Enter the sundress that apparently“guys love.”Where’s the closest toilet I can vomit in, please and thank you.
I pull into the parking lot ten minutes late and immediately regret not recognizing the restaurant’s location when Daniel texted me the location pin earlier. Pre-head-injury Hannah would have noted the street, the corner, and properly prepared herself. She wouldn’t have suggested somewhere else because she is mature—a level-headed woman, perfectly capable of being in the vicinity ofthe bar that shall not be named. But it was post-head-injury Hannah that replied with a thumbs up emoji without considering where that pin would bring her, and thus, she’s arrived wholly unprepared.
Add this to the list of things that are Rowan’s fault.Gah, he was so cute though.
A few morewhy God whygrumbles escape me as I find a parking spot. I pull down the visor mirror and yank out my hair clip. My waves fall loose around my shoulders, and I wish I’d given myself enough time to freshen up my curls at home.
Thankfully, the ice pack has kept the knot on my forehead from becoming an enormous eyesore on my face.
I throw on a fresh coat of lip gloss and swipe my fingers under my eyes, stretching the skin over my cheeks. This is as good as it’s going to get.
On quick feet, I sneak through the short alley between buildings, berating myself for my tardiness.
Mom would have a heyday on my dating rules if she saw how late I was right now. Especially if she knew Daniel’s original proposed night for this date was on a Saturday. I could have given more time and attention to my appearance in that case. But as I turn onto the sidewalk, purposefully avoiding the neonBarsign at my back, I remind myself there’s a reason for rule number one.
Rule #1 for first dates: Weeknight plans only.
Any respectable woman leaves herself an out when she’s on a date with a guy she doesn’t know. An early morning meeting at work the next day is the perfect excuse. A necessary excuse, if you ask me, when the guy turns out to be a creep.
Daniel is a creep.
Handsome as he may be, if you’re into the lean, legal scholar, intellectual type—been there, done that, left him at the altar—he’s a creep.
After my fourth not-so-subtle signal for him to stop touching me, I’ve escaped to the bathroom.
First, there was the hand on my arm over appetizers. I casually pulled away without a word, happy to look past it as incidental contact.
Then he brushed a piece of hair behind my ear after the waitress returned with his second drink.Sir, do I even know you?I coughed into my elbow, leaning away from his touch because…germs,duh.
When the entrees arrived, he grazed my shoulder with his fingers.Daniel, what’s my last name?Apparently, dipping my shoulder to reach for my napkin didn’t set off any warning bells in his pea-sized brain, because the final straw was still to come.
This strange man’s hand landed on my thigh as he handed over his credit card to our server. I swiftly pushed back from the table and announced I needed to use the ladies’ room—surely he’s gotten the hint by now.
Not surprisingly, Daniel doesn’t follow my dating rules. Most notably, rule number two.
Rule #2 for first dates: no alcohol.
This one seems like a given in light of rule number one. Yet, not everyone shares my affinity for sobriety around strange men. I have a Manolo stiletto ready to pierce right through the top ofThree-Drinks-Deep Daniel’spreppy dress loafers if he even thinks about asking me to get in his car.
I lean in close to the bathroom mirror, fingers moving gently over the small sensitive lump at my hairline. Funny, a door to the face at the hands of Rowan and the non-existent conversation that followedwherein the only word I managed to say was“huh?”was an infinitely better time than this current date.
Back at the table, I paste on a placard smile as Daniel rises to meet me. “All paid up. I live around the corner. Why don’t we head back to my place for a nightcap.”
My eyes try to roll so hard, but I maintain my composure.
He puts a hand on the small of my back, but I shuffle away and dig through my clutch for some cash. “I’m gonna call it a night, actually. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. Here, let me pay for my half.”
A crease flickers between his brows but is gone a second later, a slimy grin forming. “I thought we were having a good time. Come on, one drink. Please?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I reply, pulling out a couple twenty-dollar bills.
“Are you serious right now?”
My neck jerks. Daniel glances around and steps closer, the smell of gin pouring off him. He lowers his voice. “I spent a hundred and fifty dollars on dinner!”
I hold his gaze hostage for several long seconds because I do not back down from assholes. My face settles into the sort of no nonsense expression I usually reserve for dealing with entitled corporate types. On second thought, Daniel fits the bill perfectly.
“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. But here”—I tuck the cash in the chest pocket of his shirt and tap it twice—“now you only spent a hundred and ten.”