Page 5 of Never Say Yes To Your Best Friend (I said Yes)

It could be anyone arriving, but it’s not.

Wow.Holy banana pies.

This woman is gorgeous.

I have to admit I didn’t pay very close attention to the grainy, low-resolution photo Mom sent. I knew the basics, but this woman is so much more.

She’s gone for more of a toned-down look with her makeup. Natural. I can even see the freckles that dance across her nose. I don’t remember seeing freckles in the picture, but then again, I barely paid attention. She has lovely green eyes, long lashes, and the softest-looking lips. She went for understated in her attire, too, with an emerald blouse and a black pencil skirt with kitten heels. No jewelry except for tiny, plain silver balls in her ears. Her hair is the only thing I don’t like. I’m more of an authentic all-around guy, and the long curls look anything but natural,obviously a dye job and half extensions. It’s okay, though. The quick smile she flashes at me says she doesn’t want to be anyone but herself. She’s confident. She just likes being blonde, and it’s none of my darn business what her salon does for her.

When her smile grows, my chest gets tight. She has a beautiful smile. I notice that her top two front teeth are perfectly straight, but both the ones beside them are just a little bit crooked. She walks right up to me and holds up a hand.

“High five?”

My jaw drops. “What’s that?”

“Oh. You don’t do the bro shake? I thought a high five would be acceptable, given that I don’t know any secret handshakes, and we aren’t besties yet.”

I have no choice. I have to high-five her, no matter how weird it is. Her hand is tiny and soft and just the slightest bit wet when our palms smack.

Then, she rubs her hands together, her eyes dancing. “Jeez, I’m hungry enough to eat a horse or ten. This is a great place. It’s not cheap either, so I hope you’re paying.”

She did not just say that, did she? Yeah, she did. She’s grinning at me. This has to be a stick-up-the-bum test to see how I’ll react.

Well, two could play at this game.

“I forgot my wallet, so I was hoping you’d pick up the tab. Don’t worry, though. If you forgot your wallet too, we could always do dishes for the next six months to work off the bill.”

I don’t know why, but this time, her smile is smaller, but it seems more authentic. “Excellent. But we won’t have to worry about that. I was just kidding. I have daddy’s credit card with me. Not that it’s his. It’s in my name, but you know.”

She’s nervous. She has to be. That’s all it is. She could still be testing me. She points to the door. “So, should we go in?”

Yes. Yes, we should. I don’t know whether to laugh or be horrified, but either way, I’m intrigued. I hold the door open forher while I try to figure out if this is going to be an epic disaster or the best date of my life.

We get a table right in the middle of the place. The mood lighting is fierce in here, and those chandeliers in the ceiling don’t give off much light. One fat pillar candle burns on every table in a little lantern holder thing with real roses circling around it. This place is all fancy wine glasses, white napkins, and starched white tablecloths. If I had lived a century ago and had come here during the Roaring Twenties, I imagine the aura would have been exactly the same.

It’s the kind of place where the servers wear white pressed shirts as stiff as the tablecloths. When ours comes around, a guy probably in his mid-twenties, I’m so thrown for a loop at how this date started that I blurt out something about trying one of every appetizer.

“That’s great.” It doesn’t matter that the lighting in here sucks. Genevieve Walker isglowing. And it’s not the makeup. She just looks that young and fresh and beautiful, and I can’t stop looking at her. I should, but there’s something about her that is immediately captivating.

It’s probably the fact that she isn’t like anyone else I’ve ever dated. Or met. Uniqueness is a thing for me. It’s right up there with intelligence.

She props her elbows on the table and stares me down. It’s slightly unnerving, but I end up falling into those soft green eyes anyway. “Are you a pets person?”

This is a normal, easy conversation. Ice breakers. “I don’t have any at the moment.”

“You don’t have a dog?” she asks.

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you grow up with one?”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s a shame.” She shakes her head and gives me this strange, wounded look like I’ve missed out on the best that life has to offer, and that’s just so sad, and she feels horrible for me. “I think every household should include four dogs. If we got married, would that be a problem?”

“I…”

“Kidding. Marriage is way the heck in the future. But shacking up. If we did that, then I’d have to have dogs.”

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