Chapter One
If Harper Landry got stuck with one more blind date who was yet another prime candidate for Loser of the Year, she might punch the guy. Yeah, yeah, she knew that wasn’t a particularly charitable notion. After all, the succession of men she’d agreed to date for a variety of idiotic or mercenary reasons clearly couldn’t help themselves—they were pathetic specimens of their species. It wasn’t fair to kick someone when they were down, was it? And no doubt, some of these guys were down in the dumps. Then again, surely they could work to amend some of their more regrettable personality traits.
Like the guy who—before their appetizers had even arrived—started sobbing about his fiancée who’d ditched him. Nine years ago. That was the most depressing date she’d had in ages. Not only was it a waste of her time—and money, since he insisted they go Dutch—he also put her on speed dial just to bawl to someone he thought gave a care. Because she stupidly expressed empathy for his sorry self. Harper felt all the more foolish—she’d donned false eyelashes for the occasion, optimistically thinking it would brighten up her face. Hell, she could’ve worn a potato sack and that dude wouldn’t have noticed.
Then there was the guy who kept spitting on her face as he badmouthed pretty much every person he spoke about. While drinking himself under the table. She’d never forgive the organist from her mother’s church for roping her into that unfortunate night on the town with her beloved nephew. Particularly when he vomited at her feet as he got into the taxi she insisted on hailing for him when he was too drunk to drive.
Perhaps there was something seriously wrong with her that she couldn’t discern on her own. Harper didn’t want to be vain or anything, but from where she was looking, she was under the impression that she was perfectly fine and normal and pretty and nice. Or at least she presumed as much.
She took a look in the mirror as she readied herself for yet another date with destiny—more like a date with desperation—and forced a smile as a sort of spirit-boosting maneuver. After a couple of reinforcing self-affirmations—I am kind, I am smart, I am friendly, I deserve respect and happiness—she ran her fingers through her auburn waves, which she thought looked more than acceptable. That certainly couldn’t be a deal breaker with a man. Besides, her hair was more brown than auburn if she was going to be truthful about it. No guy hated brown hair, did he?
She then practically pressed her face to the mirror, trying to see if she had some particular facial flaws that might turn a guy off. Nope. She always took pride in her exquisite sea glass-green eyes, which were cat-shaped in a way. They made her look mysterious. But maybe men thought they made her look too feline, too elusive? Wait a minute. Because of her eyeballs? That would be so stupid. She wouldn’t want to be with a man who was so ocularly judgmental (and was ocularly even a word?).
With a tug of her dress, she smoothed it with the palm of her hands where it bunched a little bit along her hips, then turned sideways. Well, damn! She looked amazing if she did say so herself. She had an attractive figure, a beautiful set of legs—and the heels she was wearing only made them look better. So why, oh why, if she wasn’t a scraggly, sad-sack loser with bad breath (oh no! was her breath bad?), was she stuck dating such a rogue’s gallery of the lamest men this charming little beach town she loved had to offer?
Could it be her personality? Again, she didn’t want to be cocky, but as far as she could tell, her friends all thought she was normal. And nice. And funny. Funny was good, right? But did guys think funny was too, like, Seth Rogan, for a girl? Was being funny supposed to be only the domain of raunchy, paunchy comedians? Did guys hate a girl who was a little sarcastic, who loved to crack a good joke? Maybe they didn’t like that she sometimes used salty language. After all, she rarely met a good f-bomb she wasn’t happy to detonate. Under the appropriate circumstances.
That would be super hypocritical, though. Any guy would be all over it like white on rice if she talked like that while having sex with them. Didn’t guys love that? All “Fuck me, baby,” and “Oh, yeah, I fucking love when you do that,” and “Oh, your fucking cock is so big,” and such. Hmmm, maybe she needed to up the ante in the naked dirty-talk department. But then again, as it was, she wasn’t getting anywhere near naked—she wasn’t even graduating to the kissing stage—because ugh, given the guys she’d been dating, she’d just as soon never shake the sheets again than compromise her standards by sleeping with those lackluster specimens. She’d settle for her trusty pocket rocket any day over that.
She grabbed her phone and checked the time on it, then ordered up an Uber and went to the curb to wait for it. This way if the date was as horrible as they usually were, she could get stinking drunk and not worry about driving home. All the more important as she was meeting her mystery date—Danny Greevy, a friend of a friend of a friend’s friend’s uncle’s goddaughter, or something like that—at a new restaurant several towns over, so even farther from home.
She’d honestly lost track of most of these forgettable men at this point. Why, she wondered, did she continue to show up for the dates, hopeless as they always were. Her optimistic streak far outpaced her reality, but sometimes hopeful was all you could hang your hat on in this world.
When the driver dropped her off at the designated address, she straightened her dress, wiped a smudge of lipstick off of her teeth she’d noticed when she glanced in the rearview mirror, and stepped out of the car. Only to behold her destination: an actual restaurant called Octopussy. Lord help her. The regrettably named dining establishment featured a mammoth three-dimensional female octopus, whose bulbous body erupted from the top edge of the building like a zit that needed to be popped. Her eight human-style legs (ending in stilettoed feet, of course) extended around the edges on either side of the establishment as well as down the front wall. Harper was surprised there wasn’t an exposed vulva and a bush of pubic hair to further make the point. Though no doubt this octopussy would be waxed clean.
She slowly walked the path to the restaurant as if a pirate held a cutlass to her back to force her down the gangplank. To be truthful, she’d probably have been more enthusiastic about that. At least maybe the pirate would be personable, or—better yet—a little lustworthy if she were lucky.
Ugh. This place bore all the hallmarks of a strip club, which was why she was taken aback when she opened the door and was greeted by a tuxedo-clad maître-d’. Okay…
“Um, I think I’m meeting my date here.” Harper tucked her hair behind her ear, a nervous habit that gave her something to do while she debated fleeing.
She scanned the restaurant and finally “got” the theme—it was some retro James Bondesque thing, and the place had all sorts of spy-type paraphernalia framed and mounted on the walls. Kind of like how Applebee’s might have antlers or old-timey pictures from the heartland or faux tin Pennzoil signs everywhere, only instead it was guns with silencers attached and pictures of James Bond’s getaway cars and an autographed picture of Roger Moore in his heyday. Weird.
“Miss?” The host lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“Landry. Harper Landry. I’m meeting Danny, um”—she pulled out her phone and opened her calendar to find the guy’s name again—“Greevy. That’s it, Danny Greevy.”
Harper heard the door open behind her.
“Danny Greevy at your service,” she heard a voice say behind her. She turned to see a man bent at the waist in a bow. He stood up and reached for her hand. “You must be the delightful Harper Landry I’ve heard so much about. And you’re even more beautiful than I was led to believe.”
Harper tried to suppress a grin. This guy had potential. First off, he appeared to have manners, which was nothing to shrug off. Especially considering one of her recent dates let the door slam on her face when they left a restaurant at the same time. The glass of the door literally hit her in the nose. Needless to say, they went in opposite directions once outside. Secondly, yowza. He was pretty damned hot. His dishwater-blond hair seemed to fall into place from its side part as if following orders. Warm brown eyes and a dimple in his left cheek completed the picture.
Wait a minute. She did a mental double-take. Something was awry here. The guy was cute and polite. There must be something wrong with him. Alas, she knew she’d have all evening to discern what his fatal flaw was. And she’d sure as hell figure it out.