Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
She's beautiful and sexy, and goddamn do I want to grab her by the hand and haul her out of here.
Begrudgingly, I sit where Andi directs me, opposite of a petite redhead who I can already tell you is not my type.
Instantly, she tells me her name (Beth), where she's from—she's new to the city and looking to make meaningful connections, mostly friendship (which I feel is a crock of crap). Why would she come speed dating if you only wanted to make new friends? Don't they have apps for that?
Or like, book clubs and shit?
We've been instructed to make notes of names and brief descriptions so we can keep track of our matches—anyone we feel like we might like a second date with, we’re to put a star by their name. Or number them one through three.
A bell rings, and I must move on from Beth.
She makes doe eyes at me, and I pray she doesn’t approach me at the bar later. Then again, I have Molly here acting as my guard dog!
Some guard dog…
I hear a laugh across the room and follow the sound straight to her table, chest constricting at the sight of her bright eyes and pretty face giggling at something another man has said.
She is six tables away.
“Hi, I’m Sophia.” The woman across the table from me holds out her hand and I force myself to take it; it’s limp and feels frail. “What’s your name?”
“Eli.” I point at my name tag, master of the obvious, irritated that she asked my name when it’s stuck to my shirt.
Stop staring at Molly, asshole.
Okay but why does it look like she’s actually having fun when you’ve met exactly two people and are bored out of your fucking mind?
When I finally look back at Sophia, she has a smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“And what do you do for work, Eli?”
I hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. “I’m in management.”
“What kind of management?”
“Upper.”
Sophia isn’t impressed or amused and purses her lips.
“And what about you?” I ask for the sake of asking, not because I care.
“I’m a nurse.”
Ahh. Would not have guessed that—Sophia looks more like a…a…I don’t know, a teacher or a camp counselor. Not saying she looks young, but she probably just became legal enough to drink.
I use the upper management joke on several other women, only a few of them ‘getting it’, which the rest pry a little deeper. A few don’t ask at all, preferring to dive into hobbies and past relationship statuses, something I can’t quite understand as relevant.
What are they expecting, me to tell them what a shitty partner I was? Or that I cheated? Or that I’m a terrible communicator?
The question tells them nothing, and therefore, I do not ask in return, merely wanting to know about food, or their favorite cities. Do they watch sports? Did they play any in high school or college?
Five minutes is not enough, except in the cases where I’m bored to tears like I was with Beth, who did nothing but smile and stare. Or Sophia, who stabbed me with daggers.
I put a tiny pencil star next to Clara’s name, though the odds that I’ll choose to match with her at the end of this hour are slim; my lack of enthusiasm overriding the point for being here.
Perhaps if my sister had shown up…
Kate hasn’t replied to my messages, but when I stalk her between rounds on a location app we share, I see she’s at a restaurant roughly two miles from here, most definitely safe and sound and not dead in a ditch somewhere as I’d feared—although she will have some explaining to do when I catch up to her.
Next, I’m at a table with a Ginger. Not a red like Beth—Ginger is literally her name.
Then comes Greta. Michelle.
“Hi, I’m Molly,” Molly says when I take the seat across from her, one of my final four ladies to meet.
“Ha ha, you’re funny.” I slump in my seat, exhausted.
She rolls her eyes. “Let’s pretend you don’t know me.”
I sit back up. “Hi, I’m Eli.”
“Oh, what a fun name—does Eli stand for anything?”
“It’s short for Elias.”
I feel like an idiot.
“And what do you do for funsies, Eli? I myself enjoy pickleball.”
I stare. “Pickleball? Since when do you play pickleball?”
This is a revelation to me.
“Um, only every Wednesday with an old friend from college,” she explains as if I should know this already, but even though we’ve told each other some personal things, we don’t overly discuss hobbies.
“That’s cool.” I down the last of my drink. “I play tennis.”
“Yeah, you look like the kind of guy who plays tennis.” She drinks from her wineglass, most of the red liquid still swirling around. “Probably wear matching outfits, too.”
“When your client is Whitney Bondlander, you try to get real good at it in the event she invites you to take a meeting at her club.”