Page 11 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“Get her some fudge.”

“But she just gave me cookies. If she wanted sweets—”

“Those are thank-you cookies. The fudge will be ‘set the mood’ sweets.”

“Candy sets the mood? What mood?”

“Hell, boy, don’t play dumb just because you think I’m old. I know all about the third date rule you young people have. Fudge, flowers, then—”

The word that Sunderland ends with makes me dizzy. My mouth dries out while my palms turn into sprinkler systems.

If that is the case, I will make absolutely sure I do not get to the third date with Andrea—even if a little part of me wonders if we’re both lonely enough to see each other just for activities that do not start with F and rhyme with duck.

No. Not firetruck.

Chapter Four: First Date

You know how hindsight is twenty-twenty?

It’s only after I put on what I considered to be a cute date night outfit and put my hair up in a sexy-messy bun that it hit me.

Lt. Rockland said it wasn’t a pity date—because I asked him right to his ruggedly handsome face. What a face.

I’m serious, the more I think about him, I can only pick out certain features, not like a whole person. Big. Tall. Wide. A jaw that reminds me of the Easter Island monoliths. Shaggy, thick dark hair.

That jaw.

I never had a jaw fetish before. Is that even a thing? Well, if it isn’t, they can name the fetish after me, because I have it.

Which makes it a shame that it belongs to a guy who asked me out owing to civic duty and politeness. Now that I’ve had time to process our actual exchange, Rockland said it was a date, but honestly, it wasn’t intended as a date. There was no “Oh, I’m interested in getting to know you better” vibe. There was a “You are a lost idiot who can’t make friends on her own” vibe. There was probably also a “I should follow up on the woman in a sexy dress holding a can of stinky tuna and sobbing under a tree because that seems a little unstable and I’m a first responder” vibe.

The polite thing to do would be to call. Make an excuse. Gracefully let him off the hook.

But I didn’t get his number. Calling the fire department is possible, but can you imagine what that would be like? One of your co-workers telling you that your date canceled? Sure, Gordon might be relieved, but on the tiny, teensy chance that he’s not, I don’t call the station. (I also don’t want someone to give me a lecture about the switchboard and emergency services being used for personal issues instead of genuine emergencies. I’m probably already on thin ice with the whole “cat up a tree” thing.)

So what’s left? Stand him up?

Stand up the guy who saved my baby? I’m horrified just at the thought. As if on cue, Chopin purrs and rolls on his back, waiting for belly rubs, looking at me with innocent kitty eyes.

Oh, hell no. I’m not like that. Besides, if a guy did that to me, I’d probably cry and eat a whole tub of peanut butter cup ice cream, feminism be damned. Even if he was a jerk, I would still feel slighted. Probably relieved, but also in my head, like “Why am I so bad that a jerk stood me up?” Would that big hunk of hero feel like he’s the problem because a bawling, lonely cat-lady stood him up?

God, why did I think having a boyfriend would make life better and easier when dating sucks absolute ass?

Because the boyfriend stage makes you feel happy, and you steal his hoodies, and you’re safe with someone.

And sex. Orgasms. I mean, that would be nice. Not that it necessarily happened with the last couple of guys, but with someone like Gordon—

No! Do not think about orgasms when you’ve just determined the first date you’ve had in twenty-three months is an awkward pity outing.

Damn it.

Now I’m thinking about it.

I look at Chopin as I rub his belly. “I guess I’ll go and act gracious. No, I’ll act like the best company ever, and at the end of the night, he won’t ask to see me again, I won’t ask for his number, and that’ll be that. Tomorrow, I’ll start looking for jobs back home. You’d like that, right? I bet you’d like to go back home. Live in a little apartment. We’d have people over all the time. Your titas would fuss over you and feed you way too many treats. You’d be a city kitty again.”

Chopin abruptly rolls away from my hand and bristles out his tail. With a reproachful look, he bolts into my room and sulks under the bed.

“Great sales pitch, Andrea,” I grumble to myself, and head out to my pre-planned failure of a date.