Evie
“I can’t even remember when my last date was,” I tell him.
He narrows his eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“It was months ago. I really can’t remember.”
“For real?”
I cross my heart. “I’ve been so consumed with work, I truly haven’t had time.”
The look he gives me is skeptical. “With all the men in your Rolodex, you’ve never been tempted to date one?”
Dylan stretches his arm behind us on the bench. I half wish I was seventeen again, and this was the pre-make-out-during-the-movies move. But he’s simply stretching, and I’m simply wishing for a more that can’t happen.
I shake my head. “No, it’s not my place to dip into the Rolodex.”
He bangs his palm against the slats of the bench. “And you never wanted to?”
Not till now. Not at all.
“Nope,” I say, punctuating the P to emphasize how un-tempted I am.
He nods several times, as if he’s letting the thought soak in. Then he cocks his head to the side, his eyes challenging me. “Does that mean the men in your Rolodex are duds?”
“No! Of course not,” I say, indignant. “They’re fantastic, intelligent, kind, handsome—”
I stop, realizing I walked right into that.
He laughs. “Then, how have you never been tempted?”
“You set me up,” I say, smacking his thigh.
“Sure, but I want your response.” He shifts closer to me. “Remember, I don’t take no for an answer. Tell me the truth.”
I draw a breath. “I’ve never been tempted because I can’t let myself be tempted. It would compromise my integrity. I need to make sure my clients trust me completely.”
“But they do, Evie.”
Something about the way he says my name sends a charge through me. A hot spark settles between my legs, like a quiet pulse.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his fingers inching closer to my shoulder, almost as if he’s tempted to touch me. I want him to. So badly. I want those fingers to slide over my shoulders. To brush along the curve of my neck. To thread through my hair.
What am I doing?
Dylan is my client’s brother.
Dylan is now my client.
I’m not interested in a match for myself. I’m not looking for love. I’m focused on work, and Dylan is my work.
The trouble is, my work turns me on more than I expected, and that’s for one elemental reason—I like him.
I like him so very much.
That’s why I jerk this conversation back to the purpose of these get-togethers—prepping him for his princess charming, whoever she may be.
I brush one palm against the other. “The big question is—are you ready for me to set you up on your first date? Or do you think the fall in yoga has set you back?” I wink.
“You think falling in yoga means I’m not ready to date?”
I laugh. Nervously. “Well, not entirely. But it did remind me what we talked about before we had tea. That we all have a bit of dork in us. So, I didn’t know if you wanted to walk through all the potential topics, moments, pitfalls, and so on.”
“Like a pre-date prep? Or maybe even a practice session?”
“Sure, we can practice now if you’d like,” I offer.
He doesn't answer right away. When he does, he takes his time, like he’s making an offer. “Or maybe we can practice in a true date simulation.”
Tingles race over my shoulders. “Like a practice date?”
His eyes twinkle like stars. “I need a practice date badly. Can I take you on one? It would be so helpful to review everything. Make sure I’m ready.”
When he puts it like that… “Yes, of course.”
I want him to put his best foot forward. I didn’t say yes because I want to date him. I wouldn’t do that, even though when he walks away, all I can think is how on earth did I wind up with a pitter-pattering heart for a man I’m handing off to another woman?
* * * *
“So?”
Olivia blows on the sky blue polish on her fingernails. She’s perched across from me at the salon, an expectant look on her face.
“A needle pulling thread?” I counter.
“So…how’s it going with my brother?” she asks as the nail technician spreads the bristles in the brush against my big toe.
“It’s great!” I say in my best chipper, cheery, Matchy-McMatcherson voice. We’ve been chatting about her wedding plans for most of the mani-pedi, and I’d been meaning to give myself a pat on the back for successfully steering the conversation away from thoughts of how much I want to get naked with her brother.
But I don’t only want to roll in the hay with him.
If that was all I wanted, I’d simply flash his image in the movie screen of my mind and take him for a few solo trips at night to get him out of my system.
It’s more than that. I haven’t wanted to date anyone in a long, long time. Now, I want to date him. I want him to choose me. To tell me I’m the one he wants to share jokes with, try new things with, visit hole-in-the-wall Mexican joints with.
But there’s another reason why dating Dylan would be risky. I’m looking at that reason. Olivia’s a client who’s become a friend. She came to me with a request—to help her brother. Not to bed her brother. I can’t try to claim him for myself when my job is to unearth the best woman for him.
“And when will his first big date be?”
“I’m thinking one more week,” I say, my newly polished peach fingernails curling over the arms of the chair, gripping it.
One more week till another woman can have a chance at this fun, clever, kind, sometimes pushy, occasionally pig-headed but always big-hearted man.
“The clock is ticking until his first big date,” Olivia says, moving her fingers back and forth like a pendulum, reminding me that time is winding down. And with that knowledge in mind, that this is the last time I’ll see Dylan one-on-one, the last time I’ll have his presence all to myself, I decide to make the most of my practice date.
Later that night, I shower, curl the ends of my hair, spritz on my favorite scent, and slip into a pretty, pale blue shift dress that hits just above my knees.
I slide on a pair of silvery sandals that lift me two inches higher. It doesn’t escape my attention that they make my legs look strong, and that Dylan likes my legs.
I fasten my necklace with a tiny matchbox pendant, Patrick’s gift to me when I started my business.
And when I leave to head to the sushi restaurant he suggested, I repeat my mantra over and over.
It’s not a real date, it’s not a real date, it’s not a real date.
But when I reach the restaurant in the lobby of the Luxe, and he’s waiting for me at the bar, a dark blue button-down rolled up, showing off his forearms, his smile as adorable as ever and those eyes glinting from behind his glasses, I fear I might need a new mantra.
Because this feels exactly like a date.