Page 1 of The Last Date

CHAPTER ONE

* Sasha *

As soon as I wrote it down, I felt that somehow number sixty-six was a bad sign.

Sixty-six dates, all arranged by my mother. My ceaseless begging enabled me to take a few weeks off from it around the holidays, when people were busy, and I didn’t want any desperation dates. And August we went away to my grandmother’s cottage for two weeks, so that gave me a break.

“A few weeks off.” “A break.” Makes it sound like a job.

Tapping my pencil against the notebook, I stared out the second-story window of my bedroom, watching the gardener drive in concentric squares as he mowed the enormous lawn just past the pool.

He was doing the same thing he did every single week. Wow, I could relate.

Each Wednesday Mom informed me that yet another woman from one of her social groups had a son or nephew or intern who was “just perfect for me”.

That was mother-code for “a man that she and my dad would probably approve of.”

I honestly had no idea why my mother put on airs, when she had never truly done anything remarkable with her life. She worked on endless charity functions, but sending some emails, making phone calls, and choosing what shade of pink the flowers should be wasn’t precisely actual work in my books.

It certainly wasn’t my place to judge. She did enough judging for the both of us, anyway. It didn’t matter if it was hard or easy work, or how productive someone was. It was all about it being the “right” work in her eyes. Something elite. Elevated.

She was always booked with appointments, but had very little to show for it. Book clubs, art clubs, charity planning boards of directors, and her Thursday night wine tasting group. She knew so many people that it was exhausting just thinking about it.

My father, on the other hand, was the president of a bank, but also ran a couple of businesses on the side, all related to investing. In his

eyes, being wealthy wasn’t enough. A man should want to build an empire, so that he had a great legacy to leave behind.

I was much more like my father, minus the empire-building part. A bit of a quiet introvert who preferred to keep their own company most of the time.

But now that I was twenty-one, Mom had it stuck in her head that I had to begin dating seriously. In her eyes, I should have a few short relationships before I became engaged in my mid-twenties.

I honestly had no idea whether she picked these numbers out of thin air, or had some system devised from all of the women she chatted with every day.

No matter where she got the idea, she was forcing it on me.

As I stared out at the unusually perfect lawn, I didn’t know whether to hope that tonight’s date would be just as awful as the rest so I knew what to expect, or hope that it might be somewhat pleasant.

If the men that mother set me up with were nice, I could find a way to have a good time. But for every date that was adequate, there were four that were pretty horrible, each in its own way.

Arrogant, pushy, obscenely cocky, showoffs, for the most part. Then of course there were the ones that were so shy they could barely speak to me above a whisper. I’m fairly shy too, but I can at least force myself to carry a bit of conversation. Years of being forced to attend fundraisers with my parents had made small talk a lot easier.

There was always the possibility that it was partly my fault, that these men were picking up on my vibe of not wanting to be there. I couldn’t help wishing that I could go to a social event and simply meet a bunch of people to see who I liked.

Mother insisted that because of our “standing” I had to date men from “a certain type of family.” She’s never explained that to me in detail. It’s obvious that she meant wealthy people who were well known. But that in itself was just unnerving.

I’ve never cared about money. As long as a man has enough to take care of his life, that’s good enough. I can take care of myself. Being dependent on a man doesn’t strike me as a good idea.

Of course, it’s easy to tell myself that while sitting in my enormous bedroom in my parent’s giant, lavish house. Maybe it doesn’t really mean anything.

My fancy pink bedroom fortress had become more purple, blue and gray over the years, but it was still my own tiny corner of the universe. Lying across the bed that was truly big enough for three of me, the soft purple duvet was so cosy that I didn’t want to leave for this date. Curling up with some great music and a book would be a much mellower way to spend a Saturday night.

Looking down at my notebook, I reread the entry. Jason McNiece. Computer programmer.

Mom had mentioned that he was thirty-two. It was interesting that she was out of men in their twenties to fix me up with, and had started moving upward. Since my father is eight years older than she is, maybe she assumed I’d be fine with that.

If I were in charge of my own dating life, I’d actually prefer a man in his forties. Someone stable, who knew what they wanted out of life. Someone who was past the phase of doing endless tequila shots to show off, and going to lame clubs just to be seen there.

Slipping my notebook into the drawer of my desk, I jumped up to get ready. I was being taken to yet another Italian restaurant, according to the brief text Jason sent earlier today.

Pulling on a simple peach dress, I had my hair and makeup done in under fifteen minutes.

When I was first coerced into this dating marathon, I would spend an hour getting ready, just in case he was the one. My routine became more streamlined, but I also just couldn’t put my heart into it. There just didn’t seem any point anymore.

Grabbing my purse, I slipped on a pair of kitten heels and went downstairs. Stilettos were third date shoes, and no one has deserved the foot pain so far.

“Darling, you look lovely,” my mother gushed as I walked into the living room. “Won’t your date be here at any moment?”

“Yes, apparently,” I said flatly.

“Get back upstairs then, so that I can sweep him into the foyer and you can make a grand entrance.”

“Please, Mom, let it go,” I sighed. “This is the sixty-sixth date that you’ve set up for me. I just don’t have the energy anymore.”

She sat up straighter on the cream brocade couch which happened to nearly match her blazer, pursing her lips. “There’s no way it’s been that many,” she said, shaking her head carefully so that her perfect updo didn’t release a single hair. “Thirty, maybe.”

“I’ve been taking notes of every single date. Tonight is number sixty-six.”

Her expression was interesting. I’d never seen my mother look genuinely perplexed.

“Also, not a single one has been my type,” I added.

Her perfect manicure fluttered in front of her as she fanned herself dramatically at the very thought that I might have a preferred type of man. “What’s your type, then, Sasha?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to a social gathering where I’m allowed to just talk to different kinds of guys,” I said, unable to keep the exasperation from my voice.

“That’s for your own safety,” she snapped. “Imagine, a girl like you being seen with someone we didn’t approve of.”

“Perhaps I could take a bit of a break,” I said slowly. “Maybe if I took a month or two away from dating, I could start again with a fresher energy.”

I mentally crossed my fingers. Mom was always into makeovers and glow ups and anything that involved refreshing one’s look or outlook.

“I suppose that’s a possibility,” she said slowly. “But I do have a positively darling young man set up for you next week.”

Instead of actually rolling my eyes, I simply stared at the ceiling and counted to three.

“That is, of course, if tonight’s date doesn’t work out. Which I’m sure it will,” she said quickly, switching into her enthusiastic mode.

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