Which brings me to the final thing you need to know about me: I’m a bit of a romantic. Okay, I’m a lot of a romantic. I love the idea of being swept off my feet by a handsome man, of roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, of the guy you’re head over heels in love with down on bended knee with hopeful look in his eyes, and a ring in hand. Talk about swoon! That’s what I want. All of it. At the risk of sounding like a lyric in a rather famous Queen song, I want it all, and I want it now.
But you know what? The world isn’t like that. Well, not anymore anyway. Maybe it was back in the Brontë sisters time or when Jane Austen was penning her romantic tales, or maybe when knights roamed the countryside, saving damsels from huge, scary dragons. Not that I want to be saved, of course, even though the idea of a burly and dashing knight rushing to my aid is kind of appealing. No, Twenty-First Century New Zealand isn’t exactly packed to the gills with Mr. Darcys and Heathcliffs and handsome knights on white stallions. Quite the opposite. In my experience, it’s full of arrogant, self-interested, womanizing rugby players. That’s who it’s filled with.
So, when a cute guy starts to chat to me in the line at the supermarket after work, the first thing I do is check that he’s not a rugby player or a jock of any description. Well, after checking there’s no ring on his finger. A girl can’t be too careful, you know, and he is holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hands. It could be a bad sign.
“That’s kind of a weird question to ask a guy, you know,” he says with his brows pulled in, making him look a little like a cute puppy. You know, in a totally manly human way, of course.
“It’s my thing, I guess. I’m not against people playing sport or anything like that, because, hello? that would be weird, right?”
His lips lift into a smile. “Right,” he agrees. “That would be weird.”
I smile back as I drink him in. This guy is hot! He’s in good shape with sandy blonde hair and green eyes, a few kid-like freckles across his nose. He’s much taller than me, but that’s hardly a big deal. Most guys are taller than me, heck most people are taller than me. “Small but perfectly formed,” Dad always says, although at school my nickname was Tater Tot, which I could not stand, for obvious reasons. I prefer “non-tall,” and now that I’m a fully-grown woman, I praise the sweet Lord for the invention of high heels.
“The thing is, I know too many sports pros, and they’re pretty darn into themselves,” I explain.
“I would have killed to go pro, but it never happened for me,” the cute guy with the flowers says.
We shuffle along the line.
“Well, I guess that means you pass the first test, then.”
He gives a surprised laugh. “I didn’t know this was a test.”
“Oh, it’s not. Not at all,” I reply hurriedly. “We’re just, you know, talking.” I shoot him what I hope is a thoroughly enchanting smile before I look down and pretend to concentrate on choosing which brand of breath mints I want to purchase. As I scan the options—who knew there were so many to breath mints choose from?—I steel a quick glance in his direction and notice him watching me.
“Pick these,” Cute Flower Guy says as he reaches in front of me for some mints.
I catch his scent; an intoxicating mixture of sandalwood and vanilla. I always think you can tell a lot about a guy by his scent. Not only whether he wears aftershave or washes (euw, that would be a straight up “no” for me), but what sort of man he is. Too much cologne and he’s bound to be a flirt and think rather a lot of himself, no cologne and he may as well be a boy. But get it right, with the right pheromones thrown into the mix, and I’ve got myself a contender.
He holds out a packet of mints. “Here. Buy these. They’re the best.”
I take the mints and look up into his eyes. I can’t stand the brand he’s chosen—too strong and spicy for my delicate taste buds—but I drop them into my basket and breathe, “Thanks a lot.”
He holds my gaze, and I feel a surge of exhilaration. This guy might be a potential date! Sure, his taste in mints is less than stellar, but he’s cute as all heck.
I look away as we shuffle forward another couple of inches. I chew on my lip. Who knows? Maybe it’s finally my turn now? My BFFs are both totally loved up with their perfect matches, and I’ve been hoping, hoping to meet mine. Could Cute Flower Guy be him?
“Who are the flowers for?” I ask, and resist the urge to add “are they for your girlfriend?” because that would be waaay too obvious.
He looks down and bites his lip. “Oh, ah, someone died.”
I clap my hand over my mouth. Someone died? And here I am flirting with this guy? “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say hastily as heat rises in my cheeks.
When he doesn’t reply, I add, “And I’m also sorry for talking to you about my policy on not dating sports pros . . . and for the mints.” Why am I apologizing for the mints?
He shakes his head and smiles at me. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. She was my, ah, great aunt. And anyway, you’re fun and she was about three hundred years old. It did not come as a shock to anyone. Believe me.”
Should I feel bad that I’m relieved the flowers aren’t for his girlfriend, even if they are for a dead relative? The jury’s out, but relieved I sure am. “Were you close to your great aunt?” I ask.
“I think the last time I visited her I was fourteen, which is half my life ago, really.”
“Oh, right.” I do a quick age calculation. Twenty-eight. A good age. Not too young so that all he wants in a girl is fun, and not too old that he has serious relationship baggage yet. It’s a fine line.
“I’m really sorry—” I begin as he says, “How about we—”
“You go ahead,” I say and bite me lip, hoping I know what he’s about to say, despite the whole dead great aunt thing.
“I was going to ask you if you’d like to go grab a drink, but then I realized I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Erin Andrews,” I say proffering my free hand, which is my left as I’m holding my basket in my right hand, He takes it and we do an awkward shake.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Erin. I’m Chris Gower, not a professional rugby player,” he answers, surprisingly playfully for someone buying flowers for a funeral.
I laugh. “Well, then, Chris Gower, not a professional rugby player, now that you know my name, if you do decide to ask me for a drink, then my answer would be yes, I would love to.” I grin at him, and add, “Only on account of the fact you’re not a professional rugby player and you have good taste in mints. Nothing more.”
“Well, I’ll let you know,” he replies with a smirk as we shuffle forward some more.
“You do that,” I reply with a grin as I hold his gaze.
There is one tiny problem here, though. Even though I really want to go out with this guy, I know shouldn’t be for a drink. You see, this dating pact I agreed to with my two BFFs, Darcy and Sophie, has got some rules, rules that make sense, at least in theory. In practice? Well, right now, as I look at Chris, smiling at me over his flowers, I wish there weren’t any rules at all. But we designed the No More Bad Dates Pact to help each other find decent guys to date because all three of us were sick of dating a string of jerks, weirdos, and straight-up idiots. It made perfect sense. Rule Number 1 is that a first date is classified as an Initial Meeting, and can only happen over coffee. Alcohol is not recommended because, let’s face it, decision making can be impaired when under the influence. I know. I’ve drunk dialed exes too many times to remember.
So, I’m a feeling conflicted when Chris returns my grin and says, “How about we go for a drink straight from here once we’ve purchased our items.”
As anticipation zings around me I make a decision. I’m going to forget Rule Number 1 of the No More Bad Dates Pact. A girl doesn’t get this sort of opportunity every day. And anyway, this is the first time wanted to go out with a guy in, like, forever. Seriously, I think Netflix hadn’t been invented the last time I dated.
Okay, not that long ago (I mean, was there even a time before Netflix?), but you get the general picture here. It was a long, long time ago. And anyway, I’m certain Darcy and Sophie will understand.
Either that or I won’t tell them.
I glance at Chris’s flowers and push his dead great aunt and the dating pact from my mind. “That would be perfect.”
“I hoped you say that.”
Once outside the supermarket, Chris walks me to my car, where I leave my groceries safely tucked away inside.
“There’s a bar down the street. We could go get a drink there, if that works for you?” he says.
“That sounds good to me.” I keep my voice calm, while inside I’m whooping and doing high kicks.
We take the short walk down to the bar. Conversation flows between us, like we’ve known one another for years, not the minutes it really is. At the bar, Chris offers to buy me a drink, and I take a seat at a high table under a large TV screen. Of course, this is a sports bar, with a game of rugby being played by the Hawks above my head. Seriously, New Zealand is obsessed with the sport. We pretend we’re not, but we so are. And tonight, out for the first time with someone I’ve just met, I’d like to forget about the rugby team I work for and focus on other things, like the fact I’m finally on a date with a guy I like.
We reach the bar and I find a table as Chris places our orders.
A moment later, he arrives at the table, drinks in hand. “One glass of Pinot Grigio for you,” he says as he perches himself on the stool opposite me.
“Thank you so much.” I glance at his glass. It looks like a double shot of scotch. Most guys I know drink beer, so it’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t follow the crowd. I lift my glass and say, “It’s great to meet you, Chris.”
“Likewise,” he replies with a flirty waggle of his eyebrows, before he lifts the glass to his lips and throws the drink back. All of it, every last drop. He lets out an “ah” as he places the now empty glass on the table.
I blink at him in surprise—and concern. I know some people can really hold their liquor, and he is a lot bigger than me, but that amount of scotch would send me straight to La La Land within seconds.
“So, Erin. Tell me all about yourself.”
I tear my eyes from his empty glass and back up at him. “What do you want to know?”
“First up, how come a girl like you is single.” He pauses and adds, “You are single, right?”
“Oh, yes. Of course I am.”
His smile stretches across his face. “That’s great. So, tell me your story. Why are single?”
“Ah, well. Being single, huh?” I begin. Man, I hate that question. Like, really hate that question. I get asked it by Dad, by my granny and great aunt, by pretty much anyone who’s nosey enough to ask. It’s like they’re implying that being single is some kind of embarrassing condition that needs ointment or something. Like a boil. And it’s not. It’s perfectly normal to be single. Particularly when you’re not interested in settling for just any old guy to avoid being alone. Particularly when you’re looking for The One.
“Is it too much of a cop out to say I just haven’t met the right guy?”
“Not at all. I think I like you even more, now that I’ve heard that.” His eyes are warm as he smiles across the (sticky, ugh) table at me and the team of high kickers inside my tummy start doing their thing and shouting “This guy is great!”
We continue to chat and flirt with another, until I’ve finished my glass of wine and Chris offers to buy us another drink. A moment later, he’s back with more Pinot Grigio and an even larger large glass of scotch for himself.
As I eye his drink, I can no longer hold myself back. “You like scotch, huh?”
“Yeah, I do. My family’s Scottish, so I basically grew up on this stuff.”
An image of Chris as a baby, drinking scotch from a bottle flashes before my eyes. “Not really, right?” I say with a light laugh.
“Nah. I’m kidding. But the Scots do know how to drink. Slàinte,” he says, raising his glass. “That’s Gaelic for ‘cheers.’”
“Right. Got it. Slàinte,” I repeat as I lift my glass of wine. I watch, agog, as he swallows down the amber liquid, slapping his empty glass on the table once more.
“Did you have a bad day or something?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It’s really no business of mine. I’ve only just met the guy.
“What?” he asks, then realization dawns on his face. “Oh. Yeah, it’s been a crappy day. A crappy week, really.”
“Because of your great aunt?”
He looks at me blankly.
“The one who died?” I add hesitatingly.
Realization dawns. “Oh, yeah.”
Wow, he really wasn’t close to her.
“But generally, it was a bad week.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “That’s why I’m glad I met you over the bananas.”
I smile, my shoulders relaxing with relief. He’s had a bad week, that’s all. People often drink more when they’re stressed. Although me and my girlfriends tend to stress eat copious amounts of sugar instead, I get that. I work with arrogant, self-interested rugby pros after all. I know first hand what stress is.
He presses his phone on the table and his screen lights up. “Hey, I’ve got to go do a thing right now. Wanna come with me? It won’t take long, and then we can grab a bite to eat.”
“A thing?” I question. I take a sip of my wine, but there’s no way I’m doing what he just did with his drink.
“Yeah. It’s already started, so I’d better go. But, you know, you could come. If you want.”
Although his scotch intake is sounding alarm bells in my head, I really like this guy, and I don’t want this first date—okay, “Initial Meeting”—to end just yet. “That sounds fun.”
“It’s a wake for, you know, my great aunt.”
“Oh.” Oh, no. “Not fun then.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll deliver these,” he picks up the flowers from the table and waves them in the air, “say hello to some people, and then we can go. It’ll take ten minutes tops.”
Going to a wake for the great aunt of a guy I met less than an hour ago seems a little off. A lot off. “Are you sure?” I question. “I didn’t know her. It feels kinda weird to me.”
He hops off his stool and offers me his hand. “I am totally sure. Having you there will really help take my mind off it all.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t seen her since you were fourteen.”
“Oh, yeah. Take my mind off death in general, that’s what I mean.” He shudders. “Death. It sucks.”
Ah, he’s a poet.
We walk hand-in-hand out of the bar and down the street a block to a church hall. I can hear people talking in low, respectful voices inside before Chris pushes through the doors and we’re suddenly in a brightly-lit room, packed full of people dressed in black, all with grim looks on their faces. Which is appropriate, of course, because this is a wake for a dead person.
I look down at my yellow, summery dress, and instantly feel like a lone flower in the gloom. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dress. I made it myself, like I do with a lot of my clothes, which I need to do. Being non-tall finding cute and sexy clothes can be a challenge.
A stiff-looking middle-aged woman with bobbed hair and a gaunt face approaches us. “Chris. You’re here,” she says, and then slides her eyes over me and says, “and you brought a date.” There’s more than a note of distaste in her voice.
“Yeah, ah, this is Erin,” Chris says with a slur before he turns and flings the flowers he bought unceremoniously onto a nearby table.
My guess is all that scotch has hit his bloodstream.
“Erin,” Chris continues, “meet my mom. Mom, this is Erin.”
I gawp at the woman. This is his mother? What a way to meet my potential future mother-in-law! At her aunt’s funeral with her half-drunk son.
“Hello, Mrs.—” I stop abruptly. Wha
t is Chris’s last name again? It starts with a “g” I think. Govenor? Gavin? Or was it a “j?” Oh, I’ve got no idea. In the end, all I do is repeat, “Hello,” in as grave a tone as I can muster, hoping to convey my sense of loss for her as well as respect for the dead. (Which is a lot to load onto one word, really.)
Chris’s mom blinks at me a couple of times before she gives me a brief nod and turns back to Chris. I blink at her. I mean, it’s a little rude, but then I suppose she has just lost her aunt and all.
“Erin’s really great,” Chris begins, totally not reading his mom’s mood. “We met at the supermarket tonight, and I knew she was single because she had bananas in her basket. Did you know that’s a thing, Mom?” he asks her, then turns to me and repeats, “That’s a thing, right? The banana thing?” His voice is really slurring now, which isn’t surprising considering how much alcohol the guy has put away in such a short space of time.
“I, ah . . . yes, I think it is,” I reply. Chris is right. I had heard it somewhere that having bananas in your basket on a certain night of the week indicates singledom, but tonight I was buying bananas because I like bananas. Come to think of it, I wonder what all the married and coupled-up banana-lovers do? Get hit on when all they’re trying to do is buy their favorite fresh produce? Nightmare.
“Well, whether it is or it isn’t, it might have been best to leave your new ‘friend’ at the supermarket, Christopher.” Mrs. Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is gives Chris a meaningful look before she turns to me and says, “He’s grieving, you understand. He’s not quite himself.”
“Yes, of course,” I reply, feeling about the size of a Lilliputian. Why did I let Chris bring me here? I knew it wouldn’t be appropriate to bring a date to a wake. “He must have loved his great aunt very much. Your great aunt. No, that’s not right. Your aunt. Yes, that’s it.”
She crinkles her brow. “I’m sorry?”
I swallow, feeling increasingly awkward. “Chris told me he and the . . . deceased weren’t close, but now I suspect he was putting on a brave face. The loss of anyone in one’s family is hard,” I say, trying my best to sound philosophical and wise, “even if it is for a great aunt one has not seen for some time.” Pleased with my assessment, I tilt my head and smile sympathetically at her.
No More Terrible Dates Page 24
