Glasses clink and chatter rolls on at a dull roar as I take a sip of my water and glue my eyes to the door.
My date hasn’t shown, and Greer hasn’t either, but it looks as though her date has.
For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been watching a guy at a table by himself check the time on his phone and slam back glasses of whiskey like it’s about to be outlawed.
For Greer’s sake, if this is her date, I’m hoping he can handle his liquor.
And then I see her walk in. Blue dress, blue eyes, and the most perfect nervous smile.
She looks like she’s on the very edge of losing her shit, and I can’t help but grin.
It doesn’t matter the day, the time, or the occasion—Greer is always herself. Genuine and quirky, and I don’t think I’ve ever met any woman like her.
I’m staring at her as she walks to the table with the mystery man in the middle of the room, and my heart jumps into my throat as she leans down to give him a kiss on the cheek.
Her dress is low-cut, her breasts are magnificent, and I have to hold myself in my seat to keep from running over to offer my jacket.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but everything seems stiff and formal enough. I don’t want her to have a bad time, but if I said I don’t enjoy watching whoever this fucker is struggle to win her over a little, I’d be lying.
I’m settling in for the show when a slender set of hips in a tight red dress block my vision. I follow them up to a face and a mess of blond hair, and her features are unmistakable.
She is the female version of Gavin Gimble, and undoubtedly his sister—my date, Susie.
Shit. My date.
Too absorbed in all things Greer, I completely fucking forgot about my date.
She smiles down at me and holds out a hand, asking, “Trent Turner?”
Time warps into a vacuum, and before I know it, I’m answering.
Only the answer isn’t at all what I, or she, is expecting. “No.”
Her groomed and shaped brows pull together, and my heart dials up to a gallop.
Holy shit, I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“You’re not Trent Turner?” she asks again, just to clarify.
I shake my head like a lunatic and stand up to apologize. “No, I’m sorry. I’m William…” I glance down for some help in my lie, and I’m ashamed of what I come up with. “Table. William Table.”
In my defense, I don’t have a lot of practice being dishonest.
“Your name is William Table?” she says, her attitude shifting from friendly to inconvenienced in half a second. I take it as a sign that I’m dodging a bullet and hold strong.
“Yep.”
She drops a hip along with any ounce of coy flirtiness and snaps. “Great. Just fucking great.”
“Sorry,” I apologize again. Though, it’s safe to say at this point, I don’t even really mean it.
I don’t know what the fuck Cap was thinking would make us a good match, but I’m guessing it had nothing to do with her personality.
She storms back to the front of the restaurant, and I sit back down in my chair. When the waiter comes over to ask if I’m still waiting for someone, I tell him the exciting news.
“No. I’ll be dining alone now.”
“Very well. Are you ready to put in an order?”
“In a few minutes,” I reply.
For the time being, I’ve got something else to occupy my time.
Greer and her date are fully involved in a conversation by the time my waiter clears the place setting on the other side of the table, but her smile is brittle at best.
I lean forward into my elbows, trying to hear what they’re saying, but it’s no use. I’d need a degree in lipreading to decode their conversation, and unfortunately, they didn’t offer that course where I went to school.
Thinking on the fly, I take out my phone and type out a text. I know the date can’t be going that well, because she picks her phone up off the table to read it.
Me: How’s the date going?
She frowns at little before making some sort of excuse to her date and typing out a response.
Greer: Fine. Why are you texting me?
Me: What does “fine” mean? In my experience, no woman ever uses that word unless she’s annoyed.
Greer: You must hear it a lot, then.
I grin. And keep texting her. Keep stealing her attention away from her date.
Me: What’s your date doing right now, while you’re texting me?
Greer: Staring at my breasts, I presume.
Me: Sounds like a winner.
Greer: Well, I do have great breasts. But yeah, he’s a real gem. He just finished telling me about kicking his mom out of her house when she couldn’t afford to pay him the rent.