The Dating Dare (Gambling Men Book 2)

by Barbara Dunlop

  Back in the living area, I laced up my runners and tied a sweater around my waist. “I’m ready.”

  “You’re fast,” Sophie said, coming to her feet.

  “Do you have to stop and change?” I asked.

  She was wearing blue jeans and heeled black boots with a burgundy tunic sweater that had a loose cowl neck and a row of oversize buttons. Her hair was airy and fluffy and framed her face.

  “I’ll just go like this.”

  Once again, she looked chic to my utilitarian.

  I wasn’t going to let myself worry about that. It wasn’t like I wanted to impress Ethan.

  I locked up and we headed down the central staircase.

  My phone buzzed against my butt and I retrieved it from my pocket.

  It was James.

  For some reason, my chest gave a little lift at the sight of his name.

  I didn’t want to answer in front of Sophie, but I didn’t want to not answer, either. So I slowed my steps and let her get ahead.

  “Hi,” I said into the phone, sounding more breathless than I’d expected.

  “Are you biking?” he asked.

  “Heading down the stairs.”

  “Doing stairs. Good for you.” He sounded impressed.

  “No, not doing stairs, just going down them. I’m with Sophie.”

  “Oh. I misunderstood. Girls’ night out?”

  “No, another double date.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Oh... With mediocre guy?”

  I hung back even farther. “I don’t think you should call him that. But, yes, with Ethan again.” I listened for a second. “James?”

  “I shouldn’t bother you, then.”

  “It’s no bother. We’re just heading out. What’s up?”

  “I was thinking about the weekend. But you probably have a date.”

  “I don’t have a date.” I didn’t expect to have a date. I was going along tonight to support Sophie.

  I came to the bottom of the stairs as Sophie was on her way out the door.

  “What were you thinking?” I asked James.

  I wouldn’t mind having some plans for the weekend. I wouldn’t mind it at all. If nothing else, it would give me a good answer on Friday when people asked what I was doing.

  “That we could shop for some new clothes. I don’t know anything about the right places or the right designers, but we could look that up. We have to start somewhere.”

  “We do,” I agreed.

  I’d never gone clothes shopping with a guy before. I usually went with Sophie and Brooklyn. Which, now that I thought about it, was usually about their clothes and not mine.

  I pretty much had a set style: Miles Carerra for blazers and skirts, Nordin for slacks and Mistress Hinkle for blouses. I rarely bought dresses. I stuck with my classic standbys that I’d had for a few years now.

  I picked up jeans, yoga pants and T-shirts at the outlet mall. I didn’t much care who made them, as long as they fit.

  “So?” James prompted.

  Sophie had stopped. Holding the door open, she waited, watching me with a puzzled expression.

  I tried to look like I was having a business conversation. “What time?”

  “I’ll text Saturday morning. Around nine?”

  “That’ll work. I better go. Sophie’s waiting.”

  “Have a mediocre time.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as I started walking. “That’s kind of what I’m expecting.”

  “Who was that?” Sophie asked. “What are you expecting?”

  “I’m expecting the Things Festival to be interesting,” I said.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  She didn’t press me for more information on the phone call, and I didn’t volunteer. The James and Nat self-improvement project was going to stay a closely guarded secret.

  As we climbed into Sophie’s car, my phone pinged.

  I checked to see the message was from James.

  Enjoying the mediocrity?

  I sent a smiley face back, because he’d made me smile.

  “What’s going on?” Sophie asked as she pulled into traffic.

  “Work,” I said.

  I didn’t explain what kind of work. And creating a whole new me was going to take a lot of work. It was going to take a whole lot of work.

  So I reasoned that I wasn’t lying. I was misdirecting. Misdirecting wasn’t exactly noble, but it wasn’t the worst sin in the world, either.

  And I was being Sophie’s wingman tonight—reluctantly but with good humor, I was helping a friend. I hoped the two things balanced each other out.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, James picked me up in a low-slung red convertible.

  It shone bright under the sunshine, looking out of place against the dusty curb.

  “Is this new?” I asked, shading my eyes. My clip-on sunglasses were in my purse, and I decided I was going to need them.

  As usual, I was glad to be prepared.

  “I bought it yesterday,” James said. “What do you think?”

  I didn’t know what I thought. Mostly I thought, Holy cow! “It’s very red.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I went to the dealer at lunchtime.”

  “Uh-huh.” I was trying to think of something positive to say.

  The car was pretty ugly, low to the ground, a bit boxy. The black interior was harsh. It looked like something a gangster might have owned in the ’70s. And I wasn’t sure about owning a convertible in Seattle. We had plenty of nice days in the summer, I supposed. But we had plenty of rain, too. And the winters were a mixture of slush and ice. It was hard to tell how well the car would stay heated.

  “I took a good look at everything they had,” James said.

  “And you picked this?”

  “You hate it.”

  “I... It’s... It definitely doesn’t seem like something you’d pick.”

  “I know. That’s the point. I picked the one I wouldn’t have picked. It’s a new me car.” He opened the passenger door to let me in.

  “I suppose.”

  If we were changing who we were, I guessed what you drove was part of that.

  I had a ten-year-old crossover, hunter green. It was serviceable if not beautiful. It definitely wasn’t flashy.

  I held on to the back of the bucket seat as I lowered myself inside. It was low, really low. If we had to hide under the trailer of a semi, we were going to fit just fine.

  James shut the door, and I felt like I was sitting on the sidewalk.

  He rounded the back and got in on the driver’s side.

  He popped a pair of sunglasses on his face and adjusted the rearview mirror.

  “Do you like the way it drives?” I asked.

  He started the engine, and it throbbed beneath us, roaring under the hood.

  Since the top was down, I could hear every piston.

  “It corners like a supercar,” he said.

  “I take it that’s good?”

  “It’s very good.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Buckle up.”

  I snapped myself in.

  The tires chirped as we jolted away. James wound out the engine in first, then grabbed second gear and we lurched forward.

  I was sucked back against my seat.

  He quickly braked, since we were coming to a red light.

  “Comfortable?” he called to me above the noise and the wind.

  “The seat’s nice,” I said.

  “What?” He cupped his ear.

  “The seat’s nice!” I called out.

  He nodded.

  The light turned green and we lurched forward again.

  It had good
acceleration, I’d give it that.

  We slowed and turned onto the I-5 on-ramp, and James pressed on the gas.

  We were going faster than traffic and easily merged.

  Something hit me in the forehead. It stung, and I flinched.

  “What?” he asked me.

  I reached up to find a smashed bug on my forehead.

  I held it out to him. “I’m not crazy about having the top down.”

  He laughed at me.

  The cad.

  Okay, I’d admit it was kind of funny.

  “You’d think the windshield would be a little higher,” he said.

  Then he flinched, and I saw a black spot on his cheek.

  This time I laughed at him.

  He geared down. He flipped on his signal and took an exit.

  “This sucks,” he said.

  “It’s a little bit funny,” I said.

  “This is a stupid car.”

  “You don’t like it?” I wanted to ask if he’d even test-driven it before he bought it. It seemed like an awfully impulsive purchase.

  “You hate it,” he said.

  “It’s not about what I like.”

  “Okay, I hate it.”

  We were slowing down now, and the noise wasn’t quite so oppressive.

  “So why did you buy it?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t want to buy something I liked.”

  “Like a practical sedan?”

  He turned onto a side street. “I’ve had one of those for years.”

  “Maybe you went too far the other way.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know.” I was thinking this through as I spoke. “We’re going to have to like the people we turn into.”

  He turned into the empty lot of a small park. “The danger in that is that we’ll stay exactly as we are. We have to expand.”

  “We can choose the direction we expand in.”

  “We can’t trust our own instincts. Our own instincts are what brought us to where we are.”

  I had to admit, he had a point.

  He brought the car to a halt in a parking spot facing a baseball diamond.

  “How about this,” I said. “I’ll trust your instincts, and you trust mine. That way we change it up, but we don’t...” I gestured to the dashboard. “We don’t do something completely stupid.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?”

  “I’m calling this car stupid. It’s going to be freezing in the winter, if you don’t lose it in the first snowfall. I feel like a kindergarten kid sitting down so low. The black leather looks like something a gangster would own. And it’s butt ugly, James. Fire-engine red? What, are you having a midlife crisis?”

  James started to laugh.

  “I’m just saying...”

  “The dealership’s only about five miles from here.”

  “Can you take it back?” That seemed like the best course of action to me—the very best course of action.

  “I can probably exchange it for something else.”

  I breathed a sigh. “I think you should.”

  “I think I should, too. And I think you’re picking the next one.”

  “What?”

  He couldn’t be serious.

  He put it in Reverse. “We’ve determined we can’t trust my taste.”

  “But...I can’t pick you out a car. A pair of blue jeans, sure. Maybe a tux. Maybe even a hat.”

  “You think I need a hat.”

  “No. I’m not saying you need a hat. You don’t need a hat. You have very nice hair.”

  He did have very nice hair, thick and dark, classically cut in a way that showed off his square jaw and gorgeous blue eyes.

  He headed for the parking lot exit. “You’re picking the new one, Nat.”

  I tried to be helpful. “You just have to go...I don’t know...a little less...flamboyant.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “I’m not doing it alone, James.”

  “Ah, but you are. You volunteered.”

  “I did not.”

  “And I quote—you trust my instincts.”

  He looked completely serious.

  I considered for a moment the strategy of choosing something completely ridiculous, like a superlifted pickup truck. Then he’d have to overrule me. That could work.

  “I can hear what you’re thinking,” he said as we tooled along a main road.

  “You cannot.”

  “You’re thinking if you botch it, I’ll have to take over. I’m not going to take over. This one’s on you.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Nope. I’ve gained yours. I think I got the good end of that trade.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Then are you going to pick me out a new car?”

  He glanced over at me. “Absolutely.”

  I’d been joking. “I can’t afford a new car.”

  “It doesn’t have to be brand-new. But cars are like clothes. They introduce us to the world.”

  I gestured to the dashboard again. “And this is what you wanted to say?”

  “I plead temporary insanity.”

  Four

  I chose a gunmetal-gray SUV. It had sleek curves, a tough-looking black grille, diamond-shaped headlights, big durable wheels that would stand up to any weather conditions, and comfortable seats that made you feel like you were sitting on a cloud.

  I didn’t analyze my choice too closely. I just knew that if three men drove up, one in a sports car, one in a sedan and one in an SUV, I’d be most interested in the SUV guy.

  Maybe it projected strength, or maybe there was room in the back for my eventual kids. It could easily have been anthropology and my primal brain influencing my decision. But I picked it, and James bought it, and we left a very happy salesman behind.

  “This is way better,” James said as we drove along I-5 and he fiddled with the controls on the dashboard.

  “I can hear every word you say,” I said. “It’s like a miracle.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Your taste is better than my taste.”

  I felt a moment of doubt. “As long as you truly like it.”

  “I like it a lot.” His smile turned warm and his tone was sincere.

  I liked how his voice sounded in my ears. I liked how the warmth made me feel—like I’d done something right and he was happy about it.

  “We’re going downtown,” he said. “I researched the ‘it’ places to buy a tux.”

  “You’re seriously buying a tux? You can rent those, you know.”

  “Be honest, Nat. Do you go for the guy in an off-the-rack rented tux, or for the one in a perfectly cut, perfectly fitting owned tuxedo?”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Answer the question, partner.”

  “Owned,” I admitted. “But I’m not falling for a bankrupt guy, either.”

  James grinned. “I’m not going bankrupt.”

  “Bold words from a man spending like a drunken sailor.”

  “I don’t need to cash in the 401(k) just yet.”

  “You have a 401(k)?”

  “Why? Is that sexy?”

  I batted my eyelashes at him. “Depends on the size. Women like a man who can provide.”

  “Should I have my tax status tattooed on my forehead?”

  “A little too showy, I’d say. You’ll have to work it into conversation.”

  “And that won’t be showy?”

  I patted the dashboard. “If you show up in this baby wearing your new tux, you won’t have to brag about money.”

  “And you say men are shallow.”

  “I didn’t say you were shallow. I said you were obsessed with looks.”

  He exited the interstate onto
the downtown streets. “Fair enough. We pretty much are. But your gender seems all about money.”

  “It’s not so much the money.”

  “Ha.”

  “It’s the power, all the power things—good height, broad shoulders, confident stance, intelligent, good career and, as it turns out, a really nice SUV.”

  He deepened his tone to übersexy. “That’s because it has tall tires and deep treads.”

  I raised my fingertips to my chest. “Be still my beating heart.”

  He grinned along with me.

  We made our way into downtown and found a spot in an underground parkade. From there, James led the way to Brookswood, a high-end store near the waterfront. I’d never been inside it. I’d sure never planned to shop here.

  “I assume they sell tuxes here,” I said as we passed through a tall glass doorway into what felt like a rarefied environment.

  It was nearly silent. The lighting was muted. The floor was a plush carpet. The displays and stands were placed far apart. It was clear to me that successful people came here to buy very expensive things.

  We’d entered into the purse and shoe section.

  I didn’t see any price tags on the nearby merchandise. It was probably just as well. The prices would likely freak me out. Good thing we were shopping for James and not for me.

  “I think they sell most things,” he said.

  We stopped and took in the lay of the store.

  “How did you pick this place?” I asked.

  “Fashion bloggers.”

  “Seriously?” It was hard to picture James browsing fashion blogs.

  “They’re pretty obsessive about shoes,” he said. “And I have to say, I’m not about to wear any of those tight leather pants.”

  “I think you’d look awesome in tight leather pants,” I said with a straight face.

  “Bright red,” he said with disgust. “Bright red leather, decorated with steel studs. I’d feel like it was Halloween.”

  “And you were going as a disco vampire?”

  James shuddered.

  A well-dressed man approached us.

  We turned to greet him, and he offhandedly but obviously took in our outfits.