Chapter Twelve

NOELY

Hmm . . . I might have gone a little overboard.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of Going in Blind’s front door and cringe. When I dressed for my blind date tonight, I might have angrily dressed. Meaning, I put on the sluttiest thing I owned, sexi-fied my hair, and donned the tallest heels I possess. I read like a classy hooker looking for a good time. Notice how I said classy and not trashy? Huge difference. Even though my boobs are spilling out of my tight black dress that ends mid-thigh, my makeup isn’t smeared, and I’m wearing underwear . . . full-butt underwear.

See the difference?

Knowing there is no time to go home and change into something less “rebel” like—that’s the theme I was going for—and more nun from the convent, I push through the door and I’m greeted by Veronica, the hostess.

“Miss Clark, it’s lovely to see you tonight.”

“Hi,” I say shyly, feeling a little uneasy that I’m here again. They obviously know the first date didn’t work out, the first date that’s supposed to be THE match. It’s kind of embarrassing, but when I look at Veronica, there is no judgment in her eyes. If there had been, I would have wanted to turn around and leave. Instead, I take a deep breath and say, “I have a date with RebelWithACause tonight.”

“Yes, I have you right here. He hasn’t arrived yet. Can I show you to the bar?”

“Please.” Pulling on the hem of my skirt, trying to magically elongate it, I follow Veronica to the bar where there is another woman waiting on the far end. She’s dressed far more conservatively than I am in a pretty royal-blue turtleneck dress. Unlike my curled and teased hair—yes, teased—hers is brushed crisply against her head into a high ballerina bun pinned at the top. She went classy sexy. Good for her. I tried that last time and look where I ended up. Right back where I started. Who knows, maybe her approach will work for her.

I take a seat across from her at the bar, the length putting enough distance between us so we don’t have to make awkward conversation, which normally wouldn’t be an issue for me. For some reason, I’m feeling slightly bitter tonight, a sensitivity I need to drop before my date gets here because no one likes sharing a delicious dinner with a bitter human.

“Miss Clark, it’s a pleasure to see you,” Danny, the bartender, says while placing a napkin in front of me. “Can I get you another Moscow Mule?”

I don’t know if I should be impressed he remembers me or depressed. I wonder how many second timers he sees in here.

Trying to give him a smile, but failing, I say, “Maybe just a glass of rosé for me this evening.”

Sensing my humdrum attitude, Danny leans forward and tips my chin up. Smiling brightly, he says, “You’re not the only one in here on their second date. About half of the daters here are on their second, some on their third and fourth. It takes time to find the right match. It doesn’t happen magically. On paper or in our data system, you might seem like a good match with someone else, but computers and graphs can’t calculate the human emotion. So give yourself some credit, okay?” I needed that. I have to trust he’s telling me the truth.

Perking up, I return Danny’s enigmatic smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Now”—he looks me up and down—“how about I fix you one of my special Tom Collins?”

Perching up on the bar, I ask, “What makes it special?”

“The way I shake it.” He winks at me and gets to work.

Danny would be quite the catch. I wonder if he’s taken. Is he married? I want to be part of that breed. Yes, the married are their own breed. I want to swim around in that breed. I want to be the freaking HOA president of that breed.

“So, do you know anything about your date tonight?” Danny asks as he pours my drink into a tumbler from the shaker he was shaking vigorously.

I play with the napkin in front of me. “Um, not too much. He is adventurous and does a lot of philanthropic work. He also makes me believe he—”

“Hello.”

I feel like I’m living in a déjà vu moment. Once again, a deep voice pulls me away from Danny to the man behind me.

Turning slightly as Danny sets my drink in front of me, I come eye to eye with a man who I can only describe accurately as a rebel. From his thick hair—pushed to the side on the top of his head—to his harsh scruff on his jaw, to the leather jacket draped tightly over his shoulders, and the motorcycle helmet under his arm, he has rebel written all over him. Gorgeous rebel.

“RebelWithACause?” I ask, hoping this extremely attractive man is my next date.

“ShopGirl?” The way he asks, his voice scratchy, yet sexy.

“That’s me, but you can call me Noely.” I hold out my hand for a shake, which he takes but doesn’t let go right away.

“I’m Beck. Beck Wilder, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Noely.”

Beck Wilder, why does that name make my toes instantly curl?

“I believe our table is ready, if you would like to follow me. Veronica showed me the way.”

“I’d love to.” Turning to grab my drink, Danny gives me a quick wink, which helps settle my nerves, and I allow Beck to take my hand and help me off my bar stool.

“Right over here.” He weaves me past a few high-tops until we’re at a table next to a wall, giving us a small amount of privacy.

As I sit, I watch Beck take off his leather jacket, revealing a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled and at least three of the buttons undone, showing off a necklace strung together by a leather band. It’s hot, like really hot, especially bouncing off his tan skin.

And now Beck has removed his jacket, I take him all in. My question to Going in Blind: What’s with all of the hot muscular men in this program? Is that a requirement? Must have man pecs to apply? Not that I’m complaining, it’s just slightly intimidating.

Letting out a short breath, Beck picks up the menu in front of him and gives it a once-over. “Oh damn, I love lobster and mashed potatoes; those are my weakness. What about you?” Looking over his menu, he eyes me with a devilish look, one that speaks of pure charm and trouble.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had lobster. I’ve had tons of crab, but lobster not so much. Is it good?”

“Amazing. You should give it a go and if you don’t like it, I’ll eat your portion.” Smiling wickedly, he takes my menu and stacks it on his.

“Well, if you take my lobster, I get your mashed potatoes.”

As if I just slapped him across the face, Beck sits back in his chair and holds his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not get too hasty here, okay? Taking a man’s treasured mashed potatoes is a huge dating faux pas, and I don’t think you want to commit a dating faux pas, do you?”

Enjoying his humor, I cross my arms over my chest and ask, “I don’t know, what kind of offense is that? Is it like a slap on the wrist? Or is it like a giant curse that will hover over me, destroying any kind of chance I have at dating someone again?”

He rubs his chin and studies my question. “The pretty spectrum you just painted is kind of extreme, but if I had to choose, I would say it falls along the line of a slap on the wrist.”

“Ah, okay . . .” I bite on my cheek, trying to hold back my smile but failing. “I think I’ll take my chances then.

“Risk taker, I like it.” He tips his water glass in my direction and takes a sip as the waiter takes our order, two lobsters with extra mashed potatoes, just in case.

Eyeing the cards to the side, I wonder if I should offer to play, the same way I played with Jack, but before I can ask, Beck dives right into our date. “Noely, tell me, what brought you here? To this program?”

The way he’s leaning forward, his eyes set on mine, ready to listen intently, makes me feel comfortable, as if he’s truly here for the right reasons: to get to know me.

The tension I’ve held in my shoulders eases and I play with the straw in my drink, starting to feel less anxiety ridden and more flirty. But because of how open I was with Jack, I’m also a little cautious. I won’t lie to Beck, but should I be less forthcoming? Even after all I shared with Jack, it hadn’t been enough for him to want to stay. Okay. Knock it off, Noely. Deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“Honestly?” He nods. “I haven’t had the best of luck when it comes to dating. And with my busy schedule and my inability to pick the right guys, I thought I would give blind dating a try. It’s nice how they run this program. It makes you feel comfortable, giving you a safe place to meet for the first time.”

“I agree.”

“What about you? Why are you blind dating?”

Leaning back in his chair, Beck scratches the side of his jaw as he studies me. “Honestly?”

“I gave you honesty.” I smile at him.

“Fair enough.” He takes a sip of his water, puts it on the table and continues to lean back in his chair, striking a very casual pose. “I’m recently divorced, but it’s been over for a long time, eight years actually since we’ve been together.”

Eight years? How old was he when he got married because his eyes may look weathered, but his face is still young.

Chuckling, he points at my head and says, “I can see your pretty little head trying to do the math. Let me help you. I married my high school sweetheart at eighteen. We were married for two years before we decided to get a divorce. It’s taken eight years to finalize it all, for reasons I won’t bore you with, but now that I’m out in the dating world again, I have no idea where to start. My buddy works behind the scenes here and suggested I give it a try.” Looking me up and down, his heated eyes taking me in, he says, “I have to admit, I’m glad he suggested it.”

That look, that dark, sultry look, is detrimental to any woman’s libido. There is an unmistakable bad-boy quality about him with a side of alpha that’s hard to miss. It’s evident in the way he sits, in the way he’s confident, yet casual. Is that what I want? I had thought Jack was my ideal man, but I was so wrong. How can I be matched to two completely different men?

But he’s a twenty-eight-year-old divorcee, and it makes me wonder what went wrong. Were they too young? Or was there something else that split them up? It’s obviously way too early to dive deep into the failures of his marriage, so I try to keep the topic light.

“Were you apprehensive at first about joining the program?”

“Hell yeah. When I was dating in high school, dating apps weren’t really a thing. I mean, that was over ten years ago. Back then, I saw I girl I liked and I let her know. Now it’s like . . .” He sighs. “There’s a million rules we have to follow to not look like some kind of stalker. Like don’t text too soon, don’t respond right away, don’t tell the person how you feel. Hell, who came up with all these misconceptions of dating?”

“Ugh, you’re so right. It’s like people don’t want to look too desperate, they want to play it cool. But who cares? If you like someone, then you like them. Let it be known, right?”

“Exactly.” Studying me for a second, Beck leans forward and pins me with those sexy, sultry eyes of his. “Let’s make a deal, right here. By the end of the night, if we think this could go somewhere, if we enjoyed our time together, we let it be known. None of this running around the rules bullshit.”

“I like that idea.” I take a sip of my Tom Collins. “I like that idea very much.”

***

“It’s so . . . thick.”

“Get used to that, sweetheart,” Beck answers with a wink, making me blush immediately. I don’t think with that wink he’s talking about the lobster tail.

Clearing my throat, obviously flush from his comment, I ask, “How do I eat this?”

“Easy. Just take the lobster meat off the top and set the tail to the side, cut up the meat, and dip it in that delicious little bucket of butter to your right.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Looking over at my lobster, he asks, “Want me to taste test yours for you, make sure it’s not poisonous?”

“Nice try.” I wave at him with my fork. “Stick to your own plate there, mister, or I might take it upon myself to dive into your mashed potatoes.”

With a stern look, he points his knife at me and says, “Listen, do you see this plate between us?” He motions to the extra pile of mashed potatoes we asked for, a plate so large I don’t know if two people would be able to eat it on their own. “This right here is the communal plate, okay? If you’re feeling frisky and the need to eat off any other plate besides your own, this is where you want to go.” He points to his plate. “See this pile of goodness? This is my plate, so I suggest you stick to your side, Noely, or else you won’t know what might happen.”

“Is that right?” I challenge him with a grin. “And what might you do if I cross into your territory? Stab me with your fork?”

Without even taking a second to answer, he says, “Yes. Yes, I will. I will stab that dainty little hand of yours with no regrets.”

“Savage.”

“Damn right.” He plops a butter-dripping piece of lobster in his mouth and smiles. Oh dear, that smile, that look right there, it’s going to get me into some trouble, I just know it.

“So, tell me about your job. You’re a morning show host; what’s that like?” Beck asks, shoveling a pile of mashed potatoes in his mouth. For how fit he is, he eats like a ravenous man-child, butter and mashed potatoes all over his face. And for some odd reason, I find it endearing.

Another thing I like about Beck, he doesn’t know who I am, or what the show is about. It almost seems like he’s been living under a rock for the past eight years. I wonder if that has to do with the divorce.

I dip a small chunk of lobster in my mouth and chew before I answer. “It’s fun . . . some days, there are other days where I’m so tired it takes all the effort in the world to put on a good face, smile for the camera, and be engaging.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Having to be ‘on’ for a long period of time is hard. But don’t you get to meet cool people?”

“I do.” I smile shyly. “We do a lot of interviews with celebrities and athletes. I actually just did an interview with Hayden Holmes.”

With fork midway to his mouth, Beck tilts his head to the side and asks, “Who’s that?”

What?

WHAT?

Did he just ask who Hayden Holmes is?

I can’t . . .

“Uh, what’s happening to your face right now?” Beck asks, pointing at me.

“This right here?” I motion with my hand over my face. “This is called the look of someone in shock. How in the world do you not know who Hayden Holmes is?”

“I don’t have cable.” He shrugs. “I live off Netflix and HULU. Who is Hayden Holmes? Is he in a new movie or something?”

I nearly choke on my delicious lobster. In a movie? Is he kidding me?

“Oh boy, this might be the crutch in our blossoming relationship. I don’t know if we’re going to be able to get through this.”

“Uh-oh.” Beck places his silverware on his plate and levels with me. “Did I just screw up everything?” I playfully nod, to which he holds up a finger to me. “Give me one second.” From his back pocket, he pulls out his phone and starts typing away. His finger scrolls over the screen where he stops to read something. Once he’s done, he places his phone back in his pocket and says, “You know, I thought you said Hunter Holmes not Hayden Holmes. My mistake. Man, you got to interview Hayden Holmes? Holy shit! He’s like the most promising player for the LA Earthquakes this coming season. Word on the street is, he’s going to help turn the team around.”

A snort bubbles out of me and I cover my nose in embarrassment, which only causes Beck to smile endearingly. Can I also point out that it’s making me giggle for far too long that he called the Quakes by their full name? A non hockey fan wouldn’t know any better. Earthquakes . . . see, more giggling.

“Don’t you just love Google?” He takes another bite of his lobster, looking cockier than ever.

“It’s a real life saver . . . or should I say date saver.”

***

“You have to be quick, okay? First thing that comes to mind.”

“That’s why you called it rapid fire,” I add with a cheeky grin.

“Cute.” Beck leans over the empty dessert plate we shared and pokes the corner of my lip. “Are you ready, smartass?”

I love how he holds nothing back, how he’s very honest and upfront and isn’t trying to put on a façade to win me over. From the very beginning, I feel like I’ve gotten the real Beck, the no-holds-barred Beck, the sarcastic and button-pushing Beck. I like it. I like it a lot.

Preparing myself for his rapid questions, I say, “Okay, go.”

Gripping the sides of the table, he levels his gaze with mine and starts shooting off questions. “Middle name.”

“Jane.”

“Real hair color.”

I chuckle. “Dirty blonde.”

“Third grade teacher.”

“Mrs. Dole and she was a rotten ho bag.”

He raises an eyebrow at me but continues his questions.

“Waffles or pancakes?

“Waffles.”

“Book or movie?”

“Movie.”

“Ah, come on.” He shakes his head at me, a smile stretching across his lips. “First pet’s name.”

“Denise. Denise the cat.”

“Denise?” Beck mouths to me, his brow pinched together. He shakes my answer away and says, “Favorite movie.”

“Easy, You’ve Got Mail.”

Beck pauses. “Really?”

“If you say it’s a crap movie, we’re ending this date right now, going our separate ways, and we shall never speak of his night again.”

“You know”—Beck runs his hand along his jaw—“I like your passion. There aren’t many people out there who would end a blind date and erase it from their memory from the possibility of disagreeing over a movie.”

“Call me high-maintenance, say I’m the worst blind date ever, I don’t care, but don’t you dare throw my favorite movie into the trash can.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I like You’ve Got Mail actually. I would say it’s in my top five romantic comedies.”

“Really? I thought you were a book guy, at least that’s what you made it seem like.”

“I am, but I also binge on Netflix.”

“Oh, my kind of man. So if you have a top five list of romantic comedies, what else is on there?”

He twirls his glass of water in front of him, his face morphing into humor. “I don’t know, Noely, I’m not sure if you’re ready for that kind of knowledge. Top five romcoms, that tells a lot about a man. You might have to earn that answer.”

“Is that so? All right, how would I go about earning it?”

He stands from his seat and snags his leather jacket from the back of his chair as well as his helmet. “I have just the idea.”