Page 36 of The Dating Game

I laugh, but the whole exchange isn’t done yet. Another text arrives as I’m heading out to my car; I almost drop my phone when I see it’s from Brooke.

Ever left your phone at your friend’s house before? 0/5. Do not recommend.

I chuckle then type out a reply.

Before this conversation can go any further, I’m going to need proof that I’m not being catfished again. Perhaps a picture or I could ask you a question only the real Brooke would know theanswer to…you pick.

The typing bubbles start up and then an image arrives. Would it be cliche to say I forgot how beautiful Brooke is?

Because it’s true. I think over the last few days I’ve been subconsciously trying to play down her beauty in my head, but now here it is smacking me right across the eyeballs. The crazy thing is, she’s not wearing or doing anything special. It’s just a selfie of her waving—wild curls piled on top of her head, large amber eyes popped even wider beneath her raised brow, full pink lips tilted in a sheepish smile.

Worse than her smack-me-across-the-eyeballs beauty, though, is the fact that the tug of attraction I feel for her has even more to do with the fact that I like her. I like Brooke.

I don’t how it’s possible when I’m fully aware that she’s only using me to win a bet, and yet it’s true. I like her.

I like that she’s spunky and speaks her mind.

I like that she surprises me just by being herself.

I like that she sings with her whole heart.

And most of all I like the electric feeling I get when I see her, like my heart finally got plugged in.

But just because I like her doesn’t mean I’m going to just lie down and let her walk all over me. I’m still sticking with my plan. If I don’t, like might turn into love and then I will officially be the biggest idiot to walk the planet. Because only an idiot would allow himself to fall in love with a woman that he knows is playing him to win a bet.

And I am no idiot.

I type out a reply.

It is you. Guess you have a date to plan. Unless Sydney is going to take care of that too.

Please, Sydney’s idea of a good date would probably be tagging along so she could spend the date singing my praises to you. She’s turned into a real Emma Woodhouse of late.

Two questions. 1) Are you trying to impress me by using obscure literary references? 2) If she’s Emma, does that make you her governess or Harriet? And if the latter, I’d love to know which character you see me as…surely not Mr. Elton.

Excuse me but Jane Austen is not obscure. And I wasn’t trying to impress you so much as trying to vet you. All men should know a Jane Austen reference when they hear one. The good news is you passed.

That doesn’t answer my second question.

Or my third, for that matter.

The typing bubbles go for a while after this, and I find I can’t look away from my phone as I await her response.

Jury’sstill out on that one.

I let out a bark of laughter, then realize I’m just standing in the middle of the parking lot texting Brooke with a loopy smile on my face.

Unacceptable.

I send her one last text telling her I’ll pick her up at seven tomorrow, then race to my car and bang my head against the back of the seat repeatedly. I’m in way over my head here.

I toss my phone to the passenger seat, disgusted with its very existence as the conduit of my flirtations. It lands with a thump; the sound of an idea clicking into place in my mind.

Brooke joked about Sydney wanting to tag along on our date; well, what if I actually do bring a friend on our date? Nobody wants to be a third wheel, but neither does a woman want to have a third wheel on a date.

Very annoying.

Very perfect.

---