“So, do you want to come back to my place?”

Wow. That’s a thinly concealed dash for my panties. I scan the man in front of me as he adjusts his cufflink. Okay, right there, we have a problem. The man wears cufflinks. Read: NOT MY TYPE.

“I’m really tired,” I lie. Even though my brain is exhausted from this blind date, my body is screaming at me to sprint away. “All that studying…” I trail off, praying that he gets the hint.

He doesn’t. “For the bar?”

I frown. Man, this guy doesn’t take a hint. “Excuse me?”

“Your studying. It’s for the New York bar exam, right?”

“Education board,” I answer dryly. It sounds like Mr. Cufflinks let his eyes and attention wander throughout this whole dinner.

“Oh,” he says with a careless shrug, “I was close.”

My frown deepens. Not really. You only have to spend two minutes with me to know I’m not walking down the path of corporate litigation and criminal prosecutions anytime soon. Though the salary wouldn’t hurt. The only thing more tiresome about being a public school teacher’s assistant in New York City is the pay. And that’s saying something when your days are filled with crowded hallways and awkward prepubescent adolescents. But that’s nothing compared with the parents. Just add one more “l” to “Helicopter parents” and you’ll know what I have to look forward to.

But it’s all about the kids…right?

“How about another drink, then? I know this club up on Ninety-Fifth.” My date leans toward me as he rubs his jaw with his soft hands.

You may think I’m being snarky, but it’s the first thing I noticed about him when he shook my hand earlier this evening. Men with super-soft hands creep me out. I like a little roughness to them. Some callouses (even if they’re only from the gym) or scars or even a little grit in their nail beds. I don’t want to be shaking a baby’s bottom, okay?

Although I guess I shouldn’t be too harsh on him. He’s a desk jockey on Wall Street, so I doubt he uses his hands for anything else than miraculously making money out of more money from the air-conditioned safety of his corner office.

“Really, I’m fine.” I glance around the dense sidewalk for an exit strategy. Some of these guys really don’t take no for an answer. I should know. This is the fifth first date I’ve been on this spring.

Maybe I should back up and explain myself before you think I’m some man-eating hussy. I’m not. Quite the opposite, in fact. My idea of a good night is getting cozy with Mr. Merlot and Mr. Orville Redenbacher on the couch. And before you get too judgy, I should tell you that there is romance involved. I get dozens of kisses from Hershey, and a certain Mr. Darcy and Mr. Rochester have swept me off my feet more than a few times…

I’m hardcore name-dropping here, but you get the idea. I’m a magnet for infuriately charming British aristocracy. So you understand why it’s totally ridiculous that my mother has decided to foist a dozen blind dates on me this year.

“It’s a really exclusive club,” what’s-his-name says. Let’s call him Rupert, a strong, British name.

What? Is it my fault if these men all look the same?

Rupert smirks at me. “But I could get us in. I know people.”

I try, and fail, to disguise my utter repugnance at what’s clearly a Godfather obsession. He’s barking up the wrong tree with this tactic. Now, if he told me “I built a house with my bare hands” or “I know how to fix a broken [insert household item here],” then we’d be talking.

“That’s great…” I begin inching toward the curb “…but I’m still going to have to decline.”

“You sure?” he says, slightly disappointed. I’m sure he’ll get over it.

“Oh, I’m sure.” I turn as a taxi flies by.

“Come on, Summer. You won’t get this opportunity again.”

“I’m okay with that,” I mutter under my breath. All I have to do is raise my arm and my carriage will take me back to the comfort of my couch.

Rupert gives an irritated sigh. “Stop being such a house cat.”

I ignore him. I go out. Sometimes.

“Would you rather come with me to the hottest club in New York, or go home and drink wine with an Austen novel like you do every night?”

I freeze. “Excuse me?”

“Uh, nothing,” he says quickly.

I laser in on him. I smell something fishy. Very fishy. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, it was just a—a guess.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“Well…” He runs a quick hand over his hair. “I might have heard you tend not to go out.”

I turn toward him. He’s got my full attention now. “By who?”

“Uh…”

“Who!” I demand.

“My mother!” Now he’s the one looking around for an exit plan.

“Your mother?” His mother could’ve only found that out from one person, and I know exactly who that is: my mother.

That’s it—that’s the last straw. No more dates, no more setups. I’m finally putting my foot down and swearing off dating until I’m forty. By then, my mom will have lost interest in setting me up with Wall Street’s finest.

I turn and hail a taxi. I’ve got one in seconds, the upside to squeezing into a very tight, very low-cut cocktail dress. I’m reaching for the door before the taxi’s even come to a complete stop.

“So, uh, will I see you again?”

I pause and glance back at my last date ever. Rupert looks about as crestfallen as a pampered boy can look. I feel sorry for him. Almost. I’m sure he’ll rally the moment I leave.

“I don’t know,” I say noncommittally. I’m a total wimp when it comes to these sort of things. “Why don’t I call you?”

I yank open the cab door and hop in before I can hear his answer. I’m sure it’s something like “My mother will be in touch with your mother to set up another playdate,” or something equally ridiculous to really drive home how embarrassing this whole spring has been for me.

I give a little wave to Rupert, and then turn to the driver. “Brooklyn, please. Clinton Hill.”

* * *

“You’re back early,” my roommate calls from the couch as I walk in, throw my purse on the table, and kick off my heels. Maddison purses her lips when one of my Nine Wests hits the hallway wall. Of course it leaves a mark. “Guessing we can file this date under ‘do not resuscitate’?”

I snort. “Definitely.” I stalk into my room and start the laborious task of getting out of this dress.

Maddison appears in my doorway. “Well, what was this one like?”

“Self-important, arrogant, spoiled, obsessed with money…basically like all the others.” I face her. “I have no idea why my mother thinks I want a lawyer-doctor type whose only goal in life is to make more money.”

Maddison shrugs. “I think your mom is trying to set you up with your dad.”

“Ew, what?”

“He’s a doctor, right?”

“A surgeon.”

“And he makes a lot of money?”

“I guess…?”

Maddison throws up a hand. “So I think your mom wants the same thing for you.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I’ve never cared about things like that, though. I much prefer the rugged types. Mountain men, to be precise.”

Maddison laughs. “Well-groomed mountain men, hopefully.”

“That goes without saying,” I say, twisting a bit to reach behind my neck. After more than a few unsuccessful attempts to get the darn zipper, I give up. I head over to Maddie and offer her my back. “Doesn’t my mom know there’s more to a relationship than how much your partner makes? Besides, I don’t need a man to take care of me. This isn’t the 1950s.”

She grunts as her fingers slip from the zipper. “I know, Summer, but Upper East Side socialites like your mom have a different view of things.”

It takes her a few more attempts until the blasted thing reaches the bottom. I wrench my arms out of the sleeves and peel the dress off my flushed skin. Everything’s going fine until I try to get it over my hips.

“Do you need my help again?” Maddison asks, trying not to laugh as I hop around the room in an attempt to jump free of my Bebe straitjacket.

“Help…would be…appreciated!” I give one final jump before waddling over to her. It takes two of us, and a little “adjustment” (okay, tear), but eventually I’m free. I ball up the dress and fling it into my hamper.

“How did you even get that on?” Maddison demands, collapsing on my bedroom rug. She pushes her fringe bangs out of her eyes as I pull on some pajama bottoms and worn-in t-shirt. The best kind, if you ask me.

“It wasn’t easy, but by the time I realized it, I already had it halfway on, and I wasn’t about to change.” I flop down on my bed and gather the comforter around me. “I don’t think all the wine and chocolate this spring did my hips any favors.”

Maddison laughs. “I’m not one to judge. I’m just as bad as you.”

I roll my eyes at my roommate’s obvious lie. Somehow Maddison manages to retain a pilates body despite being chained to her computer as a graphic design graduate student. In the two years that I’ve roomed with her, I’ve only seen her go to the gym once: the day after New Year’s like the rest of the world.

I push up from the bed and stare down at her. “Actually, my date tonight accused me of being a house cat, of never going out.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” says my equally homebodied roommate.

“I know, right? So what if I prefer my living room and a steamy romance novel to going out?”

“I’d prefer steamy romance novels to my textbooks any day.”

“I don’t need someone else to make me whole. I’m perfectly happy being alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Maddison reminds me, gesturing to herself.

“Exactly!” I nod quickly, gathering steam. “Why is everyone so obsessed with dating? What’s so amazing about finding this so-called ‘real thing’? So far, the real thing has meant squeezing into uncomfortable dresses and meeting awkward men who are more interested in how you’d make them look to their partners at the next Christmas party than what you’re actually saying.”

“You also can’t get hurt if you don’t put yourself out there,” Maddison says quietly.

I watch her eyes go dim and distant. “I thought you were getting better?”

She shrugs. “Some days are better than others.”

“It was a long time ago. Maybe it’s time to move on?”

“It was only two years.”

I hold my tongue. Two years is a lifetime to me, but I know this is dangerous ground with Maddie. Plus, I’ve never been in love. How am I supposed to know how long it takes to get over someone who’s more important to you than chocolate and wine put together?

I jump up from the bed and yank Maddison up with me. “No moping allowed! This is a night of celebration.”

Maddison giggles as I twirl us around my bedroom. “Why?”

“Because this was my last blind date!”

“It was?”

“That’s right!” I slow down and wait for the dizziness to fade. “I’m putting my foot down, Maddie. I’m telling my mother that I’ve had enough.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m really doing it!”

Maddison arches an eyebrow. “She’s not going to like that.”

“I don’t care. I’m done letting her decide what’s best for me. I’m twenty-four, for Christ’s sake. I barely have my life figured out! The last thing I need is a guy to complicate this mess.”

Maddison laughs. “That’s certainly one way to describe it.”

“Describe what?”

“Love,” Maddison says wistfully. “Love is very complicated and messy.”

“And that’s why I’m steering clear. I’m not settling down and getting married and having babies like my older sister. I want adventure. I want excitement. I want—”

My impassioned speech is cut short by the shrill cry of my phone. I was just getting into it, too.

I hustle over to the front door and fish my phone out of my purse. “Well, speak of the devil.”

Maddison comes up behind me. “Who is it?”

“Charlene, that dear ol’ date-arranging mother of mine,” I say dryly, not taking my eyes off the screen.

“Oh.” Maddison turns around and scurries down the hall to her room. “Good luck!”

I sigh. I’m going to need it. I can’t imagine Charlene is going to enjoy hearing that I’m officially taking myself off the market. And I don’t think being in a relationship with myself is going to count in her book.

Better get this over with.

I tap the screen and hold it up to my ear. “Why hello, Mother.”