Page 4 of My Sweetart Holidate

3

Charlotte

I’ve been stood up.

Each of the eight tables in the hotel’s dining room has been positioned for privacy. Though I can’t hear the intimate conversations happening over the romantically decorated tabletops, I can definitely see that the other seven tables are filled with couples. Several of them have even glanced my way, extending a pitying glance.

Just my damn luck.

Though Maggie Parsons reassured us repeatedly in our welcome email that we would have no prior knowledge of our blind date until we met at dinner tonight, I can’t help but wonder if mine caught a glimpse of me earlier and ran the other way.

I twist a lock of hair around my finger. Does he not like blondes? My gaze drops to my practical but cute ankle boots with skinny jeans tucked into them. Was he hoping for someone who rocked high heels and wore a dress? I dab my lips with a napkin, muting the bold color choice. Did the bright red scare him away?

Just be yourself. That’s what the email insisted.

“Should’ve worn the dress,” I mumble, reaching for my nearly empty water goblet. I try to make eye contact with the impeccably dressed server, but he glides by with a domed tray that smells deliciously of roasted mushrooms, garlic and oh-my-God is that filet mignon? My stomach growls audibly, reminding me the protein bar on my drive down was a lifetime ago.

Dinner for two delivered. I shift in my seat and even try to offer a little wave, but I’m certain the server is actively ignoring me. Not that I can blame him. I wouldn’t want to be the one taggedit, forced to express his condolences to the only solitary person at an event organized by a professional matchmaker. Still. I could really use a stiff drink. Or a steak. Maybe both.

I give a quick scan of the room to ensure no one’s watching then dip my hand beneath my seat, reaching for my purse. We were instructed to leave our phones in our rooms for this dinner, but I just couldn’t do it. Ever since I discovered my shred of signal, I’ve been unable to ignore the influx of emails from clients.

I’ve worked really hard to become one of Fairbanks’ top selling real estate agents. And although I let them all know I’d be out of town, I can’t seem to adhere to my out-of-office message. What if someone has a question about their disclosures? Or they need to schedule the stager? Maybe they need to be talked off the ledge from painting their living room black because they saw it onHGTVand thought it might be cool and edgy.

“You.”

I immediately recognize the icy tone and freeze. I can’t bring myself to look up from the phone tucked in my lap for fear that my worst nightmare will come true. This is worse than being stood up. Much worse.

“Are you lost?” I ask the man I nearly hit with my car this afternoon.

“Wish I was.” He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits.

Well shit. This is really happening.

“Hello, Cookie Monster.”

“Cookie Mon— that’s not fair. I didn’t run them —or you— over on purpose!”

“Tell that to the dozens of broken hearts you left on the road.”

I stretch my neck around his broad shoulders, searching for Maggie. Surely there’s been a mistake. Out of all the men who applied —the congratulatory email claimed there were over four hundred applicants— how thehellam I matched with the one who already hates me? His tardiness doesn’t exactly persuade me to give him a second chance.

“You really applied for this?”

He reaches for the full water goblet and lifts it toward his lips. Lips that have me unexplainably distracted. It would be so much easier if the man was bald. But no. Grumpy Gus has to beruggedandsexy.Dammit. “Can you believe it?”

“No. Actually, Ican’t.” I fold my arms over my chest, studying him. How the hell does he seem so nonchalant about this shitty situation? “Did you lose a bet?”

“Funny.”

“Did your grandma apply on your behalf and you couldn’t tell her no?”

The way the corner of his lips lifts in amusement stirs something warm and butterfly-like in my core. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it feels… dangerous. Because I very much want to trace that lifted corner with my tongue.Whoa. Down girl. What the hell?

“You’re here on purpose?” I press.

“Aren’t you?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

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