“I may or may not have snagged you a date.”
I stare at her, mouth gaping. She promised —promised!— she’d never force me into another set-up after the disaster that was Captain Kirk.
“I may or may not kill you,” I hiss, advancing on her. “I would literally rather ride a camel bare-assed across Black Rock desert to Burning Man, get lost along the way, and have to drink my ownpeethan go on another date you’ve set up for me.”
“Chill!” Her eyes dance again. “This is a good one. I didn’t even find him on the internet.”
“That’ssocomforting.” My glare intensifies and my voice drops to a harsh whisper. “It’s not Duncan, is it?”
“Would that be so bad?”
I fight the urge to throttle her.
“Jeeze, you’re high-strung today.” She rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not Duncan. He’s away on business.”
“Thank god for small favors.”
She shoots me a look. “You should be thankingme, not god. Very few friends would go to the trouble of setting you up — thankless task that it is. If I were a lesser woman, my feelings would be hurt.”
“Okay, wait….” I throw out a finger and squint my eyes at her. “Attempting to give a fuck…. Still attempting to give a fuck… one more time….” My eyes snap fully open. “Nope, sorry. No fucks given.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Seriously, Lila, I amnotspending the night with some mouth-breathing cretin who thinks the use of dinner napkins is optional and monologues for several hours about his undying love for WWE fights.”
“I prefer low-brow barbarian,” a smooth male voice cuts in from my left. “Though, Iwillanswer to mouth-breathing cretin, if necessary.”
Chapter Eight
Did the first caterpillar to ever change into
a butterfly just totally freak the hell out?
Phoebe West, pondering evolution.
My gaze flies in his direction. I feel my face reddening like a tomato on speed as I take in the man standing less than a foot away.
Coppery-gold hair, just a tad overgrown, falling over a set of greenish-blue eyes that are lasered-in on my face and, at the moment, twinkling with humor. A wry smile plays out on a set of seriously sexy, full lips — lips that my mortified brain is only now realizing, have produced words.
Words with an accent.
AnIrishaccent.
Holy frack. The sound alone makes my ovaries dance a double jig — two little sexual step-dancers, suddenly all too excited to meet my date who, I must admit, looks nothing like a mouth-breathing cretin. In fact, he looks like Jamie Frasier fromOutlander— which, without the separation of a television screen, is nearly enough to make me stop breathing.
His eyebrows waggle in playful question, and I realize I’ve completely zoned out.
“Um,” I squeak intelligently.
Lila’s laughing — I can hear her cackling away on my right — but I don’t move my eyes from the man invading my space.
He leans closer and I feel my mouth go dry. Other parts of my body are not quite so arid.
Like my sweaty palms. And the uncharted territory between my le—
“Sometimes,” he whispers conspiratorially, cutting off a dangerous train of thought. “My dates even call me Cormack. Though, only when I monologue about wrestling. In my experience, girlslovea lengthy discussion of muscle men in spandex.”
He’s teasing me.