Page 41 of The Hate Date

“Yeah. You’re the first famous person I’ve ever dated. Wouldn’t it be fun to have the paparazzi follow us? Maybe run into Lala? Or Scheana?” He practically claps his hands with glee.

When I’m able to pick my jaw off the ground, I’m not in the mood to be nice anymore. “Nope. Not tonight.”

Look, I watch VPR as much as the next person, but no. Just no.

“It’s got to be so cool to see yourself on billboards. In all the blogs,” he powers on. Completely clueless. Lost in his fanboy ways.

Argh. I’ve got to wrap this up. This is a friggin’ nightmare.

It doesn’t stop. “How ’bout I come over and we can take a selfie together?” His face is hopeful. Like a dopey golden retriever waiting for a treat.

“Uh, no thank you.” I scoot my chair out a bit. Desperately wave the server over.

Frank pouts. “You’re not as much fun as I thought you’d be.”

The server hands me the check. I shove my credit card at him. Frank makes a feeble attempt to hand over his own card. “We can split it.”

I. Just. Can’t.

“I’ve got it.” I’m terse. The transaction is completed in under two minutes.

I stand and walk toward the door without saying another word, keeping a pleasant smile on my face. The last thing I want is for visible annoyance to be posted to socials.

“Man, I can’t believe I had a date with Clover Callahan and she paid.” Frank trails behind me, talking way too loudly.

My new hope is that pictures of me and Frank aren’t sent to every major news magazine so they can make up some bullshit about us being engaged. Or me being pregnant. Or whatever story they’ll concoct.

If it weren’t for the fact phones have been trained on me since the second we got here, I’d give the guy a piece of my mind. Instead, I have to remain calm, walk out to get my car and hope that whatever pictures get posted to social media don’t make me look three hundred pounds.

Standing at the valet, I count down the seconds until I can jump into my Mercedes and get home. Snuggly pajamas. A fire. Some ice cream. A YouTube deep dive on Sister Wives.

Heaven.

My car pulls up to the stand. As I walk toward the kid to tip him, a black Bentley squeals in behind us, sending me spinning into Frank.

“Are you okay?” He uses the opportunity to run his hands down my back.

When they creep lower toward my ass, I push him away, angrily. “Manners, Frank.”

Behind me I feel an energy force. The same thing happens on every single date I’ve been on this month. Goosebumps erupt all over my body. My nipples tighten. My pussy clenches. I squeeze my eyes shut, when the woodsy, leathery scent of Joar-fucking-Jacoby fills my nostrils. I will myself not to look.

It’s too dangerous.

“Get. The. Fuck. Away. From. Her.“ His low, throaty, commandeering voice is directed at my date. “It’s time for you to go.”

I take several cleansing breaths to no avail, my nostrils are filled with his delicious manliness. It’s important to keep up appearances with this crowd though, so I turn and put on my sweetest voice. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Clover?” Frank’s pathetic hang-dog look makes me cringe.

I shoo him, trying to be as kind as possible. “It’s best if you head out.”

“I’ll call you,” he says over his shoulder as he scampers away.

My skin prickles when Joar comes up behind me. Leans down and whispers in my ear, “Hi, Clover.”

God, I’m so sick of this. He somehow shows up to every single date I’ve been on. I whirl around to face the man I hate with every ounce of my being, who just happens to be the man I want to fuck with every ounce of my being too.

It’s so confusing.

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