Page 11 of My Killer Blind Date

‘Another one of Arjun’s buds, huh?’

‘… but Arjun totally vouches for this one. I guess they met at his friend’s boyfriend’s art gallery, so that’s cool, right? A man who’s interested in the arts? Anyway, he’s single, and you’re single, and Arjun immediately thought of you, and why not give it a chance? You know my matchmaking skills are legendary. I introduced Yoli and Gary! And they’re practically engaged, if he can just get over his fear of commitment! Please let me help you.’

Aaaargh – ‘Fine!’ I explode. ‘But this is the last one. Are you listening to me? If this date doesn’t end in wedding bells, no more blind dates. Deal?’

‘Deal!’ she crows, and I can hear her literally clapping her hands in the background. ‘And hey, since you have to go back for a dress fitting, how about Saturday at noon? That’s when my veil is supposed to be in from Italy, so we could have a redo. I can call and schedule it! Say yes!’

‘Yes. OK. Yes,’ I say, softened as always by her unabashed enthusiasm.

After we say goodnight, I consider brushing my teeth, but at this point, fuck it. I’m way too tired, and is one night of poor dental hygiene really going to give me cavities? Or two? Who’s even counting?

As I’m falling into bed, ready to be done with the day and never relive it again, a text from George pops through.

You’re officially on with Mr Hottie tomorrow night at Wine & Thistle! 6pm, don’t be late!!!!!!!!

I crash my face into my pillow.

‘Fuck me,’ I mutter before sleep takes me.

Chapter Four

As I approach Wine & Thistle, I pull my hair into a wide clip. I did shower after work this time and let my hair air dry on the way. Public transit has delivered me here a few minutes late, but that’s the transit life. And hey – at least I don’t have a body waiting for me in a car this time.

The early June night is perfectly pleasant – not too hot, not too cold, which thank you, Chicago, a city that likes to go straight from freeze-your-ass-off winters to broil-your-boobs-off summers.

I did truly consider dressing up and putting on makeup. I even briefly put on a dress, which though mildly pilled and with a small hole in one underarm, seemed like my best option. But when I looked at myself in the mirror, it didn’t feel like I was looking at me. The woman in the reflection looked decent, despite the pilling. Sexy, even. But ultimately, like a stranger. Better I match how I feel inside, right? Keep it authentic? Hence the leggings, tank and oversized denim shirt.

Anyway, I don’t want to look too sexy, lest the guy be attracted to me and want to go on a second date. My blind date doesn’t know it yet, but this is going to be a one-and-done. I’ll check off my obligation to George, and because I love her so much, what the hell, she’ll get the ice-cream attachment too.

I spot him right away, at the bar, and it’s like a déjà vu from my evening with Brian. I mentally fortify myself for the inevitable roller coaster.

But he turns toward me with a smile, and that’s where, for some inexplicable reason, the déjà vu starts to break down.

‘Hi! I’m Margot,’ I say as he slips off the bar stool, and I’m surprised by how nervous I suddenly feel. Yes, he has a nice smile, the kind that makes you feel warm inside, but I’ve always been immune to pretty boys and I’m certainly not ready to stop now. He stands up for a quick hug and I realize how tall he is.

Like, really tall, and that’s saying a lot because I’m a tall girl. He doesn’t do a shoulder hug like Brian, but a nice, actual hug, that’s also not at all creepy, just solid. Also, extra points, he smells good. OK, maybe the déjà vu breakdown isn’t quite so inexplicable.

As he pulls away, I notice the forearms. Because of course his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, displaying the most delectable man-forearms I’ve possibly ever seen, all tendony and veiny with a sprinkle of golden hair.

Damn it. My lizard brain salivates. That’s when the bad decisions start, remember?? I tell it firmly. I am not letting one pair of sculpted forearms unleash my downfall.

‘I’m Liam. So nice to meet you,’ he says, graciously not calling me out on the fact that I’m in a death stare with his forearms. When he speaks, there’s some crackle of energy that literally raises the hairs on the back of my neck. What the heck??

‘Let me take you to your table,’ says the hostess, appearing out of nowhere, and we’re whisked off to the back of the restaurant. He walks in front of me, so I get a nice look at his ass in his slim-fit dark olive pants. OK. He has a cute butt. Fine, ugh, he’s a total hottie, just like George promised. But that means nothing to me. Nothing.

The hostess takes us to a bar-height table with comfy, tall chairs. Liam pulls mine out – OK, Mr Gentleman – and I slide on. My heart is pounding, which is really annoying, and there’s an equally annoying swooshing in my stomach. Calm down, you freaks, we’re just checking a box, I tell them, because obviously my wanton inner organs need to be told what’s what. You’ll be out of here in an hour and never see him again. And as long as we wrap things up efficiently, I should even have time before bed for some internet sleuthing.

He sits, and for a moment, we look at our menus in silence.

‘I don’t know why I’m looking—’ he begins, right as I say, ‘—I’m just getting the fish.’

‘Same!’ he says, slapping the menu down on the table with a disbelieving grin. ‘Fish. Every time.’

‘Because it’s not something I’d ever cook at home,’ I say.

‘Exactly.’

We both laugh. His eyes crinkle. His laugh is loose, unconstrained, filled with a kind of innocent delight in the moment. There’s an alarming flutter in my stomach, even more potent than the previous swooshing. Uh-oh. It’s full-on inner-organ mutiny.