“Forget something, Mr. Noles?”
Yeah, I must have forgotten my pride somewhere along with my rationality.
“Is my table still open?” I ask.
She looks confused but nods.
“I realized I didn’t have dessert.”
Damn, I sound like an idiot.
She grins and walks me back toward the table I just abandoned. It’s clean, but she doesn’t act like it’s an inconvenience to reseat me. As soon as she hands me the dessert menu and walks away, my eyes start scouring what I can see of the restaurant. Where the hell did she—There she is. Two tables down and across.
Her smile is fake as hell. Why is she out with him if she doesn’t want to be? Why am I obsessing over this?
Doesn’t matter. I’m pissed, and she’s the reason. It’s only fair that I piss her off in return. Pride is a twisted thing, and I’m full of it.
Once upon a time, the Noles name held mountains of prestige and had as much money behind it as the Sterling name. Then my great grandfather fucked it all up and my grandfather followed the same spiraling route of failure until it was all gone.
It was up to my father to rebuild the name, and up to me to carry it on. So yeah, I’m a prideful bastard. And Bella stepped all over it by dismissing me immediately.
I ease over my table, propping up on my elbows while trying to hear their conversation. It’s not easy, but I catch part of it.
“My mom’s favorite thing to do is buy underwear in bulk,” he’s telling her, which gets an eyebrow raise from me. “It saves so much money. I prefer to spend my money on more important things.”
Like lotion and porn? Because this guy has no game and can’t possibly be getting laid. This is really who she is dating when she wouldn’t even party with me?
“My sister buys her underwear in bulk too,” he adds, laughing like a donkey on crystal meth. Holy hell. She’s going to pay for making me endure this.
Chapter 4
BELLA
Did I turn off the TV? I think I did.
“And my mother’s sister,” Barry laughs, snorting as though he’s telling a hilarious story, “won the apple eating contest because of her double-jointed jaw! She also met my uncle that night, and had several other date offers. Weird huh?”
Yeah. Yeah. I turned off the TV. Did I record my show? I think it was starting tonight.
“My brother has four toes on one foot,” he goes on, apparently in the middle of another family history lesson. “But my sister has six! We joke that she stole one from him when in the womb because they’re twins.”
I definitely recorded the show. Oh, I’d love to be watching it right now. Ah! I forgot to put up my toenail polish. The living room will reek of fumes.
“And my grandfather is also my uncle because of that.”
Why did I agree to this date again?
“That’s… unique,” I tell him with a forced, stilted smile when he stares expectantly.
No. No. Now I remember putting up the polish. Whew.
“I have to go to the bathroom. Too much wine makes my bladder shrivel up.”
Awesome.
“Good for you,” I mutter when he walks away.
Just because I want to stop dating bad boys who cheat, lie, and steal, that doesn’t mean I want to date the most boring, possibly disturbed, men on the planet. Why can’t quality men just fall into my lap? Is it this hard for everyone?