Page 25 of The Guy Who Fake Dated Me

A picture popped up of no less than twenty older women, all in wheelchairs, spread out across the entire hallway in the airport.

I snorted a laugh.

Victoria:Good luck getting through that.

Logan:I’m pretty sure they’re doing it on purpose.

He was probably right. Frankly, it was something my Curvy Girl Crew would do.

“Morning.”

Kyle’s voice made me jump. “Texting your date?” he asked with a grin. He wore a much-too-fashionable pair of skinny pants and a polo shirt, along with loafers and either no socks or no-show socks. I frowned. “Is Natalie dressing you for this?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You think I would choose this on my own?”

I made a show of studying him, including flipping the ends of his slightly floppy hair. “You look good, so no.”

“Haha.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Did you and Greta have fun playing BINGO last night?”

“Oh yes.” Natalie’s grandmother, Greta, and I had sat next to one another during the game, and we’d spent the evening tossing smart remarks back and forth while pretending to be ultra-competitive. Her husband had died nine years ago, and she’d decided dating was for young people and that she was fine on her own.

“That woman is a hoot.” Kyle glanced over to where Greta stood talking to a man I didn’t recognize. Kyle motioned ahead of me, and I noticed the line had moved.

I filled the gap and looked up. “How’s Natalie doing?”

Kyle’s eyes drifted to his bride-to-be, and he let out a sigh. “So good.”

I couldn’t blame him. I’d been a little suspicious when I’d found out she came from the kind of money that meant private jets and a yacht, but while she definitely lived on a higher plane than the rest of us, she also melted into a blushing schoolgirl whenever Kyle got close.

It made me want to gag.

I couldn’t wait for Logan to see them together so we could gag in tandem.

Speaking of, where was that guy? I checked my phone and found several messages from him.

Logan:Operation break the old lady line is a go.

Logan:I’ve attempted to breech the left side but have been cut off.

He sent a picture of three innocent looking white-haired women lazily rolling along in their motored wheelchairs, which made me laugh.

“What?” Kyle asked.

I showed him the conversation. “Logan is trapped in the airport.”

Another message appeared.

Logan:The right end of the formation is even better fortified.

A photo of five ladies popped up. On the back of one of their chairs hung an upside-down sign that read, “If you can read this, flip me over.” Another woman’s said, “I still run better than any government.”

Logan:If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, send a distraction. Either knitting needles and yarn or scantily clad male fire fighters.

“I like this guy,” Kyle said.

“He’s fun.”

“Just fun?” Kyle wiggled his eyebrows.

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