I perused my menu and tried to pretend that knuckle-cracking didn’t make me want to beat the man across from me to death. Once again, I’d been suckered in by a cute picture and charming profile.

I really needed to give up on dating apps. But I’d been mopey since Bowie went all “You’re a shitty friend” on me and thought I’d take one last stab at finding lasting happiness with someone. Anyone. Even this dumbass.

I smiled over the menu at him while fantasizing about dumping the hot wax from the centerpiece candle on him. Baxter was currently having a loud phone conversation with someone he called “sweetheart.” He alternated between picking his teeth with a toothpick that he’d arrived at my house with and rolling his eyes at me during every pause on his end of the call.

“Listen, sweetheart. I’m busy. Now, why don’t you and your sweet ass figure out how to fix it yourself? And remember. If you don’t, you’re fired.” He gave me a slow wink, and I gagged. I grabbed my wine and inhaled it.

He hung up, cracked his knuckles, and gave me a look that was close to a leer. “Sorry about that. That’s my secretary—oh, excuse me. My administrative assistant,” he said with another eye roll. One more of those and his eyeballs were going to dislodge themselves from their sockets.

“Problem at work?” I asked, not giving a flying fuck. I had to hang in there and be polite and get through this evening. I never should have let him insist on picking me up. Now not only did I have to survive dinner, I had to survive a thirty-minute drive home. Ugh. What had I been thinking?

That Bowie would see a date arriving and dropping me off. That’s what I’d been thinking. I wasn’t about to unpack that thought. Not while Mr. Misogyny was preening in front of me.

How much would it cost to Uber back to Bootleg?

I didn’t date in town when it could be helped. Bootleg was my whole life, and I preferred to meet potential suitors/disasters on neutral turf. Plus, I’d dated just about every eligible man in town by now. I needed fresh meat. I had a feeling Baxter here was past his expiration date.

“She can sit there lookin’ pretty as a peach, but ask her to do a simple task like make sure everyone gets paid on time while our accountant is on house arrest and she’s useless. Poor gal screwed something up with the server and the payroll system went down on payday.” He shrugged, not giving a damn. “Not my fault that no one told me not to turn off the backup server.”

“I’m guessing not much is ever your fault,” I predicted.

He plucked that damn toothpick he’d been sucking on out of his mouth and pointed it at me. “You’re damn right. I knew I liked you. You know what else ain’t my fault?”

I didn’t, but I was afraid he was going to tell me.

“That you’re so pretty I think I’m gonna hafta kiss you before the night is over.”

Gross. Barf. Disgusting. I mentally ran through a list of pressure points to squeeze.

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

Jesus, when had dating gotten so hard? I first made the mistake of joining the wrong app and getting bombarded with dick pics for a week. Not that I didn’t take great pleasure in responding with a picture of my badge and an explanation of assault. Now, I had to weed out the losers and assholes based on doctored pictures and vague profiles.

Baxter here billed himself as a small business owner who enjoyed giving back to the community. He was slick and plastic-looking. His blond hair was gelled back from his too-orange-for-natural tanned face. He wore a suit and instead of a tie, accessorized with a thick patch of chest hair and a large gold cross. I guessed the only giving back to the community was the amount of money he spent on things like legal representation in sexual harassment lawsuits.

He chuckled like I’d just told a funny story that ended up with me naked with another girl. When he reached across the table and took my hand, I’d had enough.

“You know what, Baxter?”

My threat about him keeping all his fingers only if he kept them off of me was interrupted by the maître d’ fussing over the chairs at the next table.

Mirabella’s was a fancy Italian place where the draperies were heavy, tables were too close together, and I was scared shitless about spilling my dinner on the pristine white tablecloths. Some unlucky couple was about ready to watch me spill Baxter’s guts on the table.

“Your server will be with you in a moment,” the man said to the couple.

“Thank you.”

Oh, holy hell in a damn handbasket. That voice.

Bowie in a goddamn suit came into my field of vision, and I nearly upended my wine glass. Bowie’s gray eyes widened in surprise when they met mine. And then they dipped, reflexively, to give me the once-over.

“Shit.”

His date blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

Bowie turned away from me and looked back at her. She was pretty, if you were into petite and brunette and curvy and perfect. She looked like she’d been a cheerleader in high school. I felt the flush explode on my cheeks like a brushfire.

“Nothing. Sorry.” He held out her chair for her and then took the one across from her. The one with a direct line of sight to me.

“What were you saying, sugar?” Baxter asked, still holding my hand.

Bowie was back to looking at us. His gaze held on our joined hands. Because I was a “shitty friend,” I didn’t stab Good Ol’ Baxter with my steak knife. Instead, I let him hold my hand for a moment longer. Take that, Mr. Bodine. Not everyone found me so repulsive.

Bowie’s date was looking at me now and—damn it! I’d gone and made eye contact.

“What’s going on?” the cheerleader asked. She was no dummy. She picked right up on the tension that crackled like a storm over our two little tables. You’d have to be dumber than a box of rocks not to notice that the air had suddenly taken a turn for the awkward. Baxter didn’t notice.

Bowie laughed nervously. “Uh, Erin, this is my neighbor Cassidy. Small world.” Neighbor? Neighbor? That’s what I was to him?

“Hi,” I said pulling my hand out of Baxter’s sweaty grip to shake Erin’s hand. “This is…” My soon-to-be stabbing victim? A man about to be missing his testicles? My biggest mistake this week? “Baxter.”

“Good to meet you, Baxter,” Bowie said, offering his hand to shake.

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Baxter gave a limp fish shake. “Now, if y’all will excuse me. I’m in the middle of charming the pants off this little lady.” He leaned forward and added in a stage whisper. “Maybe we should have that kiss now as an appetizer? I don’t mind if you use tongue.”

I stared at him, trying to telegraph the message: Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Help me show Bowie that I’m no little sister or shitty friend.

But Baxter was a dumbass and didn’t get the message.

I did the only thing I could do. I laughed with an edge of hysteria that had other diners looking in our direction. That’s it. I was done dating. I’d go get a cat. Two of them. I’d embrace the single lady life because I couldn’t possibly deal with this one second longer. I’d never have to share the TV remote. Leftovers would always be mine. And I’d just wear both halves of the pajamas. Single wasn’t bad. Single was better than Baxter.

The waiter returned with another glass of wine—thank the Lord—and took our appetizer order. Bowie and Pretty, Perfect Erin were stuck in the uncomfortable position of not having their own conversation because, by proximity, they were a part of mine and Baxter’s.

“What is it you said you did again, sugar?” Baxter asked picking up his gin and knocking it back like a shot.

“I’m a cop.” I hadn’t told him. That tidbit of information didn’t usually make it into my profile for a variety of reasons. Including but not limited to: dates trying to get me to fix speeding and parking tickets for them, questions about whether I’d ever shot anyone, or the bullshit of “girls can’t be cops.” I had a feeling I knew which way Baxter would lean.

“Woo wee! Girls can’t be cops,” he howled, slapping the table. Everything was funny to Bonehead Baxter.

I stared at him coolly. Bowie caught my eye and mouthed “What. The. Fuck?”

I didn’t need him on my side. I didn’t need him anywhere near my single cat lady life.

“Well, I do have a vagina, and I am a cop,” I assured him.

“Prove it.” He cackled lecherously, and I ground a layer of enamel off my teeth.

I could feel Erin’s discomfort radiating out of her totally cute blue sheath dress.

Bowie leaned over. “You better mind those opinions or she’ll tase your ass.”

“I mean, come on. You’re with me, man. Ain’t cha? Women aren’t as strong or as fast as men. Hell, I bet I can outshoot this pretty little thing.”

I threw my napkin on the empty plate in front of me. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find the restroom.” And punch a few holes in the drywall. And Google cat rescues.

Without another word, I stormed away from the table. Away from Baxter and Bowie and Bowie’s perfect date.