“I’m going to leave. Nice talking to you.” She hurries off, and I realize I should have probably asked her her name.
That’s one reason why I’m not suitable to go on the show.
Though probably on the show they give useful one-pagers about everyone, with their name and face and key interests and location.
“I’ve had girlfriends before,” I say to the women, but the redhead is not completely wrong.
Girls have a tendency to tell me they’ve developed feelings for my friends and wander off, and I have a tendency to feel relieved when they do so.
Like now I’m relieved the redhead is chatting to Jason.
“I should go home,” I say, already thinking about catching up on old episodes ofSeeking Mr. Right.
The redhead is now chatting enthusiastically with Jason, their gazes dipping to various parts of their bodies. Good for them. I don’t know why everyone acts like I’m missing out on something amazing.
My phone pings with a notification: “Seeking Mr. RightAnnounces Surprise Celebrity Lead.”
I click on it eagerly, then frown.
Why is there a photo of me attached to the headline?
CHAPTER THREE
Luke
Troy is not in the apartment, so I go to the coffee shop across the street. He’s probably still having noisy sex with tonight’s conquest, celebrating how he ruined my life by secretly signing me up forSeeking Mr. Right.
I know it’s him. I don’t one hundred percent know, but lately he’s been smirking extra hard every time I mention the show.
Christmas garlands, equipped with red velvet ribbon and tasteful gold lights, drape over every arch, and Bing Crosby croons. Boston does sophistication well. I order a hot apple cider and grab a seat.
The shop is almost empty, and my gaze drifts from the holiday decor to the few people inside. A couple paces the coffee shop as if they’ve each chugged down a venti latte. The woman is a petite blonde with heavy bangs. I can’t see the guy’s face, but he’s tall and slender, and his hair is equally blond.
“This was a mistake,” the man says, and I frown.
His voice sounds familiar, and I whip my gaze toward the couple.
“We never should have chosen him,” he says, and I’m sure it’shim.
Sebastian Archer.
I know his real name, but after years of hearing him referred to as Sebastian Archer, he’s become that in my mind too.
God, they must be talking about Mr. Right. Which means...they’re talking aboutme.
He’s sayingI’ma mistake.
And even though it’s exactly what I’ve been thinking, I don’t want to hear it from him.
“Shouldn’t have picked a hockey player,” Sebastian says.
Icy wind races through the coffee shop.
I allow my gaze to slide toward his section of the coffee shop.
It’s definitely, definitely him.
I know the planes of his face, and I know the curve of his lips.
