Page 17 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
He laughs at this. “You should see my workshop at home if you think that’s organized.”
Am I supposed to care why he saw a therapist? I shouldn’t. It’s none of my business. This isn’t a date—it’s a meeting to discuss why he ghosted on me.
So why does my mouth betray my curiosity? “Why did you see a therapist?” I glance at him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
He rubs his jaw. “Eh…just life. You know?” He pulls to a stop at a left turn light. “Why?”
“Just curious. Most men I’ve ever met would never see a therapist, let alone admit it to someone they’re hooking up with.”
“Yeah, well, life is messy. None of us get through life without some kind of damage. Personally, I think every single person should go through a few months of regular talk therapy with a licensed psychologist just as part of mental and emotional self-care.” His phone is in a hands-free holder suctioned to his windshield, and he taps at it, changing the song from a twangy country ballad to a newer, pop-bro country tune. “You ever see a therapist?”
I laugh. “I probably should, but no.”
“Why not?” he asks.
I shrug. “I dunno. I just never did. God knows I haven’t gotten to this point in my life without some damage, like you said, but…I guess I feel like I’m coping well enough on my own.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Franco says. “Until I talked to someone.”
I laugh trying to make this less weird. “So you’re saying I need to see a therapist?”
“No—well, yes. I’m saying everyone does.” A pause. “This is a weird conversation for a first date.” He makes a face, glancing at me. “But then, it’s not a first date, is it?”
“Is it even a date?”
“You’re wearing heels and makeup, and I picked you up at your place.” He shrugs. “Kinda feels like one.”
I sigh. “I know. But it wasn’t supposed to be.”
“You just wanted to yell at me for leaving like I did, is that it?”
“Pretty much,” I admit.
“Coulda done that over the phone. Shit, you could’ve sent me a text about it.” His smirk is galling. “Doesn’t explain why you’re here, why you agreed to let me pick you up, and why you went to the trouble to make yourself look so good.”
I huff. “It took me literally ten minutes to get dressed. I didn’t put in that much effort, honestly. I just don’t like looking like a scrub when I go out.”
“I’m calling bullshit,” Franco says, still smirking.
“Excuse me?”
He pulls into the parking lot of Callihan’s—a place that feels like a traditional Irish pub crossed with a fancy steakhouse. “Well, just that you showed up at the Waverley site with Imogen the other day clearly having just come from work, or a workout. You’d obviously been sweaty at some point in the day, your hair was all over the place, you weren’t wearing any makeup I could see, and you were wearing workout gear. Not exactly the ensemble of someone who cares what people think of her.”
“And?” I dare him to make a bigger deal of that.
“And nothing. I happen to personally find that look sexy as fuck. I’m just calling bullshit on your claim that you don’t like looking like a scrub when you go out.”
“That was different. I wasn’t going out—I was tagging along with my friend as moral support.” I gesture at my top and jeans. “This is going-out attire—meaning, I’m knowingly going out in public where I’ll be seen by more than just a few incidental strangers. There’s a difference.”
“You can’t just admit you made even a tiny effort into looking good for me?”
I glare. “I made an effort, yes—just not specifically for you. I’d have made the same effort if I was going out with Imogen or anyone else.” I hesitate. “Why does it matter?”
He shrugs and laughs. “It doesn’t. I’m just messing with you.”
“Well…don’t.”
“Why not?” He gets out and has my door open before I realize his intent and, once again, his hand wraps around mine, providing a firm hold as I step down from the truck.
“Because we’re not there yet, Franco,” I snap, walking with him to the entrance of the restaurant.
“Where?”
“The place where we mess with each other.” I snatch my hand from his as we reach the entrance, only belatedly realizing I’d held it the entire way across the parking lot—and Franco parked near the back, in an empty corner. “And this isn’t a date.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “Nope.” At least, I sound resolute.
“Fine. Call it what you want.” He holds the restaurant door for me, letting me precede him into the dark, low-ceilinged interior of Callihan’s, and then stands a little too close to me as he waits for the hostess to get off the phone and greet us.
“Hi, can I help you?” She’s young, pretty, and wearing a dress that doesn’t quite fit in all the right places—and her eyes are all over Franco despite the obvious age gap and the fact that he’s here with me.
