Page 1 of Last First Date
Darcy
Sweaty, half-naked men are packed like sexy sardines all around me. The guys are joking around with one another in that easy way that long time colleagues do, and I fucking love every single minute of it.
Thank goodness I’m just one of the guys to them. It’s nothing special that I’m here joking around with them because I’ve earned my way into their ranks.
But Millicent Garthwaite von Albrecht is most definitely not amused. I can tell by the way her lips are pinched just so at the edges, the same way she used to look whenever she’d chide me when I was a little kid, for all the real and imagined wrongs I’d committed.
I break off from the main knot of guys and head toward her. She’s posted up next to where the swanky photographer is supposed to be taking pictures of the various and assorted hot guys.
“Mother,” I say, nudging her with my shoulder. “What’s the matter now?”
Her nostrils flare and her lips curl. “Darling, it’s rather—” she pauses and stares at me, thinning her lips out over the next few words—“fragrant in here.”
I look at the wall of well-muscled, tall and handsome firefighters half-clad in their turnout gear milling around by the standing lights. It’s like an all-you-can-eat hot guy buffet in here. Yum.
And it definitely smells like man in here, but not in a bad way at all. The packed studio space smells like baby oil, leather, and clean sweat, with an undercurrent of smoke.
All firemen are bound to smell like smoke, even though they’re all coming to the shoot fresh from the shower.
I’ve found over the years that it’s almost impossible to get the smell completely out of my skin and hair, but most of the time I don’t even notice the scent anymore. It’s part of who I am, whether she likes it or not.
I shrug at her, something my persnickety and manners-obsessed mother absolutely hates. Right up there with half-naked firefighters, apparently.
I pat her hand in what I hope is a soothing manner, or at least a tease-her-into-a-better-mood manner. “I believe what you’re smelling is nothing more than an extra heavy dose of testosterone, Mother. I mean, there’s got to be an actual ton of hot men piled up in this room.”
My mother glares at me like I’ve just farted on her instead of complimenting the selection of models for this year’s charity fundraising calendar. But let’s keep it real for a minute here.
The annual firefighters’ calendar has been the number one fundraiser for the LaGrange County Ladies Guild since its inception. It’s the number one selling fundraiser item of its kind in the state, and we’ve shipped calendars of our sexy half-naked firefighters all over the world.
Thanks to whatever hot guy juice is being added to the drinking water at the various fire houses in our area, my mother’s pet project has already bought our little town of Valentine a new playground, a paved walking trail, free wi-fi available around the courthouse square, and a brand new set of furniture for the waiting area at City Hall, even though literally nobody is ever stuck waiting there because our town is so tiny.
For their part, the guys all like giving me a hard time about being part of the so-called Beefcake Committee, but I happen to know they also secretly enjoy raising money for a good cause. And I can also name quite a few of these men who enjoy being photographed shirtless because they think it gets them laid.
Maybe it does. Who am I to criticize? I’ve certainly done some stupid things to try to get laid in the past.
My mother clucks disapprovingly at me. “Darling, if you’d pay more attention, I’m sure you could make a connection with someone of your own caliber.”
I flinch and every muscle in my neck and shoulders tenses up at just her tone. I’m assuming she’s ready for another round of giving me the highbrow version of the quit slumming for men speech.
And okay, I get it. She has always been clear that she wanted me to be married off by now and making little heirs and heiresses for some upper-class gentleman, but I keep thinking she’s going to get over it someday.
She is, right? I’m twenty-eight years old. I get dirty for a living and have for over a decade now. And sure, I’ve definitely dated here and there but it’s mostly been guys that I knew from work. And the firefighters I know don’t have a trust fund or a local park named after them.
Ugh. She’s still staring at me like I’m supposed to answer her or something. Fine. “I’m sure you’re right.” That’s always a safe response with her.
Her carefully made up lips curl up into a vicious looking smile and her eyes glitter with satisfaction. “Good. In that case, I expect to see you at the hospital gala with a man by your side.”
She sniffs and raises one carefully lacquered index finger. “Let me clarify. A man of means. Not another one of your airheaded firefighter boy toys.”
“Hey, keep it down,” I hiss at her.
Number one, I don’t like the way she is so damned snobby about money and the social hierarchy when none of that stuff should matter.
Number two, I’m more than a little afraid that the guys who are here to be photographed will hear the way she’s talking about me and spend the next few weeks either trying to hit on me or giving me a bunch of shit about my dating life.
Or my not-dating life. Whichever way is easier to think about it.
I’m so out of practice at dating and relationships that she definitely thinks I’m worse than hopeless at this point. But dating has never been a big priority for me, much to my mother’s disappointment.
