Page 70 of The Dating Pact

That was the friendly agreement we’d made. Get him back on the horse, and find me a husband. Well, he’d certainly found his stride. Only, I never expected it to feel like this. Like being torn in two.

Half of myself happy for him because he was getting what he wanted. The other half completely heartbroken.

I lowered my head, playing with my hair, giving myself time to clear my throat and eyes.

I had no claim over Jude. He should and would go out with whomever he liked. And I had to do the same, find someone who wanted the same things I did.

But I couldn’t do that around Jude. I couldn’t stand here while he made dates with other women. Waterboarding might’ve been better than this.

“I’ll get going. Let you finish up,” I said, unable to meet his eyes.

“Brooke, wait.”

I didn’t. I walked out of the tent, right into a downpour.

Good. He wouldn’t chase after me. Not with the rain, and all of his candy and cardboard boxes getting soaked.

I hightailed it to my tent, where Nicole—angel baby—had nearly everything cleaned up. We had it all loaded in my truck in one trip, and in the safety of the cab, with the pounding rain on the roof, I pulled out my phone, opening the app. It didn’t take me long to find the conversation thread I’d let fade.

So, I picked it right back up. And made a date with a man named Holland.

Hopefully he was a seven-foot-tall Dutch guy with a good personality and impressive oral skills.

Time to find my future husband.

NINETEEN

BROOKE

The date was going great. Holland turned out to be tall, not seven feet, though over six, with a nice smile and touchable hair. He lived about thirty minutes away but said he didn’t mind the drive. Not when “you show up in that dress.”

The one I’d worn to my sister’s shower. The one in my profile pic. He’d told me I was even prettier in person.

He was handsome, if not a little unmemorable, and our conversation flowed easily from one topic to the next. He seemed interested in my farm, asking about crop rotation and growing seasons, but he did throw me off with that one question about how much I made.

Right as our entrées arrived—steak for him, salmon for me—I felt my phone vibrate in my purse. I ignored it, listening to Holland describe his job in insurance, which sounded really boring, but he was into it, so I nodded along when he talked about the company picnic.

I’d briefly wondered what his day-to-day was like if he found excitement from a company picnic. Then I reminded myself that he seemed perfectly nice, and nice guys were often already married. Or were on a mission to find a fuck buddy.

When my phone buzzed again a few minutes later, I set down my glass of white wine to check it. There were two texts.

Jude

Where’ve you been the last few days? MIA.

Jude

What time should I pick you up?

Pick me up? For what? We hadn’t really spoken this week, not since the incredibly awkward encounter at the farmers market when his date Emma had showed up. I texted him back.

What are you talking about?

He responded immediately.

Jude

The wedding.

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