Pickup Lessons (Awkward Arrangements Book 3) Read online

  I almost choke on my disbelief. “Wait—you picked him up?” I shoot a glance at Dash. Mr. My Way Of Meeting People Works Great didn’t actually score the date on his own. Does this invalidate everything he claimed about his method? If he wasn’t the initiator, does the date even count?

  A smile of validation crooks my lips as I study Dash. He’s a good guy, but all that talk was just talk.

  Under my scrutiny, Dash furrows his forehead and gives a slight shake of his head. As if I would say something.

  “Yep,” Megan continues, not noticing the silent exchange between me and her date. She leans forward as if she and I are sharing a confidential moment. “I borrowed some techniques I learned on your blog, actually. All that empowerment talk really paid off.” She rubs a hand over Dash’s arm, and my stomach tightens. “I figured, why be scared to go for what you want?”

  “That’s great,” I force out through gritted teeth. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. My self-empowerment blog that’s half the reason I got into this mess might have just helped Dash get ahead of the game.

  Mother. Trucker.

  My head aches from how hard I’m clenching my jaw, and I need that wine more than ever. “Matt?” I call desperately. “How’s it coming?”

  Dash’s features pinch together as he senses mutiny. He leans close to Megan, his nose almost touching her hair as he suggests, “Why don’t you go grab us a table?”

  Another growly wave of anger washes over me.

  Megan looks like she wants to protest, but by now, my pissed-as-hell vibes are probably projecting all over the neighborhood. She makes the wise choice not to push things. Instead, she shrugs and says, “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Same here,” I call, even though my stomach hurts.

  Matt—finally, thank god—arrives with my rosé.

  Dash still stands beside me like I’m a bomb he needs to defuse, and I cut a sharp glance at him before I raise an eyebrow at Matt. “So, Matt, my bartender, friend of all friends.”

  He starts to look like I’m a bomb, too. “Eden, drinker of rosé, my temporarily Irish friend.”

  I narrow my eyes. “If someone were to secure a date but didn’t initiate said date, does it count toward the three-date quota for winning this bet?”

  “No.” Matt shakes his head. “Don’t do that. I don’t want to be part of your fucked-up foreplay.”

  I gasp a protest. “This is explicitly not foreplay.”

  He just raises his eyebrows and plunks down Dash’s beers on the counter. “Fine,” he says. “Not foreplay. But both of you are here with friends.”

  Dash and I look at each other guiltily.

  “So?” Dash says.

  Matt looks at us like we’re stupid. “So go be with them instead of standing at the bar like chumps.” He adds an ingratiating smile. “But don’t forget to tip your bartender first.”

  Dash huffs out a low laugh and drops some cash on the bar. Before I can add a comeback, he grabs his beers and heads toward the table where Megan waits with a giant smile.

  I feel stupid standing at the bar by myself, so I take his lead and head back to my own table. My head reels from our exchange, from everything Megan revealed.

  Is it possible Dash is only playing along? That he’s only interested in her as a way to win rather than as a future partner? I want to believe he’s not the kind of guy who would string someone along, but I also want to believe he’s the kind of guy who wants me, too.

  “So, Eden,” Locke smiles as I drop into the booth. “How’s everything going with the online dating thing?”

  I know he means well, and I’m grateful for the distraction from looking at Dash. But part of me feels awkward and exposed, a fraud who talks a big game while everyone else at the table has actually played it.

  “Okay, I guess.” I force a small smile. “I’ve had two dates with the same guy, so that’s a promising start.” I don’t dare mention how I faked cramps on Sunday’s date to avoid a goodbye kiss from John. How I could have invited him here and won, but chose not to.

  From across the room, I hear Dash’s distinct laughter, and a sudden ache blooms in every part of my body.

  Jealousy. That’s what this is.

  I’m not jealous of Molly and Parker, of Greer and Locke—not specifically. But deep down, part of me wishes I were the one sitting across from Dash right now, the recipient of that generous, focused attention. The one making him laugh.

  I swallow a sip of my drink and turn the conversation back to St. Patrick’s Day, trying to distract myself from my sudden urge to cry. Around me, the conversation bubbles on, and I think I’m going to be fine. But then I hear Matt’s mischievous voice break through the din.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I invite you to participate in an impromptu Wii Tennis tournament.”

  I crane my neck to look and see Matt step out from behind the bar. The widescreen TV on the far wall, normally used to showcase closed-captioned sports games, now displays the cheerful welcome screen to the Wii Tennis game.

  “Signups are at the bar, and we’ll start in ten minutes,” Matt calls. “Winner gets a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate for your next drinks at The Hole.”

  My stomach sinks as I catch sight of Dash’s lean frame ambling toward the sign-up sheet.

  I did what I came to do, and I should get out of here right now. I don’t need to watch Megan cheer for him, don’t need to see him pull her into a victory kiss. But Dash steps to the bar with a confident grin, and I know I’ll stay here as long as he does.

  It’s selfish and greedy for me to want him the way I do, but I can’t deny that the muscles flexing in his forearms do something stupid to me. Maybe it’ll be fodder for my fantasies, or maybe it’ll live in my secret hall of shame.

  Either way, I’m hopeless.

  I can’t look away.

  14

  Dash

  I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. Possibly, my whole life.

  I roll up my shirt sleeves and loop the cord of the tiny controller around my wrist as the crowd steps back to give me a wide berth.

  My competitor doesn’t know what’s coming.

  Not even an idea.

  All around me, eager faces turn toward the TV, and a buzzy, slightly drunken hum ripples through the crowd. Instead of the thinning, the crowd’s only grown as the night’s gone on and the competition’s gotten thicker. Even Titus has finally arrived. He perches on a barstool at the edge of the room while Matt emcees the tournament from the front of the house, busting out a microphone to recap the games as they unfold.

  “One minute,” Matt warns me and my opponent beside me. She’s a tall, thin girl with frizzy curls and a half-glazed look of someone who’s a few drinks deep by now. “Then we start the final round.”

  I grin like a wolf. “You’ve got it.”

  Megan bounds through the crowd to press her tiny body against mine. “I can’t believe you made the finals. You’re so good,” she whispers, her face close to my ear.

  I tighten my grip on the controller. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  I leave it there, needing to conserve my energy, but the simple confession carries a lot of weight. Back when I was still scrawny as fuck, the idea of going to a gym intimidated the hell out of me, but I loved video games fiercely. I found Wii Tennis was a game I could master while also toning my body. The rush of victory came with a rush of adrenaline, and building my skill was a gateway drug to stepping into the gym and finding solace there, too.

  Megan smiles. “I’d love to stay, but I’ve gotta go.”

  My concentration wavers and the smile falls off my face. “What? You’re not going to watch me?”

  She tucks her purse under her arm. “I’ve got an inflexible schedule. Early wakeup.”

  Right. For the animals.

  The woman before me is practically a saint, and yet I’ve spent half our evening immersed in this competition, hell-bent
on winning, the other half too distracted to pay attention. I know I’m being a total shit right now, but when the opportunity for glory comes knocking, you answer the door. Also, if I’m being honest, it’s been too hard to concentrate on Megan while Eden’s in the room. Too hard to not let my mind slip away.

  Eden knows I wasn’t the first one to approach Megan, and it feels a little like I’ve already lost.

  I can feel Eden, too, watching me from the edge of the crowd. She stands next to Parker Atwood, wearing a silky green camisole and black trousers that hug her ass like an answered prayer. Her gaze feels like star beams on my face.

  “I can walk you to your car,” I force myself to say.

  Megan smiles a little wistfully. “No, that’s okay. Stay here. Win your game.” She looks toward Matt and waggles her eyebrows. “Get the prize money, and you can treat me to drinks next time.”

  With a little squeeze on my arm, she walks off. The crowd swallows her petite frame, new spectators pushing forward to fill the hole she left behind.

  I should follow her, but I stay.

  I stay, not because of the prize money or the glory, but because Eden’s here and I’ve waited approximately six years to show her I’m not all fluff. I stay because when she’s here, it’s impossible to leave.

  “Are we ready to go?” Matt asks, bringing the microphone to his lips.

  I raise the controller in agreement and spin to the crowd, riling everyone up along with me.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Matt points at me. “In the first corner, wearing the button-down shirt, we’ve got Easy D!” The crowd cheers, and Matt points at my opponent. “And in the other corner, wearing green like a good Irish lass, we’ve got Annie Oakley.”

  None of this makes any sense, but the crowd keeps cheering.

  “Competitors, on your marks,” Matt calls, and despite the fact that we’re not running a race, the crowd responds with rallying cries. Matt counts down in time with the numbers on the screen. “Three, two, one, play!”

  Annie Oakley’s avatar raises her tennis racket and serves, and I respond with a lazy backhand. For the majority of the night, Annie’s been playing a sloppy game, a drunk chick who’s probably four green beers deep and riding on adrenaline more than talent.

  I’ve got this in the bag.

  Annie meets my backhand with another loose flick of her wrist, but the movement’s just controlled enough to land the ball in the corner across from my avatar. I flash my arm out to meet the ball and get there just in time to return the hit. Then, before I understand what the arc of her arm means, she pulls out some seriously impressive hand-eye coordination for this stage of the night and slams the ball toward me.

  Surprise flashes through me as Annie scores the point and both the real-life and the on-screen crowds go wild.

  Shit.

  Maybe she’s been holding back.

  I roll my shoulders and bounce on my toes, ready to meet her next serve.

  Annie lifts her arm above her head and wails the ball at me. On-screen, my avatar dashes to keep up. I catch the ball on the tip of my racket, but the angle of my blunted return is too shallow to clear the net.

  Point to Annie.

  Damn.

  Sweat breaks out on my brow, and my shirt feels too rough against my skin. It’s probably just as well Megan didn’t stay to watch me make a fool of myself, though staying here instead of following her to claim a goodnight kiss probably tipped her off all the same.

  I wipe an arm across my forehead and ready myself for the next serve.

  “Easy D, down by two,” Matt announces.

  I widen my stance and grip the controller in my sweaty palms.

  I. Will. Not. Lose.

  Annie Oakley of the drunken power arm raises her virtual racket and hits. I respond in a blaze of speed, swinging my arm wide and hitting hard.

  Too hard.

  Pain bursts in my shoulder at the erratic movement, and white static crowds my vision like someone’s flipped on an old black and white TV behind my eyes.

  I groan involuntarily and clutch my arm, dropping the controller to the ground in the process.

  “Shit,” I gasp. “Time out.”

  Matt’s eyes narrow in confusion, then widen as he takes stock of the pain etched on my face. “Time out,” he confirms.

  “This better not be a delay tactic,” Annie mutters.

  “Possible injury,” Matt tells the crowd.

  Their murmurs grow surprisingly bloodthirsty.

  “Get back to it,” someone calls.

  “I’m fine,” I grit out. I try to raise my arm to placate the crowd, but pain flares bright and hot, causing me to double over with my good arm bracing my injured one. “I’m not fine,” I correct.

  Out of the corner of my eye, a blur of green rushes toward me, and then Eden’s soft hands reach for my arm. “Oh, Dash.” Her voice is mournful and soft, and the pain’s so blinding I can barely appreciate how good she smells, how close she stands. Eden tips her head up to me and fixes her worried eyes on mine. “What did you do?”

  15

  Eden

  I don’t remember running through the crowd, only arriving at Dash’s side. Agony paints a grimace on his face, and from the way he draws labored breaths, I can tell whatever he did to his arm really hurt. When I look down past his crumpled forehead and his distracting eyes, I find my hand pressed to his arm. His muscles ripple beneath my touch, solid and enticing, but the overpowering noise of the crowd reminds me that we’re not alone in the room. I’m not allowed to let my fingers roam, to comfort him.

  “Is the game over?”Annie-not-really-Oakley asks Matt.

  My friend inspects Dash, who’s still clutching his arm. Me, who’s clutching him. “For today.”

  Annie shrugs and slips the leash of the Wii controller over her wrist. “Good game,” she tells Dash, clapping him on the good shoulder before handing her controller to Matt.

  A group of her friends steers her toward the bar, ready to buy a celebratory round of drinks, but she leaves without collecting a prize.

  “Did I win?” Dash asks. “Because she left?” I don’t know if I should laugh at him or feel sorry for him, but I can’t walk away now.

  “Eh,” Matt says. “Maybe.”

  I try to suppress a smile and fail. “Only by default.”

  Dash’s eyes don’t leave mine as a grin works its way over his handsome lips. My stomach flips in a back-bendy way that tells me I’m in trouble. His eyes stay on mine, challenging me, and even surrounded by other people, it feels like we’re alone in the room. “It’s still a win.”

  I take a deep breath and bend as close as I dare. The scrutiny of the crowd magnifies the feeling that I’m doing something elicit as I whisper, “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  His hand slides down my arm and curls around my wrist, causing tingles to rush over my skin.

  Oh, god, Dash.

  We don’t touch and we definitely don’t touch like this, like we mean something to each other. Not alone, not in a crowd.

  But god, it feels so fucking good.

  He squeezes my hand gently, quickly, and murmurs, “Thanks,” against my ear.

  Emboldened by his touch and by the woozy proximity of his mouth, I say, “Stay here.” Then I grab my coat and say goodbye to my friends. “I’m gonna make sure he gets home okay,” I explain.

  Molly’s eyes gleam with a knowing look, but she just hugs me.

  “See you tomorrow,” Greer singsongs in my ear. “Hangover coffee’s on me.”

  I laugh and spin away to tuck myself against Dash’s side.

  This is dangerous and stupid. Titus is right here, rolling his eyes in the corner, but I can’t stop myself from looping my arm around Dash’s waist even though I know full well he hurt his shoulder and not his legs.

  Dash leans into me, his body a miracle under my hands. “You can play nurse with me anytime,” he murmurs. His suggestive tone makes my core clench hard.

  God
dammit. I might have a perverse attraction to guys with a dad joke sense of humor.

  Scratch that.

  I have a perverse attraction to a specific dad-joke-slinging, dimpled lunatic. Somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, Dashiel Walton swindled my heart.

  Instead of giving in, I groan and shake my head at his response. “Don’t get excited,” I warn. “I might stick the thermometer somewhere you don’t want it to go.”

  Dash gasps, surprise and wicked delight on his face. “Eden, did you just stoop to my level?”

  I edge him toward the door. “I don’t know if any of us can get that low.” I brace myself against the cold night air, push the door open, and step outside.

  “Fuck,” Dash says, pulling me closer than necessary as a brisk breeze slaps against our faces. “Isn’t it supposed to be spring?”

  “Something like that,” I agree. I peer up at him and scrunch my forehead. “I’ve only had half a drink, but I don’t feel like I should drive.”

  “Let’s leave the car,” he says. “We can walk.”

  “Are you sure?” I whisper.

  Walking means taking the long way home. Walking means extra minutes to soak up his warmth, to forget about everything that came before tonight and focus on just being here. Walking means letting myself be greedy—it means no going back.

  He pauses for a pained second where my heart catches in my chest, then buries his nose in my hair. “Eden,” he says, and it’s a plea and promise, “come home with me.”

  My response feels like a confession, and I don’t even care. “Alright,” I say.

  It’s either going to be the best idea or the worst idea we’ve ever had.

  “Dash Walton, why the hell don’t you have peas in your freezer?” I pull my head out of the cool air puffing from Dash’s freezer and frown at him.

  I’ve never been in his apartment before tonight, but I’ve made myself at home, pushing him into a chair at his kitchen table and rooting around his place like I belong. I don’t know what else to do with my nerves, with how enormous it feels to be here alone in the dark. Stay busy. Take charge. Keep going.