Page 32 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
COSPLAYERS
Monroe
If I’d thought she looked confused seconds ago, that was nothing next to her expression now. It’s like I’ve started speaking in differential calculus.
She squints at me as if trying to figure me out. “You’re going to be all my dates? Are you a dating superhero?”
“Yes.” I square my shoulders. “I can be your dating coach and your dates all in one. I’ve been working on this idea since breakfast, and I think this can help since you said you’ve gotten low-tier matches, and you want to choose better ones.”
“That’s true.” She’s arching a brow but leaning closer. She’s skeptical but intrigued. “But how would you being all my dates help fix that?”
“It’ll be like a role-play dating exercise. I’ll pretend I’m all the dates you pick. Like that, I’ll help you figure out the red flags so you can avoid the bad boys and break your one-date streak.”
From her dubious stare, I can tell she’s not buying what I’m selling. “Every guy I’ve one-dated lately has been completely different, and there hasn’t been a motorcyclist in the bunch,” Juliet protests.
I wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter how they dress. They’re all bad boys cosplaying as artists and microbrewers, blacksmiths, and musicians,” I continue, on a roll as Juliet reaches for some more rosé. “A bad boy is someone who is emotionally unavailable but pretends to be looking for love and the woman to fix him. Your kind heart makes you want to help these guys, only to be disappointed. No motorcycle necessary.”
She groans. Heavily. Deeply. From the center of her soul. “Ugh. That…may be true.”
“It is true,” I say gently, but firmly. I’ve been watching her valiantly try romance over and over. But she keeps missing the mark while aiming for what she wants most—the real thing.
All because she picks men who are emotionally unavailable.
I should know. I’m one of those guys. The difference between the average online dating bad boy and me is that I have a modicum of self-awareness. Well, I’d better. The job and all.
“So who picks the matches, then?” she asks, still skeptical.
I nod with certainty. “You do. And since I know people and personalities, I can behave how each of them would on a date.”
I brace myself for pushback. The idea does sound unusual now that I say it out loud. “Hey, let’s practice date. And I’ll pretend to be a string of different men while I try not to get distracted by your sexy mouth.”
She hums doubtfully. “You really want to do that? You did bet me the other day that my date would fail.”
Ouch. Fair point. “But that was for the show,” I say, defending that on-air choice. “And that was before I met Elijah and nearly punched him in his full-of-himself face for being such a douche. I never want you to date douches again if I can help it, and I can. I definitely can.”
Curiosity flickers in her eyes. “Wait. Let’s go back to the you wanted to punch him part. You did?”
“Actually, I wanted to stab him with an olive toothpick, but same idea.”
She smiles, looking a little more relaxed too, like that detail reassured her. “Okay, okay. I’m seeing this. And, not to be a douche too, but what about your track record?”
The reminder of my failed marriage is a fair one, but it doesn’t sting as much as it would have when I was fresh off the split. It’s part of who I am now. Part of my history. And part of my toolkit. “Failure is the best teacher. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Then I should have an advanced degree,” she fires back, then picks up her rosé. She takes another sip and then lets out a thoughtful breath. “You do have the experience and the male perspective I’ve been lacking. And I suppose I would like to move past my unsuccessful dating years and into a stable relationship. But what’s in it for you?”
Answering that question requires one of my least favorite emotions—vulnerability. But she’s been putting herself on the line. I have to do the same.
I meet her green eyes, ready to be open.
I don’t tell her I’m battling jealousy.
I don’t tell her I imagined watching her wrap those legs around my face in the mirror last night.
I don’t say that sharing a bunk bed with a mirrored ceiling presents its own challenges.
I do set aside my baser desires and give her the truth. “Look, I know we give each other a hard time on air. I know we have this whole?—”
“—Cat and mouse thing?” Her tone is borderline flirty for a moment.