Page 35 of Right Man, Right Time
“I understand that, but I also don’t want to put choking out there in the universe.”
“Aw,” she coos. “You’re one of those guys. Superstitious, are we?”
“Sure,” I answer.
“Okay, then you come up with the way we met.”
“Easy. At a bar. You thought I was hot, couldn’t live life another second without saying hi, so you came over to me and made the first move.”
“Ew, I would never.”
“Uh . . . you did. You’re the one who kissed me.”
“That’s different.” She dismisses me with a wave.
“How so?”
“That was an act of desperation. It wasn’t a move. It was survival instincts. Much, much different.”
“So you’re saying, if you just randomly saw me in a bar, without having to fend for your life, you wouldn’t have come up to me?”
“Never.” She shakes her head. “I don’t do that, and you would have seemed far too old for me.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “I don’t look that old. Stop using that as a thing.”
“Only old men get bent out of shape about being called old.”
I roll my eyes. “If you don’t like the bar story, then come up with something that doesn’t involve me choking on a fucking sandwich.”
“Fine.” She leans her shoulder against the back of the couch. “Let’s see. Hmm . . . oh, how about this. You were driving and blew a tire. I helped you change it. You were so grateful for my presence and blown away by my sheer beauty that you asked me out.”
“First of all, I know how to change a tire. Second, I own a Tesla. They don’t have spare tires, so we would have had to call a tow truck.”
“Really? That’s stupid.” She taps her chin. “Okay, what about this. You were shopping for a gift for your mom, and you couldn’t decide between a candle and a gift card, so you asked me. I told you to stop being a thoughtless asshole and directed you toward those sentimental Willow sculptures.”
“My mom prefers gift cards.”
She tosses her hands up in the air. “Fine, you come up with something.”
“We met on a ferry. You were seasick, and I held your hair back. After you threw up on my shoe.”
“Or . . .” she says, holding up her finger. “You threw up on my lap, and I guided you to the toilet, where I rubbed your back and told you all was going to be okay in the world.”
“How come you’re the hero in this story?”
“Uh, isn’t it obvious?” she asks. “Women are the true heroes in this world.”
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I was your hero the other night.”
“Wow, you’re just going to keep bringing that up, aren’t you? What about this? I’m your hero now.”
“How so? You’re getting the better end of the deal.”
“Excuse me?” she asks, her brows rising. “You’re the one who came up with the fake dating cockamamie idea in the first place. If anyone is getting a good deal, it’s you because I’m going along with this deranged plan. Therefore”—she points at herself—“hero.”
“Why can’t we both be heroes?”
That makes her straight-up guffaw. “Have you ever heard of a storyline with two heroes?”
