Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I groan, burying my face in my hands. “No. You got the good wine, so you don’t get the good dirt.”
“That’s not how this works,” he teases, gently pulling my hands away from my face. “Come on, what’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”
I sigh, knowing I have to tell him. Turnabout is fair play. “Fine. But don’t laugh.”
“I make no such promises.”
I swat his arm, but I’m laughing despite myself. “Okay. It was sophomore year of college, and this guy—who shall remain nameless—took me on a date to an all-you-can-eat wings place.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Oh, it gets worse. Trust me.” I take a sip of wine, bracing myself. “So, he ordered the spiciest wings they had on the menu because he wanted to impress me. Ten minutes in, he’s sweating bullets, bright red, and crying. Like, full-on tears streaming down his face.”
Harris bursts out laughing. “No way.”
“Way,” I say, grinning. “To make it even worse, he kept trying to play it off like he was fine. But then he choked, knocked over his drink, and the waitress had to bring him a glass of milk and a wet towel.”
Harris laughs so hard, he nearly spills his wine. “Did you help him, or did you let him suffer?”
“Oh, I stood up to give him the Heimlich maneuver, but at that point he was done dying,” I say solemnly. “Every time I asked if he wanted me to call it a night, he insisted he was fine. He even tried to kiss me after—with hot sauce still on his lips.”
Harris winces, shaking his head. “Please tell me you didn’t kiss him.”
“Indeed I did. I felt bad!”
“And?”
“And . . .” I cover my face briefly before letting out a groan. “His lips were basically fire. I’m not being the least bit dramatic—my mouth was actually burning. Third-degree burn.”
The second our lips touched, I felt the literal heat. At first, the spicy wing sauce was manageable . . . until it wasn’t. My tongue started burning, and my eyes started watering, and that was the beginning of the end for that horrific date.
“That wasn’t even the worst of it,” I continue. “He tried to make jokes about it so I wouldn’t go home. Oh, the heat is the chemistry between us.”
So cringey.
“That story makes mine sound lame.” Harris pouts. “A dog running away? Basic.”
We both laugh at that, the sound echoing softly through my cozy little loft. I take another sip of wine, warmth settling in my chest as I lean my head against the back of the couch and glance over at him.
“All right. Tell me this: What’s the shortest date you’ve ever been on?” I ask.
He groans, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, man. You’re digging deep now.”
I smile, waiting patiently.
“Okay,” he says, exhaling dramatically. “There was this girl I met in college. We agreed to grab coffee. Seemed simple enough, right?”
“Right,” I say, grinning. “How do you mess up coffee?”
“Let me explain,” he says, laughing. “We sit down, and within the first five minutes, she starts asking me about my credit score.”
I choke on my sip of wine. “No. Way.”
“Swear to God. She wanted to know if I was financially responsible before she even knew my middle name.”
“Oh my God.” I press a hand to my mouth to stifle my laughter. “What did you say?”
Harris laughs. “My credit score. It was super low at the time—embarrassingly low. But like, I’d rented furniture for a shared apartment and stopped paying the bills and went apeshit buying electronics and could never afford the minimum monthlies.” Oh. Yikes. “When our coffee came I made up an excuse about needing to help my roommate move furniture.”
“The furniture you weren’t paying for?” I tease.
“Exactly.” He nudges me with his toe. “Shortest date ever and never spoke to her again.”
“You ghosted her?”
“I mean—technically, I didn’t ghost her.” He holds up a finger in protest. “I politely ignored her texts forever.”
A giggle escapes my throat. “That counts!”
His head tilts to the side, and he considers this. “Does it?”
“One thousand percent.”
“The good news is, I’ve matured since then and haven’t done anything as stupid since.” He pauses. “Fine, that’s not necessarily true—I’ve done a ton of stupid shit.”
I lean back against the couch. “Okay, give me your top three.”
“Okay,” he says, holding up three fingers. “Number three—one time, I accidentally texted my ex-girlfriend instead of the girl I was dating. I didn’t realize it until she replied with ‘Wrong girl, you prick.’”
“Oh my God.” I gasp, unable to fathom. “What’s number two?”
“Number two . . . hmm.” He hesitates. “I tried to jump off a roof into a pool at a party and missed. Landed in the shallow end and sprained my ankle.”
Jesus! I clutch my queasy stomach. “Please tell me you were sober.”