Page 7 of Mixed Motives

Mimicking my tone, he says, “Oh my God, absolutely yes! It’s the best idea. If you really want to get under someone, this will totally work. It’s supposed to take care of everything. You don’t even have to talk to the guy before you show up for your date. I have a friend who swears by Heart2Heart.”

“No.”

“Why are you saying no? I thought you were a geek trying to be a playa.”

I pause. “I did say that, didn’t I.” I bite my lip. “I guess I want to be a playa with a known entity, not a stranger.”

When I propositioned Keane, although my motives may have been driven in part—okay, a lot—by a desire for revenge, the truth is more complicated. Even though I don’t know him all that well, I’ve always felt comfortable with him. Like I could be myself. On some level, I must have thought there was a chance he’d say yes.

But the way he said no, with what sounded like sincere regret, has haunted me since then. Haunted me in a way that’s made me horny beyond belief.

It’s not every day that my crush tells me he has a crush on me but is too honorable to do something about it. That kind of declaration does things to a guy. At the very least, it made me feel amazing and horrible at the same time.

Zayden reads my hesitation over this whole online hookup/dating thing and says, “You don’t have to put out on a date. You can just talk.”

I snort. “Who says ‘put out’ anymore? It’s not 1980.”

“How would you know what they said in 1980?”

“Valid point. See? I’m not good at peopling. Or small talk.”

“You talk fine with me,” Zay says soothingly. “And CUPID is supposed to be super good at picking the right people for each other, so it should be easy. Just be yourself. If you can’t open up and chat with him, if he doesn’t make you feel comfortable, then leave. That’s all there is to it.” He says this like it’s so simple.

“I’ll think about it,” I mutter. But I know he’ll talk me into downloading the app and letting an algorithm pick my next man.

I thought I could make the short block from my car to the coffee shop without getting drenched, but nope. Poor planning on my part. I studied art, not weather—and a fat lot of good that does me, running a bed-and-breakfast. In any case, my clothes are soaked through.

As the rain pours down, turning the world gray, I duck under the awning in front of Patterson Hardware and peer out at the cute little main street of my wine-loving hometown. It’s a few blocks of vintage buildings and tourist shops, all clearly in denial that weather other than sunshine exists, judging by the proprietors who are rushing to pull in racks of postcards. Unruly wine grapes tamed into neat, trellised lines because of irrigation, not precipitation, cover the hills surrounding us. This kind of dumping-down storm is rare, but we’ve been having a succession of them, and it feels like maybe we’re getting over a long drought. I know I’d be happy to end another kind of drought.

Except that’s not going to happen if I’m stuck under this awning.

Ugh. I’m going to be late. I got the timing exactly wrong, which is very on brand for me. Like last month when I walked in on Kerrigan …

Never mind. Not going there. Today’s a brand-new opportunity for a fresh start! Even my inner thoughts are falsely cheerful. In reality, my gut says It’s Valentine’s Day. Ugh.

Of course I bowed to Zayden’s peer pressure and agreed to sign up for a CUPID date on the Heart2Heart app, which, by some computer magic, set up a date for me—down to the time and location—with a total stranger. Although I set the geographical bounds to a radius of fifty miles, the app managed to find someone local. It arranged everything. I just have to show up at the Southwinds Coffee shop across the street.

Needless to say, I’m incredibly nervous, and it’s not because (as far as I know) banana muffin barista still works there.

As I wait for this frigging monsoon to subside—which isn’t happening, by the way—a tall figure hustles to join me under the awning. He’s standing a few feet behind me, so I don’t initially get a good look.

I glance at him again, trying not to be obvious about it, and I freeze. “Keane?”

Keane Fitzpatrick stares at me, and a smile takes over his face. Rivulets of rain drip down the side of his chiseled jaw. “Henry?”

He’s wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black dress pants with shiny loafers, all of which are plastered to his very nice body. Well, not the shoes.

Fuck you, anxiety, for making me overexplain things even inside my own head.

“Yeah, that’s me. Um. Hi,” I say awkwardly. Because how exactly do you chat with your cheating ex’s father, who you thereafter asked to fuck you?

“How’ve you been?”

I want to say I’ve been a total mess since your son screwed me over, and I’m still embarrassed over my revenge plan with you that never got off the ground.

What I actually say is, “I’m okay. Except it’s really coming down.” I want to kick myself for being so unoriginal.

“You got that right.”

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