Page 10 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
Ah, there she is. “That’s my sparring partner.”
“Yep. Ready to spar and push buttons. And now I should pay my bill.”
She rises, grabbing her purse, but I wave her off. “Cheese Douche paid it.”
“Oh.” She stops in her tracks. “I’d have thought he’d protest.”
“He did. He tried to convince me splitting the bill was feminist and that you’d appreciate his respect for women.” She snort-laughs, and I add, “I told him insulting his date was anti-feminist, so he could damn well part ways with his cash. But if he hadn’t forked it over, I’d have paid.”
“You would have?”
I lock eyes with her. “I made it pretty clear that a man pays for a woman on the first date, no matter how it ends.”
Her lips part, and a breath of surprise coasts past them. “That was…nice of you,” she says with softness around her mouth.
“Don’t mention it,” I say.
And I won’t mention that I like the way she said that—that was nice of you.
Instead, we make our way out of the bar and finalize our plans to get out of town.
There are worse ways to spend a week than fixing up a house with a beautiful woman, even if that beautiful woman is a friend you should never have dated, even when you were young and foolish.
4
THE SLIPPERY DIPPER
Juliet
Last night while I was packing and repeating my mantra—I’m regrouping while moving forward into my best self—I had a fun little vision of this trip. I pictured myself looking all movie-star glamourous with cherry-red lips, big sunglasses, and a laugh like bells as the souped-up convertible flew along the Pacific coast, my hair blowing in the breeze.
That’s how you road trip. You do it right, all dolled up, as your best self. So, for a hot hour, that was my plan.
Until it hit me—I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard, dressing up like I might for a date, especially after the other night’s dating fiasco. So last night’s me deserves a big thank-you for my travel outfit—jeans, a crop top, and a freaking hoodie because Monroe’s electric car is like a freezer.
After we left the city, Monroe put the roof up and the temp of the air con down to somewhere between frigid and Arctic. He’s not even cold. Of course not. The man’s impervious to temperature. But if I ask him to raise it, he’ll tease me relentlessly.
At the moment, though, my biggest problem isn’t the subzero temp. It’s connecting my phone to the car speakers so I don’t have to subject my ears to any more news. I’m careful, though, as I try to get the Bluetooth working. I don’t want the car to develop a mind of its own and start broadcasting my plethora of self-improvement podcasts. From You 2.0, to Happier Now, but especially to shows like Up Your Dating Game, I do not want Monroe to know what’s in my ears on the reg. It’s deeply personal, my devotion to bettering myself at love, dating, and being human.
“And in breaking news in politics today, Congress once again?—”
I stab the dashboard. “I can’t. I just can’t. The news is the devil. I need show tunes, and I need them now.”
Why does this Bluetooth connection require an advanced engineering degree?
“Show tunes,” he groans as I fiddle with the buttons. “Are you trying to kill me, Juliet?”
“If I were trying to kill you, I would not give you any advance warning, trust me.”
“You just did though.”
I shoot him a look as he drives. “Show tunes won’t kill you, buddy.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Only among the weak.”
He scoffs, shaking his head, but a damn smile teases those lips. Behind aviator shades, his eyes stay fixed on the road. “Then play the brassiest, most can-can show-stopping number you want.”