The Not Series
May 24, 2021
Macie Rae Publishing
Not You Again
Becca has agreed to go on four blind dates set up by her four best friends. Who else to choose the perfect guy for her than the women who know her best?
Apparently, anyone else. Each date is worse than the last, except for the mysterious stranger who keeps showing up to save her.
By the end of the third date, she and her modern-day white knight strike up a friendship, and she finds herself sharing thoughts and feelings that even her friends don’t know.
This seems harmless, until she gets to date number four…
Four blind dates in four days. I can’t believe I agreed to that.
A woman my age—nine months shy of the big three oh—should not be caving to peer pressure, but when the four most important women in your life team up against you, resistance is futile. They nag because they care, or so I tell myself. They want me to be happy. To move on.
What I don’t have the heart to tell them is that neither is possible.
And yet, there I was. Date number one.
“Not that I care,” Peter-the-Broker said for the third time since our food arrived. That’s how he’d introduced himself. “I’m Peter the broker. I’m your date.” I then introduced myself as Becca the event planner.
The twitch in Peter-the-Broker’s left eye said he either very much cared, or he was having an allergic reaction to his veal scallopini.
“If she wants to date the biggest snitch in Human Resources,” he added, fork swinging dangerously, “then she never deserved me.”
He punctuated the last bit by pressing his dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose with the middle finger of his left hand. He’d been doing that middle finger slide thing from the moment we said hello. The woman dating the snitch was his ex-girlfriend, as I’d earlier learned.
“I can do better,” he muttered.
This was said with no acknowledgment of my presence so I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or not. But then his odd habit of lifting his voice at the end of every sentence also made it sound as if he were asking me instead of telling me.
Three times so far I’d misunderstood and attempted to answer what I thought were questions only to be interrupted before I could finish. After that, I stopped speaking at all. Peter had yet to comment on my silence.
“How are we doing?” asked our waiter, who had been very attentive. This was my first time eating at Peter Allen’s Italian restaurant and despite the company, I was highly impressed. “More wine?” he asked Peter.
My date had downed two glasses of Pinot Grigio already. I was still on my first glass of water.
“Make it a martini,” he replied, handing over his empty wine glass. “Dirty, with gin not vodka.”
The waiter strolled off as I kept my eyes on my plate so as to hide my thoughts. That was the downside to having an expressive face. There was no hiding what I was thinking, and right now I was thinking about stabbing my friend Josie with Peter-the-Broker’s bouncing fork. She chose this date—with assurance that this particular coworker of hers was perfect for me.
She was wrong.