Page 24 of Dating Goals
“The worst that happens is you get a night off,” James says reasonably. “You work too much.”
“It’s not just that I’m busy with the pub. I’d be terrible at a setup. Seriously! You know how I am.”
“What do you mean?” Ivy asks, rubbing her belly absently.
“I’m…” I search for the right words. “Intimidating, apparently. That’s what Lisa told me after your wedding, when I asked why none of the groomsmen talked to me. Too direct. Too opinionated. Too…much.”
James chuckles. “You did tell my cousin his speech went on too long.”
“It did! Twenty minutes about your rugby days? Come on.” I roll my eyes. “See? This is what I mean. Guys want someone sweet and agreeable. I’m the woman who tells them their fly is down or their opinions are wrong.”
“The right person would appreciate your honesty,” Ivy insists.
“Right. Because men love when women correct them about whiskey brands or call them out when they exaggerate their skiing abilities.” I set my cup down with a decisive clink. “Every guy I’ve ever said three words to gets this terrified look when I even so much as look their way. You’ve heard of resting grump face? I have resting I-will-drop-kick-you face.”
Ivy bursts out laughing. “Maybe what you need is a dating coach.”
“Awhat?” I blink at her.
“You know, like in that movie. James, what was it called? The one with the woman who kept having awful dates?”
James groans good-naturedly. “That terrible romantic comedy you made me sit through last Christmas?Dating Doctoror something equally ridiculous?”
“Yes!” Ivy snaps her fingers. “She hired this coach to teach her how to be more dateable. It was hilarious.”
I stare at them both. “You’re joking, right?”
“Of course I’m joking,” Ivy says, still chuckling. “Though honestly, you don’t need a coach. You just need practice.”
“Right,” I mutter.
Ivy reaches across and squeezes my hand. “One dinner. Just the four of us. If it’s terrible, I promise to never try setting you up again.”
“And I’ll let you leave early if you give me our secret signal,” James adds, demonstrating by tugging his earlobe.
I laugh despite myself. “You two are impossible.”
“Is that a yes?” Ivy asks hopefully.
I take a deep breath. Maybe it’s the champagne from earlier, or the peculiar vulnerability of having just confessed my complete lack of romantic experience, but suddenly the idea doesn’t seem quite as terrifying.
“One dinner,” I agree reluctantly. “But if I tug my ear, you better come up with an emergency.”
Ivy claps her hands together. “Deal!”
“I’m already regretting this,” I groan. “Can I change my mind? I’m changing my mind.”
Ivy shakes her finger at me. “No takesies-backsies. You promised.”
“You somehow tricked me into this,” I protest. “I was emotionally vulnerable after watching you unwrap seventeen onesies with ducks on them.”
James chuckles, gathering our empty mugs. “If it helps, Thomas isn’t even moving here until next month. And he’ll need time to settle in, find his flat, that sort of thing.”
“How long?” I ask, suddenly feeling like a death row inmate who’s just been granted a temporary stay of execution.
“Probably about six weeks before we’d do the dinner,” James says, heading toward the kitchen. “So you have plenty of time to prepare.”
“Or panic,” I mutter.
