I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I stand outside the restaurant, looking up at the neon sign.

Going in Blind.

Christ. This was a stupid idea, but when Calder told me he made me a profile a few weeks ago on the dating app, I didn’t really have an option.

I was matched with a few profiles but didn’t jump on them. I wasn’t interested. But after a few more weeks of feeling so damn alone, I decided to give it a try, if anything to at least not spend another night alone in my apartment watching Jane the Virgin on Netflix, which if I have to be honest is a good fucking show.

But I’m regretting it now. As much as I like to think I’m over Adalyn, I’m not.

I’m so not fucking over her. I don’t want to be over Adalyn. I want her to be mine. I think of her every goddamn day. I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder if I should send her flowers or lunch at work. I consider punching a wall every time I think about Logan being around her. Fucking happy as ever. When I’m clearheaded, I know that Adalyn didn’t dump me because she has feelings for Logan. But fuck if it doesn’t sting that he gets to see her every day, and right now, I’d settle for that. So, instead, I’ll focus on hating the bastard.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and tilt them to the sky. You can do this, Hayden. The profile suggests the girl was nice, she declared her love for Tom Hanks, which tells me she’s a classy lady. She could have said Zac Efron or Ryan Reynolds or some other Hollywood heartthrob, but she went classic with Tom Hanks. Leads me to believe she’s not going to be someone chasing after hockey players for one thing . . . the celebrity chaser.

Making my way through the doors, a beautiful African American woman at the hostess desk greets me. Her hair is pulled back, black eyelashes flutter, and a warm smile tugs on her lips.

“Welcome to Going in Blind. How can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Hands stuffed in my pockets, I take in the ambiance of the restaurant. Fun and intimate with its modern aesthetics and exposed white brick walls, but the mood lighting creates a romantic feel. “I have a date with ShopGirl.”

“Ah yes, she’s waiting for you at the bar. She’s the blonde in the black turtleneck. Shall I show you to her?”

“Nah, that’s okay. I got it. Thank you, though.” I tap the desk and head over to the bar after the hostess tells me where we’ll be sitting for the evening. My date seems to be looking a little . . . loose. Her hand grips tightly onto a small tumbler, which she then tilts back, her head craning to accommodate the dump of liquid down her throat.

This should be fun . . .

“ShopGirl?”

The blonde spins around in her chair, her movements erratic and very . . . wobbly.

“IceBiscuit?”

When making a profile you had to choose a username. Can you tell Calder made mine?

Hmm, taking her in, I can’t help but think . . . I know this girl. We’ve met before. Where have we met—

It hits me.

Noely Clark, the morning show host whose friend tried to hook us up. What are the odds?

“Pecs,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes glossy, taking in my chest, trying to peer through my shirt as if she has X-ray vision.

Before I can ask her if she’s okay, her hand falls to my chest where she starts playing with the fabric of my shirt. Her face bright red, most likely a side effect of the alcohol she’s already consumed, she takes me in, observing my jeans, the black button-up shirt she’s playing with, to my face where she tilts her head to the side.

Realization hits her slower than let’s say someone who wasn’t chugging back what smells like a bottle of whiskey.

Shaking her hand away, as if my chest was on fire, she stands from her chair and with all the grace of a bottle of vodka, she stumbles forward falling to her knees right in front of me.

Popping up quickly, like a gymnast, she throws her arms in the air and bows to her left and right while saying, “Nine point five, not a perfect ten, but I’ll get there.” Laughing nervously, she rights her shirt, and lowers her arms. “They don’t score like that anymore, but who’s really going to say fourteen-point-two-six-seven? I mean, especially when the viewers don’t know the degree of difficulty. You know? Gymnastics, am I right?”

Fuck, I feel awkward for her, but I have to appreciate her ability to try to recover. “Uh, are you okay?”

“Yep, fit as a fiddle.” She motions with a low fist pump across her body.

“Good.” Scanning the restaurant, I say, “Never thought I’d run into you here. Are you ShopGirl?”

“I am but you can call me, Noely. Noely Clark.” Awkwardly she grabs my hand from my hip and shakes it. “Nice to meet you.”

Puzzled, I laugh. “I remember who you are, Noely.”

“Oh yeah, of course.” Her face seems an even brighter shade of red now. A part of me thinks she would be humiliated if she saw how embarrassed she looks, and that’s why I don’t mention it. “This is weird. I, uh, I didn’t think I’d be matched with you, so I’m feeling nervous and intimidated. Because, you know, you’re all hot and whatnot with your hockey body and strong thighs and nice hair. And I’m sure if you turned around right now, I would see your high, tight ass.” Her hands cup together as she pretends to squeeze an imaginary butt. Oh hell.

“Thanks.” I eye the bar behind her. “Started early on the drinks?”

“Maybe. Third blind date and rough day equals more drinks for me.”

That explains it. Should I suggest we do this another night? Or maybe never? It’s not that I don’t like Noely or find her attractive. She’s beautiful, but I kind of feel like I’m cheating on Adalyn, which is ridiculous. It just feels weird.

Although, Noely confessed to this being her third date and having a bad day, I can only imagine how much she would drink if I told her we should go home. From the thin thread of sanity she’s hanging on to, I’m going to assume that isn’t a good idea.

“Got ya. Should we get some food in you so you don’t pass out onto your dinner?” Food will help . . . hopefully.

“Good idea.” Oddly, she bops my nose in agreement. Don’t know what to do with that. I’m going to blame it on the booze.

“Veronica said we have the table in the back.” I guide her wobbly legs past the other patrons in the restaurant, her eyes fixed on a man in a suit having dinner with a woman who’s chest is practically resting on the table exposed for everyone in the restaurant.

Talk about obnoxious tits. Damn, not my cup of tea.

When we reach our table, I help Noely into her seat and then take mine across from her. We’re off to the side, which provides some privacy, and I’m sure it’s going to be necessary with the amount of alcohol Noely has already consumed. If she ends up passing out on her plate, at least we won’t be in the middle of the restaurant, making a spectacle.

“What are the odds we were set up with each other?” I ask, folding my napkin over my lap.

“Great ones.” In an attempt to look like a seductress, she licks the outer rim of her lips and fingers the rim of her water glass.

Yikes.

Trying not to embarrass her, I hide the laugh that pops out of me with a cough, covering my mouth with my arm. Oh Christ.

Is that her sexy face?

Is this her way of showing men she’s interested?

I’m going to guess no. She was entirely more put together than this during our first conversation.

“Eh, these words look all jumbled to me.” Probably because the menu is an inch away from her face. “I’ve had the lobster and the steak on my other dates. What’s left?”

Not having a chance to really look at the menu, I stumble for a few seconds but then say, “Uh, the butternut squash gnocchi with brown butter sauce.”

“Sign me up.” She taps the table and leans back in her chair, hands behind her head, her chair wobbling a little too far back for a second before she catches herself and awkwardly smiles with her eyes wide.

The girl is completely twisted. “How many drinks did you have, Noely?”

Leaning forward in her chair, she shout whispers, “Is my booze showing?”

“Just a little.” I hold up my fingers, showing her just “how little.”

With her hand blocking her mouth from the rest of the dining room, she says, “At least it isn’t my nipple that’s showing.”

Okay, well that’s a positive way of looking at things. Yes, I guess it could be worse if in fact her nipple was showing. Finding humor in her drunk antics, I take a deep breath and allow myself to laugh. Maybe this is just what I need, a little laughter in my life.

“Hey, you’ve definitely got that going for you.”

She lifts her drink and says, “To not showing nipples.”

I can toast to that. “To not showing nipples.”

I’ve been on my fair share of dates. Not that I’m a manwhore, but I like to think I’ve shared a meal with a variety of women. The girls who don’t eat anything, the ones who like to pick at salads, the ones who spend so much time talking they forget to eat entirely, and then there are the women who like to pick off your plate, thinking it’s okay to share food on the first date. It’s not. At least not with me. Let’s get to know each other a little before we’re cutting into each other’s steak.

But with Noely, I’m adding a whole new kind of woman to my dating portfolio.

Sitting across from me, napkin stuffed in her turtleneck, is my very . . . aggressive eating date. It almost looks likes she was recently rescued from a desert island and the minute the waiter put her pasta dish in front of her, she went to town, straight up using her fork as a shovel. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tips back her plate into her mouth like she did with her drink earlier at the bar.

“God, I’m ravenous. This is so good, don’t you think?” She’s hovering over her plate, forking bite after bite in her mouth, talking with a full mouth.

I’ve never seen such a thing.

“Uh, haven’t had a chance to take a bite.”

I have a forkful halfway to my mouth when she reaches across the table and lifts the fork to my mouth while saying, “Eat, eat. Enjoy.”

Wanting to see if the gnocchi is really good or if the alcohol has taken over her taste buds as well, I take a bite, letting the brown butter sauce set on my tongue. Fuck, this is a ton of calories, but hell, call it eating my sorrows. I’ll work it off tomorrow.

“That is good.”

“Best dinner option I’ve had since I’ve been here. I mean, the steak was melt-in-your-mouth steak. The lobster with mashed potatoes? Boy, were those smooth on the tongue. But this gnocchi, talk about a myriad of flavors.”

“It’s pretty damn good.” I chuckle. Eyeing her from over the table, I say, “So you keep saying this is your third time here. Am I really your third blind date?”

She points her fork at me and nods, eyes squinting. “You are. You’re the third guy I needed for my tripod of dating. Do you feel special?”

Not really. I feel like I’m on a date that’s trying to tell me something. Like maybe I shouldn’t be dating yet. Then again, I’ve had more fun tonight than I have in a while, so maybe I should feel special.

Plopping more gnocchi in my mouth, I answer, “I do feel lucky. From the looks of it, I get to experience the looser side of you.”

“Eh, eh, eh.” She boldly waves her finger at me. “You’re not getting in my pants, so don’t even think about it. I didn’t shave my legs, so not going to happen, fella.”

Oh fuck.

I snort cough and take a sip of my water, trying to hold back the bout of laughter eager for release. “Didn’t mean loose as in, sexually loose. Just, you know, personality loose.”

“Oh.” Eyes to the ceiling, she ponders my answer. “Misread that one, didn’t I?”

“Just a little.”

“Are you going to tell your hockey buddies you went on a date with Noely Clark from Good Morning, Malibu, and she told you she didn’t shave her legs?”

“First thing tomorrow morning.” I smile. Even though my hockey buddies consist of Calder and Calder alone right now. “So what happened with the first two dates?”

“Are you asking me to provide a postpartum on my first two blind dates?” Anything to help me forget at this point.

“I mean . . . not really. Was wondering what went wrong. Did you not shave your legs for those dates as well?” I tease her, liking how she can easily take it.

“I shaved and wore a dress. Both times.” As if to throw it in my face, she crosses her arms over her chest.

“You wore a dress?” My eyes grow wide. “And you wore a turtleneck for me? That’s some messed-up shit, Noely.”

Laughing, a little too loudly—thank you, whiskey—she says, “With a statement necklace. I didn’t wear a statement necklace on my other dates, so frankly, you’re the real winner.” She showcases her necklace with her fingers, touching the gems carefully, like she’s on QVC trying to make a sale.

“Am I?” I cock my head to the side. “I get turtleneck with unshaved legs and the other guys get dresses with no sight of hairy Mary anywhere?”

“Hey.” She leans forward and whisper-shouts. “Don’t make me pull my pant leg up right now. It’s a light stubble. A stubble!”

“Keep the pant legs down there, lady. No need to disgust people in the middle of their dinners.”

Lips pursed, she says, “You’re a freaking smartass, you know that?”

“Well aware.” And for a second, I’m starting to feel like myself again. “So tell me about the dates. You shaved your legs and wore dresses, so that wasn’t the problem. What happened? Fart by accident?”

Her mouth drops open in shock, her eyes wide. “I will have you know, all flatulence was held in, thank you very much. It wasn’t anything like that. The first dates actually went really well, like, super well. It was the dates after that kind of fell apart.”

“Give me examples. I want to make sure I don’t screw anything up this go around.”

Not that I’m looking to start anything with Noely, but you never know. She might be fun to hang around with, a good friend I can possibly rely on. My first friend out here.

“Well, the first guy, man, was he . . .” She pauses and glances toward the table she was looking at earlier, her face softening, her eyes yearning. Hmm . . . does she still have feelings for Mr. Suit over there? Pointing behind her hand, she motions to the suit and boobs. “Right over there, the guy with the girl whose boobs are swallowing her neck whole, that was my first date.”

Conspiratorially leaning forward, I follow her finger even though I know exactly who she’s talking about. It’s hard to miss the boobs. The girl has nothing on Noely. She looks far too fake, whereas Noely has that all-American girl feel: gorgeous, funny, and personable.

Then again, Noely has nothing on Adalyn.

“He seems like a nice guy. I mean, his eyes are trained on that girl’s face rather than the blatant display of cleavage. There’s something to be said about that.” Which is true. Any pervert would be spending his night eyes deep in her cleavage, but this guy has the respect to keep his eyes trained forward, listening intently to the woman. Date number one can’t be that bad.

“Maybe he’s scared of her boobs; maybe he’s afraid they’re going to pop out any minute and eat him alive.”

“Possibly, but from his stand-offish body language, I think he’s prepared to defend himself from an attack from man-eating tits.” I smile, drawing the attention of Noely’s eyes, her tongue wetting her lips while she concentrates on my mouth.

Oh boy.

Straightening, she says, “Well, he has issues with privacy. I accidentally said his name on TV, his first name, mind you, and he broke a gasket. Lost his damn mind. Paraded around kicking trashcans and plucking weeds from the side of the street only to toss them in my general direction.” Doubtful, but I like her drunken and exaggerated stories. “The rage on that one. He was sweet at first. Boy ooo-ee, talk about LOSING.YOUR.SHIT.” She rolls her eyes. “Such a shame, you know?” She motions to her body, really emphasizing her turtleneck. “He could have had all of this.”

“Statement necklace and all.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “It’s growing on you now, isn’t it? Aren’t you glad I wore the turtleneck?”

“Couldn’t be more pleased. What’s cleavage when you can stare at a statement necklace all night?”

Affirmed, she slaps the table. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Drawing attention from the other diners from her loud proclamation, she catches the suit staring at her and twiddles her fingers at him . . . obnoxiously. “Ahoy, Jackie Boy.”

I watch the exchange. The suit doesn’t look pleased with Noely’s antics but not in an annoyed way. He’s . . . angry, like he can’t believe she’s on a date with someone else.

Jealousy.

That’s what it is. It’s evident in the way his jaw clenches tightly together and how his brow is knitted together, or from the death glare he’s giving me.

Despite Noely’s attempt to say hi, he doesn’t say anything, but instead turns away, back to his date.

“Well,” she huffs.

“That was rude,” I finish for her.

“You’re telling me.” She leans her chin into her propped-up palm. “God, technology has really desensitized us. If I sent him a text message with a waving emoji, I bet he would reply with a smiley face.”

“He doesn’t seem like a smiley face guy.” Not even in the slightest. The dude has some serious alpha-male tendencies going on.

“Yeah, he doesn’t, does he?”

“More like”—I rub a hand across my chin—“a dress shoe. That’s what he would send. Two dress shoes because three is preposterous and one is inexcusable.” I think Noely’s crazy is rubbing off on me.

“God, you’re so right. He would send me a freaking dress shoe as a hello. And here I am, sending him the cha-cha girl in her red dress freaking ole-ing around his ass and he sends me a dress shoe.”

Fuck, she’s funny.

“Men.” I roll my eyes and take a sip of my water. “Not me though, I wouldn’t send you a dress shoe.”

“No? What would you send me? Wait.” She holds up her hand. “Let me guess.” She taps her chin with her finger, probably mentally scrolling through the many emoji options. “Hmm . . . well, not knowing you all too well, I’m thinking you’d send me the dragon and cucumber.”

“What?” Where the hell did she come up with that? A question follows my laughter. “Dragon and cucumber? Where did you even come up with those?”

She flits her hand in the air. “They just came to me. I’m right, aren’t I? You would totally send me the dragon and cucumber emojis.”

“What does that even mean if I sent those to you?” Cucumber could be something sexual, but dragon? Is it supposed to mean fire-spitting penis? Fuck, I sure as hell hope not.

She shrugs. “Some hockey code I would figure out two months from now and then laugh my ass off.”

Maybe it is fire-spitting penis. Maybe some kind of code for a venereal infection. Yeah, I would so not send her the cucumber and dragon emojis.

Wanting to make it clear, in case she knows some kind of hidden meaning, I say, “There is no dragon and cucumber hockey code, I can promise you that.”

“Okay, then what would you send me?”

“I feel a little inferior after the dragon and cucumber mention, but I would send you the wilting rose.” Just off the top of my head.

“Wow.” She sits back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “Well, that’s freaking depressing. Uh, thanks for my wilting flower.”

“And then I would follow it up with a candle, a clock, and a baguette.” See if she can get this. I will be impressed if she did, also slightly disappointed if she doesn’t. To any fan, it would be a slam dunk.

“Eh?” I can see her little drunken mind trying to figure what those emojis mean. It’s cute.

“Guess you’re not one to communicate in emojis, because any pro would know I’m trying to say Beauty and the Beast, meaning, hey come on over and snuggle with me while we watch the movie.” I shake my head. “I thought you were better than that, Noely.”

Shocked and disappointed, she hangs her head in shame. “Well, I hate myself now. Of course, baguette.” Shaking her fist to the air, she shouts, “Baguette!”

A snort pops out of me. This is the most interesting date I’ve ever been on, and even though I didn’t want to come—and I’m still hung up on someone else—in the end, this might have been the best decision I’ve made since I’ve moved here. Because for once in quite some time, I have a smile on my face. I’ve laughed even. Despite the smog, maybe I’m beginning to lift my eyes to see through it.