My date lifts the butter knife a few inches off the table and takes yet another look at his reflection on its shiny surface. He nods slightly to himself, satisfied that he is as gorgeous now as he was when he last looked—five minutes ago. I knew this date was headed downhill once we sat down and he ordered for me. Veal. I hate veal. I decided not to make a big deal and just order something else. I signal to the waitress for another menu while my date looks at his smile on the surface of the knife, yet again.

Oh please, please let there be cyanide on this dinner menu.

I scour the menu—there’s a lovely rosemary rack of lamb, a mouthwatering orange glazed duck, and a divine filet mignon with porcini mushrooms. However, there is no cyanide pill that I can quietly swallow and end my life with, thereby escaping this horror show of a first date.

“How’s your veal? It’s a specialty here. They only make it for select clientele such as myself,” my date says.

“I don’t like veal. I tried to tell you that, but—”

“It’s not like the others you’ve had. Here, try it,” he says, reaching for my fork. I pull my head back, but he follows me. I reluctantly open my mouth and let him feed me. It tastes awful. It’s soft and has a gamey taste to it. I wait for him to look at his refection in the knife again and then I spit the mushy veal into my napkin. As you can tell by now, I’m very classy.

“Roger, my sister tells me that you do a lot of charity work. What are some of the programs you work with?” I ask, determined to find something in common with him.

“Oh, no. I don’t do charity. I mean really, people need to stop begging, go out and get a job already, am I right?” he says with a booming laugh.

“Bree told me she met you at the benefit to aid Haiti.”

“Yeah, one of clients gave me a ticket, so I had to make an appearance. But other than that—it’s not my thing.”

“Charity isn’t your thing?”

“No, but you know what is my thing?”

Crawling into children’s rooms at night to swallow them whole?

“What is your thing?” I ask out loud.

“You,” he says with a cocky smirk.

It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Roger is a real estate mogul. One that my sister said was my type. But the truth is she probably saw his black card and thought, well, it was worth a shot. But the fault lies with me. I knew better than to let my sister, Bree, set me up. This is not only my first date since Danny, it will most likely be my last.

“Winter, stop moping around the house. Danny and you are over. Get out into the world,” Bree said. She was right. In the past few months since Danny and I broke up, I happily gave my life over to Ben & Jerry ice cream and Netflix. So I pushed myself. And in order to make sure I left my house, I made my sister change my Netflix password and swear she wouldn’t give it to me until I started dating again.

I tune back in to Roger, hoping this date can still be salvaged. He’s in the middle of sharing his latest venture—selling a twenty-million-dollar home to the latest Hollywood starlet.

“Her people were so happy with my work, they invited me to her movie premier next weekend. Now, I can’t promise you will be my plus one—I mean, I do have two other dates lined up next week—but don’t fret, sweetheart, so far, you’re in the lead.”

Seriously, someone shoot me. Now.

In all fairness, I’m not sure I make the best person on a date. For one thing, I tend to live in my head—a lot. In addition, I’m also kind of a nerd. I suddenly feel my purse vibrating. I don’t need to look at it to know who’s texting me. My sister has a superpower—she can always tell when my date is about to go up in smoke. That’s usually when she texts me.

Bree: “Stop daydreaming and flirt w/ Roger!”

“This guy sucks. This date sucks. Give me my password”

“Only after you have gone on at least a dozen dates,” she writes.

“Give it to me now or I will never babysit for you again. You will spend the rest of your life at home—no hotel sex for you and Will.”

“Damn you!”

“Password. Now.”

“Fine. I-Love-My-Sis.”

“Nice try,” I text.

“Okay, okay. It’s Lily’s favorite park,” she admits.

I pull up the Netflix app on my cell, key in my niece’s info, and suddenly, I’m in.

Yes!

I stand up from the table and prepare to give him my standard sorry-this-won’t-work-for-me speech, but he’s not even facing me. He’s looking over at the waitress and flashing her his best “soap opera smile.” She blushes shyly, looks down at the floor and then back up at him. She’s giving him her “come do me” look.

Is this guy for real? Screw this. I’m out!

I take my purse, place it on my shoulder, and march towards the door. I’m about to exit when a couple enters the restaurant, holding hands and smiling. It’s Danny and his new girlfriend!

Shitshitshitshitshit!

I can’t let him see me. I’m not ready. This isn’t the right outfit. These shoes don’t send the right message. And I can only imagine what state my hair is in.

Okay, Winter Bennett. Keep it together. You are not here alone. You are on a date—a horrible one, but Danny doesn’t need to know that. Just go back to the table and look like you are having the time of your life.

I turn back towards the table only to watch what was once Roger’s mild flirtation with the waitress progress into the actual exchanging of numbers.

The things I do to watch Stranger Things and Orange Is the New Black! Damn you, Netflix!

Danny and his new super-hot model girlfriend are coming over. She’s tall like an Amazon and has long shiny “TV commercial” hair and lips that belong on makeup ads all over the world. Bitch.

Here they come…

No! I have to get out of here. Too late. He’s coming my way. A group of diners enter the foyer; I quickly duck behind them. I look around, and the only escape is the men’s room.

“Hey, I think that girl over there is—Winter!” Danny says as he gets tries to get a good look at me from behind the crowd. He comes closer, and I run to the men’s room. He follows me in.

Seriously?!

I don’t stop to think or reason in any way. I just open the window and hurl myself down to the dumpster below. I land in the large metal bin filled with trash headfirst. My arm scrapes against a large glass fragment, causing a painful and bloody gash. I howl in pain as I place my hand over my wound.

I frantically search for my purse, but it’s nowhere to be found. I drag myself over to the side of the bin and climb out. A few feet away, two dark figures are carrying on a conversation. The alley is too dark to see them fully but I’m hoping they will see me as I wave my hand and call out, “Hey! Excuse me! Fellas, can I use your phone? I need to call a—”

“Get down!” someone shouts behind me. I turn just in time to see a large figure crash into me and send me flying to the concrete floor. Shots are fired overhead, and the figure orders me to stay down. Everything happens so fast, it’s hard to know which came first—the hail of bullets, the shouting, or the sirens. I shut my eyes and bury my face in my hands as if that could somehow stop the bullets from making contact with me.

“Donavan is heading down Sixth Ave., cut him off!” he orders in a deep commanding voice on what sounds like a walkie-talkie.

“On it!” someone replies from the other end.

“What the hell is your problem, lady?” the man demands of me. I open my eyes to curse him out like any true New Yorker would. I mean, yeah, he may have just saved my life but who the hell is he to talk to me like that?

But when I take my hand from my face, I find the most piercing ocean blue eyes looking back at me. His rich dirty dark hair and perfectly sculpted features cause my head to spin. I look past his flawless face and down to his broad shoulders and brawny yet agile body. There’s a current of desire surging throughout my body that’s so strong I have to close my eyes and remind myself to breathe.

Seriously, this guy has the kind of hotness that makes good girls lose their shit!

Luckily, I’m done with men. And yet, I hear a gasp escape my lips as I take him in.

Steady, girl…