Ten Dates: A fun and sexy romantic comedy novel (The Power of Ten Book 1)

by Emily James

  It’s no good. The material of my dress won’t pull down unless I remove the blanket from its tangled state, and in doing so I risk waking Six. It’s a risk I must take, peeing in the bed with Six would definitely be worse than him seeing my granny pants.

  I carefully unravel Chesney from the twisted straight jacket that he has become, and pray the mattress doesn’t squeak as I crawl off it.

  When my feet touch ground, I chance a glance back. Six’s T-shirt lays on the floor beside my bed. He’s sleeping shirtless, reclining against my black faux leather headboard that in this light matches both the hair on his head and the fine smattering of hair between his square, hard pectoral muscles. He looks so good, like an Adonis male model resting between shots.

  Trust Six not to get snotty-eye or garbage breath.

  My phone is on my dresser. I’ll have to be quick, or I really might pee on my floor. I open up the camera app, no need for a flattering filter today and take a quick snap. I make a fatal error.

  What happens next is in slow motion.

  The camera clicks in an audible snap. Six snuffles, and one eye, his right eye, opens in a flash.

  “Four, did you just photograph me sleeping?” he asks. His voice is a husky, sleepy groan.

  My arm is still outstretched, the incriminating device still clenched in my hand. I can’t deny it, yet I can’t explain it.

  I am a pervert, I know.

  As if paparazzi faced with a lawsuit, I run out of the bedroom and into my bathroom, locking the door behind me.

  How do I get myself into these situations?

  I hide my phone in the laundry hamper, pee and then shower. I’ll just deny the photograph. He can’t prove it after all. He was half asleep.

  After my shower, I check my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed as if I spent the whole night having torrid sex.

  Unable to employ any more delay tactics, I go face the music and to find out what Six is actually doing in my bed.

  Six is no longer in my bedroom, so I dress quickly in skinny jeans and a sweater and follow the smell of coffee. Six sits at my dining table, a pot of coffee and two cups in front of him. He has put his T-shirt back on and sits with his feet on the chair opposite. I sit beside him and wait for the onslaught.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks. His eyes have a soft kindness to them.

  “I feel okay, a bit hung over. I remember bits of last night; flashes of information, really. I think I probably drank too much wine, you know, on top of the cookies.” I flush with embarrassment. It feels like I am confessing to my Headmaster.

  “Yes, Four. Not your finest moment.” Six bites on his lip, to keep from laughing. His amusement of my situation is infuriating.

  “What? Oh, you think this is my fault? That I knowingly eat pot cookies and go on dates with police officers for thrills? Well, Six, I’ll have you know that if I wanted that kind of excitement then I’d just stay home and get tortured by you!” I huff and fold my arms in front of my chest, as if I am a petulant child.

  “Now, now, Four. We’re being nice, remember? I’m even going to let you keep the photograph you took of me...”

  My mouth opens to deny his slanderous accusations but he interrupts. “We will never mention the shot again, if you forgive Mikey, no questions asked. He’s feeling incredibly bad, so much so he’s gone into hiding. Between you and me, he’s staying at Melinda’s place if you want to phone him and make up.”

  “Hiding? More likely he’s still laughing!”

  The corner of Six’s mouth twitches and I know I am right.

  “I could kill him, Six. I was on a date with a police officer!” I hold my face in my hands.

  The sound of the coffee pouring into cups catches my attention and I look up. Six concentrates as he idly puts milk and sugar into both cups. He’s fascinating to watch. His fingers are long and the muscles on his forearms are full and dense. I wish I wasn’t in the naughty corner, so I could actually bare to meet his eyes with mine.

  “You’ll forgive him; he saved your ass in the end. He called Melinda to come rescue you, after he worked out you replaced his special cookies, with the raisin cookies. But she was stranded at her house with her kids. He thought he was the last person you would want to see once you knew, so he knocked on my door. It was interesting to watch your friends all concerned for your welfare. They care a lot about you, that’s for sure.”

  “Is that so hard to believe?” I ask, my eyes meeting his, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  He reaches his hand across the table; his fingers twist the heart on my charm bracelet. “No, Four, that’s not hard to believe at all.”

  The beat of my heart spikes and thumps. I pick up my coffee with shaking hands needing a distraction from the intensity of his gaze. The coffee is too hot and it burns on the way down.

  “Why did you stay?”

  “Four, you don’t seem the type of woman to get high normally, and Melinda was worried you might throw up in your sleep and choke, so I agreed to stay and make sure you didn’t die.”

  “Until you fell asleep, you mean?” I smile at him and he raises a cocky eyebrow in return.

  “Hey, you were in no condition to stay awake in your bed with me, Four. Had you been, I don’t think either of us would have gotten any sleep.”

  I remember his Viking-like body, in only a pair of jeans and take another sip of coffee while I look away. Being utterly sleep deprived has never sounded so attractive.

  “Is this a truce, then? Are we friends now?” I ask, changing the subject before I say something embarrassing.

  “I don’t think we’ll ever be friends, Four,” he replies.

  My chin juts out and my eyes narrow. “Fine,” I reply. “No skin off my nose.”

  “I meant... Never mind. Why do you continue to go on these silly dates anyway? Surely you’re not so desperate?”

  My anger flares. Who does Six think he is?

  “No, I am not desperate!” I say incredulously, in shock at his cheek. “I am trying to meet someone. I am sick of...” being lonely, being with the wrong guy, “stupid men who think they know everything!” I glare at him.

  Six’s nostril’s flare. “Well you are putting yourself in danger, meeting a bunch of guys you don’t even know. It’s reckless!”

  I stand and my hands grip the table.

  “Oh, well you should know all about reckless, Six. After all, you nearly pummelled Twenty’s head right through my wall! How is it fair that you, I mean, guys in general can screw whomever they like, but I go on a few blind dates and I’m reckless!” I yell.

  His lips purse and he stands too.

  “I never, I mean, Twenty has nothing to do with this, she’s not even... You are putting yourself in danger. Who’s the next guy, huh, Four? Ted Bundy? Maybe you’ll strike it lucky and they won’t murder you, they’ll just keep you as a pet!”

  Six starts to leave and I follow him, yelling like some kind of crazy banshee.

  “Thanks for keeping me alive.” I use finger punctuation to emphasise his ridiculousness. “But I think I’d rather take my chances. It’s not like it can be any less risky than living next to you!”

  “You keep telling yourself that, Four!”

  Six opens the door and I slam it behind him.

  Trust Six to have the last word!

  EVEN THOUGH I MOSTLY feel like cancelling today’s date, I don’t. Firstly, I don’t want to give Six the satisfaction of thinking I’ve listened to his self-righteous advice; and secondly, it’s paintballing, which I’ve always wanted to try. Shooting the shit out of something might be just the cure for my pent up aggression.

  I dress as super-hot as possible—in old clothes that I don’t mind ruining. I opt for black skinny jeans that lengthen my little legs and a blue lightly padded bomber jacket, which I pray provides me with some further protection. I tie my long hair in two cute long plaits and put on a baseball cap. Ready, I walk the four streets to get in my car and drive to the ve
nue.

  Date six is with Dominic Baldwin. Melinda’s report explains that Dominic, thirty-five, and a Taurus is a divorced marine, with two children. Whilst a pre-made family wouldn’t be my first choice, I consider Melinda’s current predicament and decide it would be wholly unsavoury to blacklist him on the basis of kids. I love Melinda’s kids as if they were my own family, and the thought of anyone ruling her out based on her adorable kids fills me with rage. So, I lead by example and go on a date with this man.

  When I reach the clearing in the forest, date number six is standing exactly where he said he would, under the entrance sign.

  I fan my face as he comes into view. He is tall and his shoulders are so broad he looks a perfect triangular shape, if not for his head. Which in truth, looks a little on the small side. He’s dressed in full marine-chic, camouflage bottoms, tight black T-shirt and, yep, dog tags around his neck. He waves as I drive under the barrier and then hops in my car to give me directions.

  He smells of grass (not that kind!) and dew. It’s a rugged, all-terrain manly smell. For some reason, unknown to me, the more manly he behaves, like when he offers to park my car for me, the more girly and feminine I behave.

  “So, Joanie, Melinda says great things about you,” he says sporting real life dimples on his big square jaw. On closer inspection, his hair isn’t just short, it’s mostly thinning to the point he’s shaved it army-issue short. “Have you been paintballing before?”

  I explain that no, this is an extreme measure for me (the paintballing and the ten dates). My date informs me that he is very into extreme sports and that if I enjoy today, he could introduce me to bungee jumping, parachuting, and air soft. I nod, though in all honesty I’m not sure any of that sounds very appealing.

  I’m given some overalls to wear over my own clothes, which I put on in the clearing, while my date goes to use the bathroom.

  I huddle with the others, bouncing on the spot to keep warm against the icy breeze. The cruddy ground is frozen solid and I wonder if I fell, rather than providing a cushion, the jewel-like moss would cut like ice. I start to wonder if paintballing in January was a good idea.

  When a long whistle is blown, the park ranger, a burly man in his fifties with the look of a sergeant major, orders us to sit in a horseshoe shape on some fallen trees, where he starts to yell his talk. It’s mostly rule based about not shooting members of the same team or the staff, and then he moves on to how we’ll only play four games this afternoon and be all done by four p.m. since it’ll be getting dark by then.

  When he’s finished yelling, the ranger moves around the attendees and ticks off everyone’s name from his register. When he gets to me, I scratch my head as I start to panic. I can’t remember my date’s name. I discretely lean to my right, to try and crane my neck to see the names, hoping for a spark of recognition. The ranger eyes me suspiciously and moves his clipboard out of reach.

  I’m not a person who thinks well under stress, but even I am impressed by my quick thinking genius. I put my palms up, my eyebrows rise with them, though it’s not strictly necessary, and I say, “Non Anglais, monsieur.”

  I have no idea if my French is as good as the low-grade pass I earned at school, but the ranger nods eagerly; probably glad I’m not a complete fool. He thinks I just couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  “Ah,” he knowingly nods once again, smacking his thigh and offering me an enthusiastic ear-to-ear grin. He certainly seems pleased that I can’t understand him. “Comment tu t’appelles?” he says.

  It’s so cold I can’t feel my feet, but I can feel my cheeks, which are suddenly on fire. My brain takes a while to operate the search and find function, but when it does, I jump up from the log as if I just won the lotto.

  “Je m’appelle Joanie.” I smile, totally nailing the French language.

  The ranger nods excitedly, someone took an evening class in French and suddenly can’t wait to use it. Fear flares my fight or flight mode. I start hopping and look around totally missing whatever French the ranger throws back at me. I spot the bathroom in the distance. In a display of sheer desperation, but not that kind—I hold my crotch and bob up and down—the ranger gives me a thumbs up, says something else in French and then thumbs the direction.

  I run towards the bathroom.

  I’m going to have to avoid the ranger from here on out.

  After leaving the bathroom, I hide in some foliage while the ranger stands with my date and ticks off our names from his clipboard. Once the ranger walks away, I cautiously close in on my date.

  My nerves start to get the better of me as my date hands me my helmet and rifle as we approach our first battle. He gingerly asks me why the ranger thinks I can’t speak English. I feign a non-committal answer, explaining that he’s probably gone a bit weird, spending all this time in the woods. My date nods understanding, as though my suggestion is at least plausible.

  I wonder if I’m about to get hurt. My earlier G.I. Jane bravado has long since evaporated. Maybe, if I just stick with this military trained man who’s most likely an experienced fighter, I can survive this.

  We follow the group to an old, dilapidated bus with no seats that sits in the middle of the clearing. Sensing my nerves, my date wraps his arm around my shoulder as we’re given our objective—defend the flag sticking out from the front of the bus.

  I steel myself to be brave.

  The ranger wishes me luck in English but with a French accent. My date eyes him like the strange man that he thinks he is.

  My team splits up, taking either end of the bus and spots behind trees. When I look around, my date is rubbing dirt from the ground onto his cheeks. I consider what good hands I am in, no need to be scared; this man is a trained professional. Then—and I can’t believe that he does this—my date, sprints into the woods without so much as a backward glance.

  I start to hear gunfire and shouts as people are shot. My heart thumps from my chest and I can no longer feel the cold, only the beating of my heart. I need to run, if I am to survive this. I look to the direction of my date. I can make it; I know I can. I hitch my gun in front of my face and start to jog. Suddenly, there’s an explosion and chaos ensues. Fog, in a haze of pinks, lilacs, and purples, cloud my vision. I’m blind, I can’t even see the bus. I can’t see my salvation, and I can’t see the enemy. My breathing is ragged heaves and shallow breaths. I’m hyperventilating, and then something terrible happens.

  First, my left calf, as if bit by a dog, is hit so hard it’s taken out from underneath me. I hit the cold hard ground with a thud that causes the cheeks of my ass to smart. It’s then that I am shot. Repeatedly. My shoulder, back and arms, every inch of my torso feels lashed, beaten and raw. I try to hold my gun in the air like they told me. I yell at the top of my lungs and then, well then, I pass out from pain and trauma.

  Chapter 11

  OUR TEACHING HOSPITAL, Saint Jude’s, is full of young, fit, virile doctors that are keen to advance their knowledge and demonstrate the very best of bedside etiquette.

  After arriving by ambulance, standard procedure apparently when one cannot weight bear, the handsome doctor gives me a thorough work up. He even introduced me to several of his doctor friends so they can inspect my injury, which is not due to the painful lacerations and bruising from the paintballs. No, it was simply not good enough for me to be stretchered from the battlefield with cuts and bruises, a badly damaged ego and crying tears so real that even baby Annabelle would be envious.

  No, not Joanie Fox.

  The doctor, a young looking Clark Kent, looks at his chart and proceeds with his evaluation. “So, Miss Fox, we’ve X-rayed for pelvic fracture, the results of which are negative. We’ve run the blood samples that you insisted on, following that episode of Greys Anatomy you watched that one time, and I’m pleased to say there are no markers for any kinds of tumours despite the achy leg you had earlier.”

  Melinda holds my hand from the seat beside my bed reassuringly. My date had called her to m
eet me at the hospital, apparently preferring to stay and fight for my honour.

  The doctor continues, “You have...” his eyes skim the clipboard. His colleague beside him looks to double check. They nod their heads at one another as I prepare myself for bad news. “You have a Buttock Contusion.”

  When I gasp and clench Melinda’s hand a little harder, he continues, “In short, it’s a bruising to the rear. It may cause some residual swelling in the short-term, but there’s no need for the private room you asked for earlier. I am happy to say that your injury will completely heal during the next week to ten days.”

  The doctor gives Melinda an information leaflet about lying on my side, treating the injury with ice, heat, massage, and over-the-counter pain relief.

  “It’s just a bruise?” I ask, not sure whether I ought to ask for a second opinion. It is so painful I can barely walk and that’s after the pain relief the doctor has given me.

  I hold my head in my hands.

  Trust Four to go on a date and come home with an embarrassing ass injury.

  MELINDA PULLS HER CAR up as close to my building as possible, and I lean on her shoulder as she assists me into the foyer. I can tell that I am testing her patience by her hardened jaw and well-timed hisses; patience is not a well-practiced skill for Melinda.

  She takes my key and opens the foyer door with one hand, while supporting my weight with the other. Every step and movement provokes me to gasp and beg for a rest.

  “Four, are you okay? You’re as white as a sheet.”

  I try to seek out the noise that comes from behind me, even though I know it is Six.

  Melinda’s response beats mine. “She has a pain in her ass and will likely be closed for business for a while.”

  “Well, she’s been a pain in my ass for a while now. Seems only fitting the shoe slides to the other foot.” Six follows his comments with his cocky grin as he comes into view and appraises me with those dark navy eyes of his.

  Melinda chuckles in a friendly, open manner and then asks, “And you are?”