Page 120 of Dating Goals
“Anything composed before 1900, really,” Thomas answers with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The structure, the discipline of it. Modern music lacks the architectural elegance of classical compositions.”
My eyes roll so hard I nearly see my own brain.
“The repetitive nature of contemporary music is its downfall,” Thomas continues, warming to the subject. “Especially those dreadful synthesizers from the 1980s. Three chords played over and over, no complexity whatsoever.”
Oh heck no. He did not just insult 80s music.
Ivy shoots me a panicked look, knowing full well my record collection is my pride and joy. This man just declared war on Falco, Yaz, and New Order in one breath.
“And Eurovision?” He throws his hands up. “Don’t even get me started.”
Ivy’s eyes bulge out. Her jaw practically hitting her enormous belly. One does not disrespect Eurovision. He might as well be burning the Swiss flag.
What was that secret signal James told me to make? Tug my earlobe? I give James a bulgy-eyed look and tug. He just looks back blankly. I tug my ear again. He looks to Ivy, then back to me with the most confused expression I’ve ever seen.
“You know,” I say, placing my napkin beside my half-eaten cake, “I need to use the restroom.”
Ivy shoots me a pleading look as I stand. “You know where it is. Down the hall, first door on the right.”
I nod, uselessly yanking my earlobe at James, and escape the living room. Instead of turning right, I veer left toward the front door, slipping outside into the cool evening air.
Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes and let the crisp night fill my lungs. When I open them, a familiar silhouette across the street catches my attention.
A sleek Bugatti sits parked under a streetlight, its metallic surface gleaming like black ice.
No. He wouldn’t.
But he absolutely would.
I stomp across the street in my nice dinner boots. Griffin glances up, spots me coming, and his face breaks into that stupid, beautiful smile with those stupid, beautiful dimples. He unfolds his tall, beautiful athlete body out of the car, closing the door to lean on it casually with a sheepish grin.
“Well, hello there,” he says, dimples appearing like exclamation points. “We gotta stop meeting like this.”
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
Griffin runs a hand through his hair. “I was…driving by?”
“You were driving by Ivy’s house in Bern? Three hours from Grächen? At nine thirty on a Tuesday night?”
He winces. “Sounds implausible when you put it like that.”
“Are you stalking me?” I demand, crossing my arms.
“Stalking is such an ugly word.” His eyes flicker over my dress, appreciation evident. “You look beautiful.”
“Don’t change the subject.” But warmth floods my cheeks anyway. “You need to go home.”
“How’s the date going?” he asks, completely ignoring my directive.
“None of your business.”
“Is he funny? Charming?” Griffin leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Does he make your heart race in elevators?”
“That’s not fair.”
“He looks boring,” Griffin says flatly. “Like, professionally boring. Like he studied at Boring University with a double major in Dullness and Watching Paint Dry.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “He hates 80s music.”
