation with you and actually enjoy it? I mean, seriously? I’m honestly curious here.”
“Most people would describe me as pleasant, intelligent, easy to talk to.” He ticked off his supposed attributes with that irritatingly comfortable smile of his. “And my mother often tells me that I’m a very good boy and she wishes I’d call her more often.”
“Your mom doesn’t count,” I refuted. “Everyone’s mom thinks they’re the best. That’s what moms do.”
“She also thinks I’m too old for my brand of bullshit, as she calls it.”
“Your mother is brilliant.”
He laughed, but I got back to the topic at hand. “And I’d love to meet these other people you speak of.” Lightning from the Almighty practically struck me down with a case for the opposite. “Or, wait…maybe I wouldn’t. I should stay far, far away from anyone who finds you enjoyable.”
He quirked an amused brow in my direction. “And why’s that?”
I huffed at yet another question as an answer, but for some irritating reason, I found myself perpetuating his game by responding.
“Because they’re either one bad day away from having a psychotic breakdown, or they are already locked away in a padded room and are suffering from a psychotic breakdown.”
“Do you have a dislike for people with mental illnesses?”
“What the hell?” I snapped. How fucking dare he? “Do you always twist people’s words around like that?”
“I wasn’t twisting anything,” he said, and his tone lacked the normal, defensive tone you’d expect from a question like mine. But obviously, a case was being constructed in support of one thing: Reed Luca and the word normal weren’t peanut butter and jelly. The idea of customary and this guy went together like anchovies on a birthday cake.
“I was only asking a question based off of what you said,” he answered without hesitation or doubt. “And if my ears heard you correctly, you mentioned staying far away from someone suffering a psychotic breakdown.”
“First of all, buddy,” I started and held up a pointed finger, “anyone who is not trained in the medical field to provide care to someone suffering a psychotic episode would stay away from someone who was, in fact, suffering a psychotic episode. That is not because they have a dislike for people diagnosed with mental illnesses, but because they are literally following the normal, human train of thought that, maybe, it isn’t the best time to hang out with someone, when said someone is in a psychopathic state of mind.”
He nodded, not the least bit offended by my little tirade. “That’s understandable.”
“What?” The question flew out of my mouth without thought.
“I said that’s understandable. I can understand where you’re coming from.”
“I fucking heard you the first time,” I retorted. “My What was because you don’t make any sense. Having a conversation with you is like being on a goddamn merry-go-round. We’re up, we’re down, and while it seems like you’re having the time of your life, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“I don’t—”
I held up my hand. “Just stop right there. I can’t handle any more of whatever you’re about to say.”
Seriously. I had reached a breaking point with this guy. He was infuriating. He was sexy as hell, and I could actually melt into the insanely blue hues of his eyes, but he was off his fucking rocker.
He ignored me. “Lola, I’m not an average kind of guy. I look at things differently than most.”
“That’s an understatement,” I muttered.
“And, if I have an opinion, I speak it. If I have a question, I ask it. That’s just how I am. I also don’t waste my time worrying about what anyone else thinks of me.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, I heard that loud and clear when I watched your little video.”
“You know…” he said and glanced down at my bike helmet. “Besides your reaction to the video, I don’t think we’re all that different. There are definitely some aspects of your personality that follow my mind-set.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean, my reaction to the video?”
“Well, your frustrated and angry reaction stems from the fact that you’re worried about what people think of you and your column at this point.”
Was he psychoanalyzing me now?
This guy.
No, seriously…who the fuck was this guy?
I smacked my hands against the table in frustration, and our water glasses shook. “Because you put me on blast and did your damnedest to ruin the reputation I have built of giving solid dating and relationship advice.”
“Do you think you give solid dating and relationship advice?”
“I wouldn’t write a column if I thought I gave horrible advice!”
“Are you sure about that?” he continued, his insanely calm, laid-back voice only amplifying my irritation.
“What?”
“Don’t you think, if you were one hundred percent certain that your advice was the best dating and relationship advice out there, you wouldn’t care about what some guy said on a YouTube video?”
“Wow,” I muttered, and my gaze moved away from the maddening man across from me and out toward the window. “I honestly don’t even know how to respond to you right now.”
“Look, Lola. I’m not trying to be a dick,” he said, and I really wanted to call bullshit on that. “I think you’re an intelligent woman. My intentions aren’t malicious. The video. My questions. None of it stems from a mean place. I’m just not that kind of guy.”
My gaze met his again, and I wondered if actual smoke was steaming out of my retinas. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’m one hundred percent sure about that.”
“Then, what in the hell are you trying to do here?” I asked in exasperation.
“Make you think. Give you a different perspective.”
“Listen, buddy—” I pointed a finger in his direction “—I’m not in the market for a life coach. I just want you to stop making YouTube videos where you read me the riot act on my column. If your intentions aren’t malicious, is it so freaking hard for you to at least give me that?”
He smiled. “You’re asking me to never make another YouTube video about your column.”
“Duh.”
“What if I have nice things to say?”
“No videos.” I shook my head. “Just…no more videos.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “No more YouTube videos.”
“Thank you,” I responded, and it was an actual, genuine thank you. Which made zero sense. I shouldn’t be thanking him for any-fucking-thing.
Our eyes met and he grinned, and I immediately felt at ease.
God, I hated that.
Why, oh, why, would fate make this guy the recipe for my ultimate comfort food?
I gave fate the finger while he sat back, his good mood never fading.
I also hated how much I liked that grin. My pockets were bottomless pits of hate around this guy.
“Your meals should be ready in about five minutes,” the waitress updated as she set the mac n’ cheese and fried pickles on the table. “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked, and I knew I had to move this along. I’d eat the apps, but no way in hell was I sitting through an entire dinner with Reed.
“Actually,” I blurted out. “Do you mind putting my meals in a to-go box? I have somewhere I have to be and won’t have time to eat.”
Obviously, I wasn’t going to waste all of the delicious Southern cuisine. I might’ve had the sudden, irrational urge to sprint away from the table, but I wasn’t a crazy person.
“Sure thing. I’ll box it up and have it ready for you at the bar.” She nodded and left the table.
Reed’s eyes met mine, and I refused to give him an opportunity to talk me in circles again. I mean, I had already thanked him. What would happen if I sat through dinner? Would I end up paying the bill and offering him a ride home on my bike, too?
My wallet and Daisy couldn’t handle that kind of strain.
Yeah, fuck the apps. I’ll binge on the to-go boxes when I get home.
“Okay…well…” I scooted my seat back and stood up. “I’m going to head out.”
Reed stood and picked my bike helmet up off the floor. His tall frame dwarfed mine as he placed the helmet gently on my head, his long fingers whispering across my chin as he locked the strap in place.
And I didn’t just feel his touch. I felt his touch—static, that rare crackling in the air that happens between two people who are drawn to one another. I was an annoyed and pissed-off woman, and he was the world’s most irritating human being—there should have been nothing.
But there was something.
I felt it, I saw it, I fucking tasted it. It was enough to make the baby hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I’d always known to look out for the devil in angel’s clothing, but I had never expected him to be so damn appealing in his own. This guy was himself, evil and intrigue and undisputable confidence in one condensed package.
I had the instant urge, no, need, to haul ass out of that restaurant.
A guy like Reed Luca was dangerous. He was bad news.
Attraction, huh? Yeah, I was attracted to this asshole like a fucking magnet. My body wanted to blast off into orbit and rotate around his gravitational pull.
But I hated him.
And I’d keep on hating him, no matter how strong his appeal.
I stepped back and put some much-needed distance between us. “Er…thanks,” I muttered, and the chinstrap of my helmet strained against the movement of my jaw.
He grinned down at me. “You’re welcome.”
“So…I guess we’ve settled on a truce then, right?”
He held out both arms. “I, Reed Luca, solemnly promise that I will post no more YouTube videos about Lola Sexton or her column, Sex Says.”
“Thanks.” For fuck’s sake, how many times was I going to thank this guy?
My mind screamed abort abort abort, and I started to fidget on my feet. I knew I needed to nip this little powwow in the bud, but I had a proclivity for being really awkward and weird when it came to good-byes. Handshake? Hug? Just a simple see ya later? I never knew what the fuck to do.
So I did what any weirdo wearing a bike helmet adorned in sparkly pink paint would do; I held out my hand and offered an awkward shake and patted him on the shoulder with the other.
His smile grew wider as he took my hand into his.
“Friends?” he asked.
That forced a shocked laugh from my lungs. “Um…thanks, but no thanks,” I responded immediately. “Your little YouTube video is still gaining like one hundred views a freaking second as we speak. You and I—” I gestured to him and then to myself “—will never be friends.”
“Are you saying—” he started to say, but I instantly cut him off. There was absolutely no way in hell I would give this guy another opening to take me on another merry-go-round of crazy that was a conversation with him.
“Have a nice life, Reed Luca.”
And with that, I strode out of the restaurant and out toward Daisy while I silently prayed to every god out there to let me go the rest of my life without having to have another conversation, much less interaction, with that guy. Hell, I was going to make it my life’s mission to avoid him at all costs.
It wasn’t until I had gotten home, and my stomach started rumbling its needs, that I realized I had forgotten to stop at the bar and get my to-go boxes.
God, he even made me forget about food.
I never forgot about food.
Yeah, Reed Luca was bad fucking news.