Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  Dating-ish

  a humanoid romance

  Penny Reid

  Contents

  Dating-ish

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  What’s next from Penny Reid?

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Acknowledgements, links, and resources

  Dating-ish

  A humanoid romance

  by Penny Reid

  http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter

  Caped Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead, or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental, if not somewhat disturbing and/or concerning.

  Copyright © 2017 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Caped Publishing

  Made in the United States of America

  eBook Edition: May 2017

  ISBN 978-1-942874-22-5

  To my fellow Asimov readers, who know that the first law of robotics should be the first law of humanity.

  1

  DeepMind

  A neural network that learns in a fashion similar to that of humans and may be able to access an external memory like a conventional Turing machine, resulting in a computer that mimics the short-term memory of the human brain.

  –Source: Google’s Artificial Intelligence Program

  I was sweating.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  My head whipped up from the book I wasn’t actually reading to look at the café employee. Her hands rested on the only other chair at my table and she gazed at me with an affable, expectant smile.

  “It’s taken,” I shrieked. Like a lunatic.

  But, man, I need that chair!

  She lifted her hands, recoiling as though the metal singed her skin, and gave me a wide-eyed stare. My attention moved behind her and I spotted the nearby table of university students, obviously hunting for an extra seat.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I shook my head, gathering a deep breath and telling myself to calm down. “I’m meeting someone and he’ll be here soon. I’m a little early.”

  “Okay, no problem.” She affixed a polite smile and moved to another table, making the same enquiry.

  Longingly, I gazed at the booth by the window. Every café or coffee shop has that one coveted table, where two to four friends can gather and spend an afternoon not being overheard while sharing ideas and stories. Or where a person can go to work—impervious to the room and its distractions—headphones on, laptop open, losing count of how many lattes and croissants were consumed over an eight-hour day.

  I did not have that table. I had a mediocre table, set in the center of the coffee shop, surrounded by other mediocre tables.

  But I would not let my mediocre table get me down.

  My attention flickered to the door of the café, then to the clock above it. He wasn’t late. Yet.

  Squirming, wishing I’d worn anything other than this sweater dress, my eyes returned to the book on my lap.

  Pay no attention to me, nothing to see here. I’m just perspiring, wearing a sweater dress in May, and not reading while waiting for my perfect match.

  Derek Simmons. Six foot three with a well-maintained beard, great smile, gray eyes, tan complexion, and short hair. He didn’t work out regularly—which was great, because that meant he didn’t expect me to work out either—but enjoyed some outdoorsy activities. Engineer. Thirty-nine. Divorced, two kids.

  Derek and I were a perfect match. That’s what FindUrPartner.com indicated last Thursday.

  You have a perfect match. The notification alerted me as soon as I signed in. The irony was, I’d been logging in to suspend my account. After almost two years of Internet dating debacles and equally disappointing men, I was ready for a break. But then I’d received the perfect match message. Therefore, I did what any normal person would do.

  I Internet stalked him.

  Loves: cooking, hiking, camping, eighties music, film noir. Reads: GQ Magazine, The Economist, Politico. TV shows: The Walking Dead, Daredevil, and Project Runway.

  . . . cooking, film noir, The Economist, and Project Runway?

  YES! A man unicorn.

  Compelled by his uni-horn, I emailed him.

  Hi Derek,

  I hope you are well. According to this website, we’re a perfect match. This has never happened to me before, so I thought I’d reach out and say hi. Let me know if you’d like to meet up for coffee sometime. I work downtown near the Loop and am free next Monday afternoon.

  Best, Marie

  The next morning, I was alerted that he’d looked at my profile, and I read his response with bated breath.

  Hi Marie,

  Thanks so much for your note.

  Next Monday works for me. I’m near the university. You name the place and I’ll be there.

  -Derek

  I loved his response.

  Direct. To the point. Polite. No detour into unnecessary topics. No typos.

  To say my hopes were high would be a gross understatement. My hopes had reached astronomical. Since our exchange of emails, I’d tried to curtail those blasted hopes to no avail. I couldn’t help my hopes.

  Don’t run away from me, hopes! I can’t move that fast in these heels and we’re in this together.

  But they did run away, hopping onto a spaceship—likely one of those SpaceX crafts that keeps infuriating Elon Musk by blowing up—leaving me on the ground, waving frantically, which was probably compounding my sweating problem.

  Arm waving at one’s high hopes while wearing a sweater dress in May is a workout.

  But he’s perfect!

  This squealing nugget of optimism originated from some dark corner in my brain. Once I found the owner of this voice inside my head, I was going to . . . I didn’t honestly know. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be bitter and jaded, trading optimism for pessimism.

  Or worse, nihilism. Nihilism was the worst. And the perpetuators of it had no imagination when it came to accessorizing. All black, all the time? No, thank you.

  I checked the clock over the entrance for maybe the hundredth time just as a man walked through the door. My heart did an odd prickling thing, but then the sensation eased. He wasn’t Derek. The man was too short and had no beard. And he was clearly younger than thirty-nine, more like late twenties.

  With another sigh, I returned my attention to the book in my lap. I didn’t even know the title, having grabbed it from the bookstore across the street in a fit of pre-date-overthinking-induced insanity. I didn’t want to wait for him by scrolling through messages on my phone. I felt like phone-scr
olling was too prosaic. And I didn’t want to be one of those people who just stared forward or people-watched while waiting, even though I loved to people watch. And I didn’t—

  “You’re Marie.”

  I glanced up, blinking at the man standing in front of my table, the man who I’d just dismissed as being not-Derek. He wasn’t looking at me. Rather, his gaze was on the open pages of my book.

  “Yes?”

  His eyes quickly darted to mine and then away as he removed his coat. “I’m your date.”

  I frowned because I was surprised. And because I was surprised, it took me a solid five seconds to respond. By then he’d already placed his jacket on the back of his chair.

  “Oh! Hi. Hi. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat across from mine and belatedly stood, trying not to feel weird about my smile. I never knew how big to smile during these things. I missed the days when I could just smile naturally and not have to think about it.

  Reassessing my date, my eyes flicked over him. He was definitely not six foot three. More like six foot even, or a little shorter.

  No big deal. A lot of guys embellish their height on dating sites, except . . .

  He shaved his beard.

  Sad face :-(

  And again, he looked younger than thirty-nine. And his skin was white, paler than the olive complexion I’d been expecting, which was fine, but different from his picture.

  “Derek?” I really was confused by the differences between his photo and his reality.

  “Yes. I’m Derek. Derek is my name. That’s me.” Derek, my date, extended his hand, shook mine with a perfunctory up-down movement, and then claimed the seat I’d offered.

  My smile wavered. My hopes crashed to the earth in a giant, burning cluster-comet of disappointment. I braced myself. We hadn’t made it past the first minute of awkward and I already knew things weren’t going to work out.

  Derek was not my perfect match.

  We had zero chemistry. No spark when we touched. No shock or magic voodoo juju awesomeness. No nothing.

  And no eye contact. He wouldn’t even look at me.

  Inwardly, I sighed and cringed, wondering if we’d be able to wrap this up quickly so I could run to the drugstore for some tampons before meeting my knitting group for wine, and yarn, and then more wine.

  Outwardly, I pressed my lips into a shape I hoped resembled a smile and sat in my chair. My eyes sought the clock over the door. It was only 3:14. My record for a coffee date was twenty minutes. I wondered if I could break it today.

  “Did you want anything?” I motioned to the cup in front of me, keeping my voice light. “I grabbed a drink already.”

  “No,” he said, a slight business-like smile affixed to his features. “Let’s get started.”

  “S-started?”

  Derek was looking at his watch. He pressed a button. He let his hands drop to his lap. Only then did he lift his eyes to mine.

  And then he blinked, his smile slipping infinitesimally, as though the sight of me was unexpected.

  I lifted my eyebrows, waiting, because apparently it was time for us to get started. Whatever that meant.

  “Hi,” he said. His gaze moved over my features, his smile growing hazy, more genuine.

  . . . Huh.

  He had brown eyes. His brown eyes held me momentarily transfixed, and not just because they weren’t gray—as he’d listed on his page—but because they were expressive and remarkably attractive.

  His hair was also brown, but longer than it had been in his pictures.

  Truly, he really did look significantly different than his profile—surely not just because of the absent beard? Nevertheless, despite being beardless, his face was handsome: high cheekbones, strong nose, a jaw that was decidedly square. His eyes were remarkably wide and round, but somehow they suited him perfectly, and I decided his eyes were my favorite part of him.

  I allowed my smile to mirror his, my gaze dropping momentarily to his very nice lips, which honestly struck me as oddly pouty for a man.

  Okay, let’s give him a chance. Even though he misrepresented his height, age, and eye color . . .

  So. Weird.

  Who does that?

  “Hi,” I finally replied, examining him, my reporter spidey-sense tingling.

  Derek flinched at my returned greeting, his eyes narrowing, and he frowned.

  “You’re Marie?” His tone was distrustful?

  “Yes.” I nodded once, slowly, cataloging his clothes. “And you’re Derek.”

  “Of course I’m Derek. Who else would I be?”

  “Uh . . .” Yeeeeeah no. I can’t wait to tell Sandra about this guy.

  “Moving on.” He shook his head again, as though shaking himself, and frowned at the table. “So, Marie, you’re a writer?”

  “That’s right. And you’re an engineer?” I asked, no longer in date mode.

  “Your profile said you’ve had one serious relationship in the past, is this true?” Derek lifted his dark eyes to mine again and this time his expression struck me as carefully neutral.

  “Yes.” I gave him a pointed look. “Everything on my profile is true.”

  It didn’t feel necessary to clarify that though I’d only been in one serious relationship, I’d had relationships in my early twenties, all of which—except my last boyfriend—had been bad and/or unhealthy decisions.

  So, yes, technically everything on my profile was true.

  Not like your profile, buddy. Not even your eye color is right.

  He didn’t seem to catch my hint. “As a woman in your thirties, what are you most looking for in a companion?”

  I flinched, unaccustomed to such severely direct questions right off the bat. Not that I was opposed to directness, just that it wasn’t typical on first dates.

  In my limited experience with online dating, the order of actions was usually as follows:

  1. Both people smile and try not to betray their thoughts as expectations based on photos are either surpassed, met, or disappointed.

  2. I shake off my initial impression and try to have an open mind, talk about inconsequential things like movies and the weather.

  3. I don’t get my hopes up if things are going well.

  4. I never commit to seeing him again in order to avoid appearing overeager.

  5. I wait three days, and then text. If the text is not returned, forget him and move on.

  I’d only sent a text to four guys over the last two years. Three had returned my message. None had lasted longer than the third date, and no one had ever felt right.

  “I guess . . .” I cleared my throat, glancing over Derek’s shoulder to the busy café behind him, as I attempted to parse my thoughts.

  As a woman in your thirties was a strange way to frame the question. What did my age have to do with anything?

  “So, you would say that you don’t know what you want?” He sounded curious.

  My gaze cut back to his. “Yes, I know what I want.”

  “But you don’t want to tell me?”

  “I don’t mind telling you.” I studied him for a moment, gathered a deep breath, and spoke the truth. “I’m looking for the right person.”

  I’m looking for my perfect match.

  Derek’s expression didn’t change, and he continued to gaze at me with a patient, watchful expression. But when I didn’t continue, he angled his head forward as though to say, go on.

  “And?”

  “And that’s it. I’m looking for the right person.”

  “Ah, okay. And what traits will this right person have? Starting with the most important.”

  What?

  “I—”

  “And if you could rank each attribute on a ten-point scale of importance—where ten is the most important—that would be very helpful.”

  Now I openly frowned at him. “You want me to rank personality traits on a ten-point scale, starting with what I find most important?”

  “Not just personality traits, physical at
tributes as well. Or, if you like, you can start with your love dialect.”

  “My love dialect?”

  “Correct. What form of affection is most meaningful to you, and so forth.”

  We stared at each other. He continued to regard me placidly, with a friendly albeit detached smile. Meanwhile, I was plotting my escape, polite social discourse be damned.

  Usually, I didn’t agree to meeting face to face unless I’d spoken to the potential date on the phone first, ensuring we had some level of chemistry. But I’d made an exception for Derek, because he was supposed to be my perfect match.

  But clearly the system didn’t factor in the degree to which a person is a loon.

  Says the sweating woman who had astronomical—and therefore understandably annihilated—hopes. Look in the mirror, looney bird.

  I was just about to make an excuse when he announced, “We should engage in small talk. How was your day?”

  “Pardon me?”

  Nuts. He’s completely nuts.

  “Or if you don’t wish to discuss your day, we could talk about hobbies,” he offered cordially, gesturing to my lap. “Do you read for work or pleasure?”

  Distracted by his rapid and bizarre subject change, I responded unthinkingly, “I usually read for fun.” I’m sure the look I gave him was one of complete bewilderment.

  “Really? Does kidnapping and sexual torture sound like fun to you?”

  My mouth fell open and I reared back in my seat.

  This guy wasn’t a loon, he was completely insane.

  I managed to sputter, “What are you suggesting?”

  “The 120 Days of Sodom.” He tilted his chin toward my lap.

  I flinched, a short, aggrieved, disbelieving laugh bursting from my lips. “Oh my God.” Then to the table I said, “You’re completely crazy.”

  Derek frowned at me, as though I’d confused him. His eyes bounced between the table and me. “What?”

  “You’re completely crazy,” I repeated, reaching behind me for my coat.

  “I’m crazy?”

  If he hadn’t just suggested four months of sodomy I might have found the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows adorable. But, given the fact that sexual torture wasn’t far from his mind, I decided the wrinkle wasn’t adorable. It was distressing.