Pickup Lessons (Awkward Arrangements Book 3) Page 5

  “Oh my gosh, tell me you’ve been practicing that move,” a soft voice interrupts.

  I turn to find the blonde grinning at us, amusement written on her face. “Nope. I just have excellent reflexes.”

  Behind the blonde’s back, Matt rolls his eyes, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m impressed,” she says. “So, do you come here often?”

  That. See? Right there. A line that actually worked.

  If only Eden was here to witness it.

  I strike the thought from my mind and hold out my hand as a triumphant smile spreads over my face on its own accord. “I’m Dash.”

  “Megan,” she says, placing her warm hand in mind.

  Megan. I roll the syllables in my mind, wondering if she’s just what I need to forget about Eden. To prove that I’m not hopeless after all.

  I straighten my shoulders. Smile wider. “Megan, it’s nice to meet you.”

  7

  Eden

  Mantra of the day: I can’t control the outcome, but I can enjoy the process.

  On Friday morning, I blow out a breath and stare at the words I’ve posted on social media to accompany my latest blog post, wondering just how strongly they reek of bullshit.

  In theory, the mantra is true, and my blog post dives deep into finding happiness by appreciating each moment rather than worrying about accomplishing your goal. But when it comes to my bet with Dash and getting to three dates, I’ve gotta say I’m still in that in-between, skeptic’s mindset.

  On Tuesday, I enjoyed the hanging out with Dash part more than I’m allowed to, but the being with Cord part took some of the shine out of my dream. It made me all too aware of the impending deadline and the threat of wearing a toga in a room packed with people.

  Sometimes you need to step away from a situation before you can laugh at the ridiculousness of it, and I’m still in the freshly-bruised-ego stage of things. I’d really like to get past the painful parts of this experiment and cut straight to the fun, I’ve-found-someone-to-love-me-for-me part. Preferably with a side helping of hot sex.

  On Tuesday night, after I shut the door behind Dash and slipped into bed, sleep eluded me. I blinked into the darkness, trying to force myself to shut off my brain so I could let sleep erase everything that had gone wrong. Instead, the memory of Dash’s growly, protective voice echoed in my mind and flipped a switch inside me, heating up my body until I squirmed between my sheets with need. I gave my vibrator batteries a run for their money, getting myself off to a vision of Dash’s heated eyes, his voice caressing my body, his hands giving me all the pleasure I craved.

  I’ll go to my grave with that secret.

  Shame heats my cheeks now, and I worry my lip between my teeth and wonder if I should have posted another common refrain to social media instead. Maybe you have to love yourself first to attract the energy and partner you want.

  I do believe that.

  I believe all of the things I write.

  It’s just hard to hold on to that hope and to keep circling back to your beliefs when they get crushed so quickly.

  I want someone to like me for me, and at the same time, I know there are things I keep close to the vest to protect myself. I’ve worked really hard to craft the exterior of an empowered woman who has her shit together, but inside, I’m as soft and vulnerable as anyone. Maybe those desires are at odds with each other, but I want someone who wants to know me and who’s willing to dig deep to learn the things I don’t always say. Someone who pushes me and embraces all the messy parts of me.

  Who knew a single H would unravel everything and make me nervous to plunge back into my messages on a dating website?

  I sigh and shut my laptop to begin getting ready for the day. To give my blog the time and energy it needs, I wake up extra early and stay up late, squeezing in productivity around my work at WanderWell. I love my day job, but I keep working toward the day my blog can support me and bring me the flexibility to work on my own schedule. Until then, there’s always caffeine.

  I slip my laptop into the tote bag I carry to work, then start coffee brewing and jump into the shower. When I emerge, wrapping a towel around myself and wiping steam from the mirror, I find a message from Dash waiting for me on my phone.

  After radio silence for the last few days, the sight of his name sends a hopeful thrill through my body. But as I read the message, my stomach drops.

  Coffee shop date tomorrow morning. Can you swing by to witness? No need to stay long.

  Dammit.

  Of course he was going to go find someone else. What did I expect, pushing him away instead of inviting him to stay longer?

  Kind of last minute, I send back desperately. The thought of watching him with another woman makes my stomach roil. What if I have other plans?

  His reply comes in short return. Do you have other plans?

  I feel my cheeks redden. Thank god he can’t see me right now. Even if I wanted to make an excuse, it’ll only be delaying the inevitable. Plus, I asked him to come to my date with Cord, and it was equally as last minute.

  Dash’s words from Tuesday night echo through my mind—we can call a truce. I bet if I asked, we could call this whole thing off. I don’t need to take this challenge. I don’t need to find a boyfriend or prove to Dash that a great first impression makes the difference in finding new opportunities. I don’t need to watch him fall for someone else at the expense of my own hope.

  But there’s no going back from here.

  If I’m going to stand behind my blog and what I believe in, the only path is through.

  I grip my phone with damp fingers and grit my teeth as I send my reply. Okay. I suck in a deep breath. You’re on.

  My friend, Molly, opens the door to her apartment with a smile, pulls me and Greer into quick hugs, and then ushers us into her home. “Tell me again why you sent the SOS?” she asks me as I drop into a chair beside her kitchen table.

  “I need help.”

  Molly grins, her Filipino features providing gorgeous contrast to Greer’s blond hair and blue eyes. “Obviously.” While Greer’s favorite form of exercise is reading a book to exercise her mind, Molly runs her own freaking yoga studio, and she’s also landed a rock star fiancé. Between her and Greer, someone’s got to be able to help with my dating challenge.

  “Man help,” I specify, dropping my gaze to the engagement ring sparkling on her finger.

  Molly lifts her eyebrows but says nothing as she sets green smoothies in front of me and Greer.

  Greer eyes the smoothies suspiciously. “Is this your way of making me eat my vegetables?” she teases Molly. “I know we both like eating, but I think we have different ideas of what constitutes food.”

  I laugh and take a sip of the drink. Mango and banana and, yeah, probably spinach. “It’s delicious,” I tell Molly.

  “See?” She shoots a look at Greer. “You should follow Eden’s advice.”

  Despite her kind words, a pit opens in the hole of my stomach. “I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

  Molly’s features pinch in concern, and she takes a seat beside me. “Oh, babes. What happened?”

  I pull my laptop out of my purse and set it on the table like a bomb. Right now, it feels just as dangerous. “I need to find someone on my dating site whose name is going to have all the right letters and who doesn’t act like a condescending ass from the Mad Men era.”

  My friends look at me like I’m babbling in a foreign language. They know as well as I do that I don’t like to be the person asking for help. I like to be competent and knowledgeable. In my day job, I’ve mastered the nuances of complicated tech, understanding the market so I can explain it to other people. In my blog, I try to empower people to follow their dreams by showcasing tips and tools and inspiration.

  Apparently, in my love life, I’m not as knowledgable as I thought.

  “I thought you went out earlier this week,” Greer says.

  I cringe. Went out, came home again feeling worse than before
. Same, same. “It didn’t work out.” I catch Molly up on my bet with Dash, then sink my chin into my hands. “I need to figure out which of the guys online has actual potential.”

  “What can we do?” Greer asks.

  I bat my eyelashes hopefully. “Any chance the two of you can help me weed through the sludge?”

  Molly perks up. “Look at dating profiles?”

  I frown at her. “You sound way too excited.”

  “I just never did the online dating thing. I’m living vicariously through you.”

  I snort. “Pretty sure you’re the one with the hot fiancé. I’m living vicariously through you.”

  Molly shakes her head with a grin. “To be clear,” she asks, “do we also get to go to the bar so you can pick up guys?”

  I laugh. “No bar today. Greer and I are on our lunch breaks. Even if you are your own boss, that’s probably a no-no.”

  Even if I’m not hitting a bar right now, I have to admit Dash might be onto something with his idea of finding people in person. It’s definitely easier to know right away if someone’s energy fits, and you know if someone’s teasing you or not. Instead, the words on my screen feel blank and empty and hard to decipher. Are these guys trying to be cute, or are these conversations just going to be hours of my life I don’t get back?

  Between work and my blog, I don’t have as much time to hang out in bars if it’s not going to lead to a sure thing, so I’m hedging my bets with online dating. In theory, people on this site are actually looking for love. I just hope Cord’s the exception to the rule.

  Molly waves away my words and pulls the computer closer. “Log us in. Show us who we’ve got.”

  I wilt in gratitude as I open my computer and sign in to the dating website.

  Greer leans forward when I spin the screen the face her and Molly. “Did the quiz work?”

  I groan. “Honestly? I’m too afraid to look at my inbox to know.” This whole experience is making me second-guess everything.

  A warm laugh rolls from her throat. “With Wanda, I look at messages from the scum of the internet every day. I’ve got you covered.”

  She’s shown me some of the responses our chatbot at work receives, and I know it’s not an understatement. People will say the creepiest things if they’re talking to technology instead of a real person. Thank god Greer has a thick skin and the patience of a saint.

  Molly points at the screen. “Look, you’ve got a ton of responses.”

  Sure enough, my inbox has plenty of messages for us to review.

  “I guess we start at the top?” I say.

  Greer nods, but Molly says, “Wait. Before you start, you need to get clear on what you really want.”

  “A dateable guy?” I guess.

  She shakes her head. “Why are you saying that like it’s a question?”

  I sigh and state it again, more firmly. “A dateable guy.”

  “The key to manifestation is to get super specific about what you want. Then, you’ve gotta live your life as happy as you think you’d be if you got that thing.” She smiles blissfully, her own life an example of how to call things into reality. “Simple law of attraction.”

  I wrinkle my nose. I’ve heard of the law of attraction before, but I can’t skip the opportunity to tease her. “Law of attraction? Sounds like a National Geographic show about bird mating dances.”

  “Squawk!” Greer giggles.

  Molly pokes me in the arm. “Think. Tell us what you want.”

  I close my eyes to shut out Molly’s bright kitchen and the sweet-tart smell of the smoothies. For a second, Dash’s face sparks in my mind. But only because he’s the reason we’re here. I blow out a deep breath and force myself back into stillness.

  “I want it to be easy,” I say, reaching down to the inner part of me that I don’t always share. “I want someone who makes me laugh. Someone who I find attractive. Someone ambitious and employed.” My date with Cord brought that last fact to my attention. I work too hard—at two jobs—to be with someone who doesn’t share my drive.

  “What else?” Molly prompts, her voice soothing and kind.

  I feel like I’m back on a yoga mat in one of her classes, like my body’s relaxing and my heart’s opening up.

  So often, we’re taught to not ask for what we want. To stuff our desires inside and to want what’s best for everyone. I’ve taken enough biology and evolution classes to know that a deep-rooted survival instinct is why we tend to place a group’s wellbeing before our own. But right now, being selfish feels validating and good. Like by owning what I need, I can love myself and all my quirks that much more. It feels, somehow, not selfish at all.

  “I want someone who gives me the space to be fully myself. Who understands that I sometimes need time to work on my own projects without taking a hit to his ego. I want someone who prioritizes our relationship.” I open my eyes and hold up a finger to make my last point. “And I want someone who enjoys Princess Diana’s company.”

  I swear I feel better already, and I haven’t even found this guy yet.

  I pull my friends into quick hugs. “Thank you for doing this with me. You’re the best.”

  “Not so fast.” Molly flashes me a wicked grin. “I was promised a chance to look at dating profiles. Don’t say you love us until after we’re through.”

  I groan, and Greer spins the computer back to me, wearing a smile that matches Molly’s. “So,” she says, “who’s it going to be?”

  8

  Dash

  It’s one thing to meet someone in a bar, and it’s another to see them in the light of day. You want to make sure that the charm and connection are still there after the optimistic gleam of alcohol has faded and you’ve had a night or two to sleep on things. Especially if a mind-fuck evening of watching your best friend’s little sister go on a date and then breaking up that date is what sent you running to the bar in the first place.

  Luckily, Megan is as low-key and cute as I remember her, with hair done up in a casual, soft bun, and her eyes this blue, blue, blue color. We sit in ETG Coffee and Bakery on Saturday morning with a happy hum of people around us, and the energy of our date feels good and relaxed.

  Even Eden has to admit that a coffee date is a great tactic. My mid-morning meetup with Megan (say that five times fast) takes the pressure off of the moment and lets us sink into comfortable conversation. We can start with coffee and then, if things feel good, expand into brunch or lunch or something more. Despite its small size, ETG serves a delicious breakfast menu, and I’m hoping my latte turns into at least a muffin.

  I’ve just taken a long draw of my coffee when Eden breezes through the door behind Megan’s back wearing an outfit that looks like it belongs on the front page of a magazine—knee-high boots, a short sweater dress that drapes off one shoulder to expose her collarbones, chandelier earrings that kiss her bare skin. Her dark hair is a bright, shiny waterfall down her back, and her lips are painted to perfection.

  I swallow my coffee in a hot gulp, trying not to choke. Eden’s normally pretty put together, but for first thing on a Saturday morning, this is rare.

  If I were to draw her today, I’d render her in bold strokes, defiant and compelling. My hands itch for a pen, but all I have are my eyes, and they follow her like she’s wearing a tracking beacon.

  Eden casts a glance my way and purses her lips with a twinkle in her eye, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she slides to the counter and orders a latte in a mug on a saucer, not a to-go cup. She adds a fragrant, beautiful cinnamon bun that I doubt she’ll even eat, also on a plate. Then she takes her order to a bright, marble-topped table by the front window and leans above the food, taking pictures with her cell phone. For social media, probably.

  I know it’s her job, but it’s distracting. Or maybe the fact that she isn’t looking at me is distracting. Or the fact that she looks like that. I don’t know what the hell it is, only I realize how uncomfortable it feels to be the one under scrutiny on a date. />
  I haven’t seen Eden since I left her apartment, and our only other contact has been that text message about today. I don’t know if she’s pissed or happy or indifferent, but I want to know. I want to crawl inside her head and draw the things I find there.

  “Hey, everything okay?” Megan peers at me with concern on her features. She drops her hand to cover mine, and I tear my gaze away from Eden to study the woman in front of me. I’m here with Megan, and she deserves my attention.

  “Yeah.” I pull my hand out from under hers and lift my coffee to my mouth. The warm aroma wafting from the mug wakes me up almost as the caffeine itself. Be here, now, it seems to say. “Tell me more about your job.” I’m not put together enough today to lead this conversation, but I hope asking her will let her know I care about the answer.

  I’m pretty proud that the stutter that held me back so much as a kid has transformed into my superpower now. When you don’t talk a lot, you learn to listen. And people like to know they’re being heard.

  Megan flashes me an appreciative smile. “I’m a veterinarian.”

  I lean forward. “No kidding. Is it a tough job?”

  “It can be. Some parts are incredibly difficult, like having to watch people say goodbye to their best friends. Or having to advise people about treatments they might not be able to afford. But it’s also super fun.” A soft smile lights up her face. “And I have the best coworkers ever. They just happen to have paws and fur.”

  I nod. “I can see that.”

  “Are you a pet person, too?”

  Loaded question. Is it even possible to date a veterinarian if you don’t like animals?

  “I’m more of a dog person than a cat person,” I admit. My encounter with Eden’s cat flashes through my mind, and I smooth a hand over the table. “Actually, I have a cat question for you,” I say, knowing I need to keep the conversation going. “As long as you don’t think I’m only here for your professional advice.”