by Misha Bell
The tips of my ears burn with fury, but I slide into the booth rather than make a scene. My grandmother instilled politeness in me from an early age, and even as an adult living on my own, I find it hard to go against her teachings.
She wouldn’t approve of me kneeing this jerk in the balls and telling him to fuck off.
“Thank you,” he says, sliding into the seat across from me. His eyes glint icy blue as he picks up the menu. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I don’t know, Marcus,” I say, putting special emphasis on the formal name. “I’ve only been around you for two minutes, and I’m already feeling homicidal.” I deliver the insult with a ladylike, Grandma-approved smile, and dumping my purse in the corner of my booth seat, I pick up the menu without bothering to take off my coat.
The sooner we eat, the sooner I can get out of here.
A deep chuckle startles me into looking up. To my shock, the jerk is grinning, his teeth flashing white in his lightly bronzed face. No freckles for him, I note with jealousy; his skin is perfectly even-toned, without so much as an extra mole on his cheek. He’s not classically handsome—his features are too bold to be described that way—but he’s shockingly good-looking, in a potent, purely masculine way.
To my dismay, a curl of heat licks at my core, making my inner muscles clench.
No. No way. This asshole is not turning me on. I can barely stand to sit across the table from him.
Gritting my teeth, I look down at my menu, noting with relief that the prices in this place are actually reasonable. I always insist on paying for my own food on dates, and now that I’ve met Mark—excuse me, Marcus—I wouldn’t put it past him to drag me to some ritzy place where a glass of tap water costs more than a shot of Patrón. How could I have been so wrong about the guy? Clearly, he’d lied about working in a bookstore and being a student. To what end, I don’t know, but everything about the man in front of me screams wealth and power. His pinstriped suit hugs his broad-shouldered frame like it was tailor-made for him, his blue shirt is crisply starched, and I’m pretty sure his subtly checkered tie is some designer brand that makes Chanel seem like a Walmart label.
As all of these details register, a new suspicion occurs to me. Could someone be playing a joke on me? Kendall, perhaps? Or Janie? They both know my taste in guys. Maybe one of them decided to lure me on a date this way—though why they’d set me up with him, and he’d agree to it, is a huge mystery.
Frowning, I look up from the menu and study the man in front of me. He’s stopped grinning and is perusing the menu, his forehead creased in a frown that makes him look older than the twenty-seven years listed on his profile.
That part must’ve also been a lie.
My anger intensifies. “So, Marcus, why did you write to me?” Dropping the menu on the table, I glare at him. “Do you even own cats?”
He looks up, his frown deepening. “Cats? No, of course not.”
The derision in his tone makes me want to forget all about Grandma’s disapproval and slap him straight across his lean, hard face. “Is this some kind of a prank for you? Who put you up to this?”
“Excuse me?” His thick eyebrows rise in an arrogant arch.
“Oh, stop playing innocent. You lied in your message to me, and you have the gall to say I’m not what you expected?” I can practically feel the steam coming out of my ears. “You messaged me, and I was entirely truthful on my profile. How old are you? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?”
“I’m thirty-five,” he says slowly, his frown returning. “Emma, what are you talking—”
“That’s it.” Grabbing my purse by one strap, I slide out of the booth and jump to my feet. Grandma’s teachings or not, I’m not going to have a meal with a jerk who’s admitted to deceiving me. I have no idea what would make a guy like that want to toy with me, but I’m not going to be the butt of some joke.
“Enjoy your meal,” I snarl, spinning around, and stride to the exit before he can block my way again.
I’m in such a rush to leave I almost knock over a tall, slender brunette approaching the café and the short, pudgy guy following her.
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About the Author
I love writing humor (often the inappropriate kind), happy endings (both kinds), and characters quirky enough to be called oddballs (because… balls). If you love your romance heavy on the comedy and feel-good vibes, visit www.mishabell.com and sign up for my newsletter.
