Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“She is not.” I chuckle. “And if I may be so bold to point out, she earned that money through hard work.”
I hope she isn’t going to beat this subject into the ground—I already explained why I paid her kid. We had a deal, and I honored it.
“We’re not here to talk about what I should or shouldn’t do with my money; we’re here because you were going to give me some advice.” We’re also here because: why not. We connected on the app, shared some barbs, pissed each other off, and now we have one thing in common: we’re both single and ready to commiserate.
She could have easily given me dating tips within the app, but after meeting her in person at the restaurant, this seemed like much more fun.
“It sounds like you know what you’re looking for,” she says after a time, crunching on more chips since the bartender hasn’t brought the appetizer she ordered. “I think as long as you’re honest from the beginning about what you want—which you have been—you’ll find someone.” Margot pauses. “There’s someone for everyone.”
She sounds altruistic, spewing do-gooder, motivational bullshit.
“Do you actually believe that?”
“Of course I do.” She swirls her glass some more. “I have to.”
My forehead creases. “I can’t imagine you’ll have a problem finding someone to date.”
She is so fucking cute.
And funny.
And men aren’t as picky as women are, if you don’t count me among those ranks. I’m picky as hell.
“Uh, if you think it’s easy for me because I’m a female, think again. You said so yourself—you don’t want to date anyone with kids. Trust me, there are plenty of men like you, men who want nothing to do with a woman with children, even if it’s only one.”
Those men are fucking idiots. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say. I stop myself, realizing it makes me sound incredibly hypocritical, even though I am being hypocritical.
It doesn’t hurt that I’ve met her now.
And I’ve met her daughter.
That changes my mind a little, just slightly.
“How many dates have you been on?” I ask, watching as the bartender sets down a basket of fries and a basket of fried calamari, dipping sauces on the side.
Yum.
Margot smacks my hand away when I reach for one of the fries. “You said you didn’t want to eat—this is just drinks.”
Eh? “Why do you get to eat and I don’t?”
“’Cause. I can sit here after you leave and continue to feast. I am in no rush.”
That’s not fair.
Not fair at all.
I reach for the basket again, and this time she allows me to steal three fries from it.
“How many dates have I been on?” She brings the conversation back around to my question. “Since downloading the app?” She pulls a sour face, thinking. “Eh, this one? Which doesn’t count, obviously.”
Obviously.
“Should I be offended that you don’t consider this a date?”
“Why would you be offended? We clearly have one another in the friend zone.”
“We have? Since when?” I steal a calamari, dipping it in red sauce and popping the entire piece in my mouth.
“Are you being serious?” Her mouth falls open. “You have no romantic interest in me.”
Says who?
My brain might be saying no, but my dick is saying yes—why do we need to decide right this second who the winner will be?
“Would you like me to have romantic interest?” I ask her, to be clear. I already know she thinks I’m an asshole; she’s told me to my face and in writing numerous times.
Margot nibbles on a fry. “I think that . . . had things not gotten off on the wrong foot, things might be different.”
“Are you talking about the whole ‘bribing your kid’ thing?” ’Cause that was an accident.
“No. I’m talking about me getting salty about you being a catfish and you changing your profile because of it.”
“But I’m not a catfish. I’m me.”
She leans back on the barstool. “Right. And now I have no idea what to do with that information. A teacher cannot date a professional football player—it just wouldn’t work.” She shrugs, stuffing the entire fry in her mouth before reaching for another one. “Opposites might attract but not when someone is this opposite. It’s so extreme.”
She laughs.
“How do you know how opposite we are? You don’t know me.”
Margot rolls her eyes, looking very much like her daughter. “Fine. Give me some of your hobbies.”
“I love the outdoors.”
“See? I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” I scoff. “Do you like sledding? Or skiing? Or snowmobiles?”
“Who doesn’t like sledding?” she reluctantly allows.
“Do you like secluded cabins in the woods?”
Her eyebrows go up. “For murder?”
That makes me laugh. “No, not for murder. For roaring fireplaces and hot chocolate and watching the snow fall through the windows.”
She watches me, a blank expression on her face. “Did you suddenly become a poet?”
I laugh again. “Only trying to prove a point.”