Too Long: Chapter 3

“YOU LOOK THISRTY,” he says, taking a seat at my table. He places a glass of red wine beside the one I drained two dates ago.

I glance at the tag stuck to his pec—Colt.

Ugh, sounds like an asshole. Looks like an asshole, too. All brazen confidence.

If I’ve counted every boring man correctly, Colt’s number eleven, and not one thus far deserves my number.

Opting for silence, I take a second to look him over. He doesn’t come across as someone who needs Express Dates to coax a girl into bed. He’s at least six feet tall and well-sculpted. Couple that with his tattoos, chiseled jaw, deep voice, and that dark brown, sizzling stare, which has surely given a few girls heart palpitations, and you’ve got yourself a panty-melter.

His dark, curly hair is buzzed short on the sides, the rest longer, falling carelessly over his forehead, and his plain, light gray t-shirt uncovers his inked arms. Hot as the tattoos are, I’m more into the way the fabric hugs his muscular shoulders.

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

Too bad the expensive watch on his wrist and the decadent smell of his cologne are a dead giveaway he doesn’t belong here.

He also doesn’t fit my profile.

I need a guy who’ll follow orders for fifteen grand. Colt probably doesn’t leave his bed for less than twenty.

Besides, he’s emanating a pure bad-boy trouble vibe. Not the best fit.

Then again, were this a regular date, he’d score major points for the wine… even if I won’t touch it.

I like observant, attentive men. Colt sat at my table at the precise switch time, so he must’ve cut his previous date short to order me a drink.

“Either you lost a bet, took a bet, or your friend dragged you here, claiming it’ll be fun.” I push the wine toward him. “Thank you, but I don’t accept drinks from strangers unless I see them being poured.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking me over. I’m aware that I indirectly accused him of being a drink-spiking psycho, but whatever. Better safe than sorry.

To my surprise, instead of getting upset, he smiles small, his laid-back attitude shining like a beacon. “Smart,” he says, velvety voice reminding me of rich dark chocolate.

Without another word, he grabs the wine and walks away.

I raise a questioning eyebrow. He didn’t look offended, so I don’t think he’s ditching me… I hope he isn’t. That would be pretty awkward.

Thankfully, he doesn’t go far and returns after forty seconds, armed with a fresh, empty glass and a sealed bottle of a 2004 Château de Beaucastel.

As if buying a two-hundred-dollar bottle for a girl he met a minute ago is a regular occurrence, he takes a seat, uncorking the bottle with long tattooed fingers.

“Watch my hands, Audrey,” he chides, pinning me with a pointed stare until I drop my gaze. “And as to your question, the latter is correct. No bets.” The cork pops out, and Colt checks I’m still watching.

Another point—he’s not ogling my chest, even though the low-cut dress my best friend talked me into wearing acts like a black hole for men’s eyes, dragging them down. I told Ruby is the least of my concerns, but she didn’t listen. Not even when I said I won’t pay with my body.

“It won’t fucking hurt if they find you attractive, will it? Bigger chance someone will agree.”

She knows men better than I do, so I took her word.

Colt here is either very well behaved or has seen enough breasts that mine don’t leave much of an impression.

“Eyes on my hands,” he reminds, sounding amused as he pours the red liquid into the glass. “You’re not here voluntarily either,” he continues, replacing the cork and sliding the wine toward me. “But you’re enjoying this more than you expected, even if most guys are boring you half to death. You know exactly what you want and aren’t wasting energy on men who don’t meet your requirements.”

I cross my arms over my chest, impressed how easily he reads me. He hasn’t mentioned any specifics, but he’s more observant than anyone else I’ve spoken to. Maybe because he’s not distracted by my boobs.

Pinching the glass, I take a measured sip, savoring the taste exploding on my tongue.

“Better?” he asks, leaning back against his chair.

“Much better. Thank you.” I take another sip—a tiny pause to gather my thoughts. “I’m sorry for not trusting what you said, but I still think you’ve bet a friend you’ll leave with more numbers than him.”

“Brother. Two of them, actually. They aren’t participating, so there’s no competition, but you can cling to the bet idea if it helps. It takes time to change your mind once it’s set.”

I shift in my seat, both pleased and scared how fast he’s deciphered my personality. The competitor inside me takes the reins. No way I’ll fall behind in this game.

“You spend your free time above or below women who are up for anything once you’ve bought them a drink, but it doesn’t give you much pleasure.” I flash him a triumphant smile. Judging by the surprise in his eyes, I hit the jackpot. “You work with your brain, not your hands.”

That’s a wild guess based on three things: the obvious aura of importance droning around him, the fact Newport is filled with bankers and investors, and because his hands look soft. No callouses or cuts, but…

“Given the F1 keyring peeking from your back pocket…” I ghost my finger along the rim of the glass while I think, “…and the remnants of… I want to say engine oil, under your fingernails, you’re into cars.”

Colt studies his fingers, finding a few dark spots. Dragging his eyes back up, they flit over the electronic countdown behind me. Its reflection in the mirrored ceiling tells me we only have ninety seconds before he moves to the next table.

“You graduated with honors,” he says, weighing every word. “You’re involved in charity work. You’d rather read a mediocre book than watch the best movie. You’re fully aware how beautiful you are and how it affects men, but you have more self-respect than any woman in this room.”

“A pretty face is more trouble than it’s worth, Colt.”

“A face is just the packaging. If there’s nothing interesting inside, it only works on teenagers.” He rests his elbows on the table, leaning over. “What are you looking for tonight?”

A man who’ll follow instructions and needs fifteen grand.

The watch on Colt’s wrist is worth at least half that, so… “Definitely not you.” I’m sure he can follow instructions just fine, but I doubt he needs the money. “What are looking for?”

“You didn’t really answer my question,” he points out. “Don’t expect me to show my cards when you’re hiding your own. What are you looking for?”

A gong echoes softly around the room, announcing we have fifteen seconds. I bite my lip, looking at his mouth. Tempting. Distracting… bottom lip fuller than the top. Pretending to enjoy his kisses would be easy.

I doubt I’d have to fake it. I bet he knows how to use that mouth well. He’s handsome, clever, and interesting.

Fits the profile on that front.

I could tell him the truth, but he’d probably laugh in my face—a reminder of my idiocy I could certainly do without—so I evade him again, hoping the time runs out.

“You first.”

His eyes darken when I look up. There’s something exciting about him. He makes a broody bad-boy first impression, but he’s quick. Perceptive.

I’m sure he’ll win the bet he claims doesn’t exist. No guy in his right mind would admit he’s playing a game, but I see no other explanation why he’d come here.

One thing’s certain. He’ll leave with enough numbers to last a few weeks. My number won’t be among them, though. I’m on a mission.

No time for distractions or veering off course.

“I’m trying to survive the evening without committing double manslaughter on my brothers.” Colt swirls the whiskey in his glass, the ice almost melted. “What are looking for, Audrey?” he emphasizes my name, sending goosebumps down my arms.

His tone brooks no argument. There’s subtle control there, an order that turns me on so suddenly it feels like he flipped a switch in my head.

The timer counts down to zero and the men stand up and move clockwise.

Except Colt. He stays where he is, deep brown eyes coaxing an answer.

“Not you,” I repeat.

The same shadow of a smile graces his features, and this time, he’s the one stealing a quick peek at my lips. Another hot flush hits my cheeks, neck, cleavage…

He’s trouble, that man.

“Keep the wine safe.” With a lingering look, he vacates the chair for the next man in line.

“I’m Alex.” The guy offers a nod, patting his nametag. “And you’re… Audrey.” He wrinkles his nose. “What do I call you? Aud? Drey?”

“Most people call me Addie.”

The drunken glaze in his light-blue eyes and two popped buttons on his white shirt betray he’s had enough whiskey tonight. “Interesting way to spend Friday evening, don’t you think?”

I visualize the cringe twisting my mother’s face if she heard Alex’s poor attempts at disguising his Texan accent.

She would approve. I couldn’t care less, but selling the story will be easier if the man I arrive with is at least somewhat my type.

“I expected something different,” I admit, keeping the conversation going to avoid the awkward silence. “I’m pleasantly surprised. Five minutes isn’t long, but a few men have proved it’s enough to start off strong.”

Not you, unfortunately.

“First impressions take less than thirty seconds. If you didn’t expect this…” He gestures around, “…what did you expect?”

“Mostly comic book fans, a few self-loving businessmen, unsatisfied students—”

“I expected widows and divorcees.” He casts an assessing glance down my chest. “I’m pleasantly disappointed. I wish we had more than five minutes, but we don’t, so let’s see if I can start off strong. Tell me three things about yourself.”

Losing my ladylike manners, I tip half the red wine down the back of my throat. Considering Alex’s blue eyes and blonde hair don’t fit the description I gave my mother, I don’t share any significant details. These two five-minute dates we’ll share are all Alex will get from me.

“Let’s see… I love reading, jogging, and I’m afraid of spiders.” All plausible, but only one is true. “Your turn,” I add, wrestling with the wine cork that won’t budge.

“Let me,” Alex offers, outstretching his hand.

“No, it’s okay, I’ve got it.”

“Twist, Addie,” Colt says right behind me.

I almost jump out of my skin when I look over my shoulder to see him at the next table, less than three feet between us. It doesn’t slip by me that he said , apparently eavesdropping on our conversation from the start.

“Twist,” he repeats, using visual aids as he mimics the movement. “Don’t pull, you’ll spill it all over yourself.”

I’m twisting, but the cork doesn’t budge. Urgh, how strong is he to have shoved it in so deep?

“Never mind,” I huff, clunking the bottle down before focusing on Alex. “You were saying?”

“I’m a die-hard basketball—” He cuts himself off, glaring over my shoulder.

Colt snatches the wine, opens it with practiced ease, and fills my glass before pushing the cork back in.

“Thank you. Can you loosen it up a little so I can open it myself next time?”

“No. You need a refill; I refill.”

As soon as Colt turns to his date, Alex starts talking, every word like a fired bullet. I think he’s afraid he won’t get to say anything if he doesn’t speak fast.

“I’m a basketball fan, I work as a set designer at Pixar, and I like to sleep in.”

“Divorced?” I point at a pale line around his ring finger.

“No, absolutely not. I haven’t found one I could marry yet, let alone divorce. I wear a signet ring but forgot to put it on today. You’re very observant. What else did you notice?”

“Your watch runs two minutes late.”

He bursts out in soft, forced laughter cut short by the gong. “That’s our time almost over. This was fun. I look forward to the next date.”

“Me too.”

.

“I’ll be back in an hour, Drey,” he tells my boobs.

I don’t bother correcting him that it’s either Audrey or Addie, never Drey. My brother called me Dr. Drey when we were little, and I hated it with a passion.

The next eight dates are as boring as the ones before Colt. A few guys fit my profile, but they’re so dull I couldn’t take an hour in their presence, let alone a week.

When the break kicks in, I stay seated, guarding my wine bottle. People filter past, heading downstairs to use the restroom or placing orders at the bar.

“How’s it going?” my best friend, Ruby, asks, taking the empty seat opposite, a glass of cosmopolitan clutched with both hands. “Any luck finding the prince that’ll charm your mother?”

“None whatsoever. I’d have more luck finding a suitable candidate outside the homeless shelter. At least I know those guys need money, and with their lifestyle, they wouldn’t be dull.”

“Seriously? Not one? There’s like a dozen dark-haired guys here.” She looks around, then leans over the table with a massive grin. “What about that guy who bought you this?” She gently taps the wine bottle.

“His watch is a Tag Hauer Monaco. If he can afford that, fifteen grand’s not enough.”

Felicity stops beside us, hands crossed over her chest. “What does it matter if he’s dull? You’re not getting married. As long as he follows instructions, you’ll be golden.”

“Lower the bar, Addie,” Ruby hums, covering my hand with hers to strangle my fingers. “You’ve been searching for two weeks and nothing. At this point you don’t have the privilege of picking and choosing.”

She’s not wrong.

I have less than thirty-six hours to find a fake boyfriend and prepare him for my mother’s inevitable inquisition. While I’d love a week with someone interesting, someone I could have at least a sliver of fun with, there’s no time to turn my nose up at anyone.

“Take the first guy who agrees or you’ll go alone,” she adds.

A soft shudder runs down my spine. Alone is not an option. My mother would fetch Grant over—a fate worse than the humiliation of arriving with someone dull.

“Fine. I’ll ask guy number three.”

“And if he says no?” Felicity narrows her eyes.

“I’ll ask the next one that fits the description and the next one, and the next until someone says yes.”

“Attagirl,” she cheers, searching for the straw with open mouth. “I think David’s your best bet. Maybe Greg, not Josh…”

I rack my brain, trying to recall the men Felicity’s listing, but since Colt sat at my table, they’ve all become a blur.

I’ve never met anyone like him. Handsome, soft around the edges, commanding down to the bone. Observant but not cocky. Dark eyes and curly hair kissing his forehead in an artistic, effortless mess. Square jaw, tall… Hotter than hell.

That’s enough to mess with my libido, but there’s more. That husky voice would have any woman swoon and he’s interesting. Really interesting.

Ruby waves her hand in my face. “Earth to Addie. You zoned out. What’s going on?”

“Just wondering who’s my best bet,” I lie.

Colt isn’t. He’s here because of a bet, I’m absolutely sure. Why else would a man like him come to Express Dates? He could snap his fingers and have a dozen women fall at his feet. No need for an evening like this to get laid, and he hardly comes across as someone looking for more than sex.

“Alright, show time.” Felicity smiles when the end-of-break gong sounds. “Good luck!”

A moment later the room fills back up and round two begins. The first two men at my table have light-hair, so I don’t pop the question. Guy number three—Travis—lacks in the height department, but next to my five-two, he’ll look decently taller.

His lip stud might make my mother scrunch up her button nose and ask but other than that, he’s plausible, and a lawyer, so that might keep Mom’s digs at bay.

“You’re staring, Addie,” Travis smirks, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. “Do I have something on my face?”

Other than the self-indulgent smirk?

I sit up, both arms on the table as I lean closer so people around can’t hear our conversation. “I’ll be honest with you,” I say, my shoulder and neck muscles tensing. “I’m not here looking to fall in love or—”

“Believe me, neither am I.”

“Oh…” That’s not what I expected. “Why are you here then?”

He shrugs, the corner of his lips twitching. “Call it prelude. Ten minutes to gauge intentions. I’m not looking to get saddled, but a man’s gotta eat if you catch my drift.” He mimics me, leaning over the table, our faces inches apart. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, angel. I’ve booked a hotel room for tonight, and you sure were my first choice as soon I walked in.”

As if pulled by invisible strings, I drag myself away, both arms snapping across my chest. “That’s not why I’m here, either.”

He retreats, too, confusion flooding his face. “So why did you come?”

“Never mind. You don’t fit the profile.”

I’m offering money in exchange for time.

my body. I’d rather spend the week dodging Grant’s casual marriage proposals at every turn.

Travis opens his mouth but the fifteen-second warning sounds, and no words come out.

The next guy on the list, number five, turns bright red as soon as I explain my agenda, then quietly mumbles and flees the scene to stand by the bar until he hears the gong. What the hell is he doing here if he’s married?!

Ugh, some men are such swines.

Brushing that fiasco under the table, I wait for number eight, but when it gets to his turn I don’t ask him to be my temporary boyfriend because he’s so soused he wouldn’t remember the deal in the morning.

Number ten thinks I’m joking, and when he realizes I’m not, he decides I’m crazy and spends the remaining two minutes engrossed in his phone.

Well… this is going .

Colt approaches right on the fifteen-second-warning gong, his face unreadable but eyes hinting he’s been waiting to come back to me all evening. I’ve been waiting for him too, it feels like for way longer than just this evening, considering my body warms itself from the inside out at the sight of him.

“You need a beer, man,” he tells number ten, pointing at his empty glass.

“Grab one with me. It’s been a while. This…” He motions his chin at me, “…is a waste of time.”

“Up and away, Finn,” Colt clips, severity settling over his features. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

“Seriously, man, she’s—” He cuts himself off, either noticing how Colt’s big hands ball into fists or maybe deciding Colt should find out from me why this is a waste of time.

He won’t.

However well Colt fits the description I gave my mother, I won’t ask him to spend a week with my family. He’s clearly rich, so fifteen grand won’t pique his interest. And… a small part of me hopes that when I come back from cruising the Caribbean, we’ll grab dinner like normal people.

“What happened here?” he asks, taking a seat. “You hurt his ego? I’ve never seen Finn ignore a woman the way he just ignored you.”

“I guess I’m not his type.”

“He doesn’t have a type.” Colt smiles over the rim of his crystal glass. “Four glasses of wine seem to be your limit.”

“My limit? I’m not drunk.”

“No, but your—very convincing when you’re sober—Californian accent slips the more you drink.” He grabs the bottle to refill my glass. “One more, and I’m sure I’ll figure out which part of England you’re from.”

“I don’t mind telling. Outer West London,” I mutter, failing to roll my s and make my s sound like s.

“So? Ready to tell me what you’re looking for?”

A boyfriend.

“I spoke to Grant today,” my mother chirps, staring at me from my phone’s small screen. “He’s thinking about taking the summer off…” She inserts a meaningful pause to let me make peace with what she’s only implied thus far. “You shouldn’t show up alone, Audrey, and Grant’s happy to—”

“I won’t be alone,” I blurt out before she shoves Grant Whitaker down my throat again. “I… I met someone.”

My mother’s eyes narrow, her lips in a line, holding off a scowl. It’s not working, but at least she’s trying. “Well, that’s news I didn’t expect. Tell me about him.”

My palms start sweating, and my heart threatens to break my ribs as the realization dawns. I just dug my own grave.

“Oh, um… well, you know my type. Tall, dark haired, handsome.”

And now I dug it even deeper. I don’t know any men who fit that description. My university friends are seventy percent women, ten percent gay, and twenty percent scrawny guys.

Save for the dark hair, I basically described Grant.

Mom raises a questioning brow. “I truly hope I raised you better than to care solely about looks, young lady.”

Better to care solely about looks than the size of a man’s wallet like my mother does.

“He’s not just looks, Mom.”

“Well…? Tell me more. What does he do? Please don’t say he’s a fellow student. You need stability, Audrey. Lawyer? Banker?”

“He’s not a student,” I mumble, taking a long sip of coffee. The more details I give, the harder it will be to find a guy who fits the description.

Urgh, who am I kidding? At this point, my only two options are faking a rare, highly contagious, life-threatening disease or arriving alone, hopefully too late for my mother to summon Grant.

Though I doubt he’d pass the opportunity to brownnose my father. He’d probably buy a helicopter and land on the yacht’s helipad, making an entrance worthy of his big head.

If he doesn’t already own one.

With no other options for a quick way out, I stare at the opposite wall and mouth something incomprehensible, giving my mother the impression that someone needs me right away.

“I’m so sorry, Mom. I hate to do this, but I have to go.”

“Not so fast. Does he at least have a name?” she keeps prying, her tone dubious enough that I know she doesn’t believe a word I say.

“Everyone has a name.”

So clever, Audrey.

Mom sighs a sigh of utter disappointment, seeing through my bullshit as if she has a first-row seat into my mind. “Oh, Audrey…”

“Mom, you’ll meet him soon, okay? I really need to go. Love you!”

And cut. Not my finest performance, I admit.

“Like I said, I’m not looking for you,” I tell Colt, though I think we’d have fun together.

The problem is that his definition of fun more than likely involves sex, and I’m not trading the goodies for help.

“How’s avoiding manslaughter on your brothers going?”

“They’re safe tonight.” He sweeps his thumb across his bottom lip, staring into my eyes. “They dragged me here against my will. They’re worried I work too much and don’t have a life outside my job, so I think you can guess what my attitude was like toward tonight based on that.”

“Shitty at best,” I say.

He nods, eyes not veering from mine.

It’s unnerving how he maintains this casual, carefree aura while watching me so intently.

“Imagine my surprise when I realized this thing isn’t a complete waste of time.”

Now he looks away. Or rather . Not to my boobs, though… my lips. It’s quick, barely a fleeting glance, but enough to give me a fever.

“It’s not?” I ask, my voice unnaturally high and quivering.

“No, it’s not. I want your number, Addie.”

I’ve spoken to twenty different men tonight, yet Colt’s smile was the only one to send tiny sparks rippling across my skin like a shock from a live wire.

“You’ve got about as much chance of getting my number as I have of finding a genie to grant my wish. Take it as you may.”

“Just one wish? Genies usually grant three.” He drops his hand, toying with his whiskey. “How impossible is it on a scale of one to ten? Anything under eight, and I’ll make it come true if I can have your number.”

A certain determination in his stare pushes me to bite the bullet. I don’t weigh the consequences. Instead, I silence the voice of reason, and lean over the table.

“Fine. You wish for my number. I wish for a man who will act—” I sit up, my eyes growing wider as a light-bulb moment hits.

.

Yes! That’s what I need. An .

How did I not think of it sooner? It’s so simple. We’re only an hour from Los Angeles. The city’s bursting with broke wannabe movie stars.

I could hold an audition. Fifteen grand for a week of playing pretend ought to convince a few men to try their luck.

“That’s brilliant,” I mouth, searching the room for my friends, ready to drag them out of here, but before I locate either, my eyes fall on guy number fourteen.

He mentioned acting, but I didn’t pay any attention because his hair’s too light. Maybe he’d be willing to dye it.

“Addie,” Colt prompts, reaching across the table to touch my hand. “You okay?”

“Better than I’ve been all week,” I admit, glancing at his warm fingers tracing my knuckles. The sensation makes me shudder. “Don’t worry about the wish. I think it’s a ten.”

“That would deem it impossible.”

“Okay, nine and a half.”

He leans back, taking his hand with him; the sudden loss is not pleasant. “Your number?”

“It’s yours, but you can’t call me for a week.”

“Why?”

“Call it a test window.”

He’s having a hard time biting back a smile. “You’re a smart little thing. Alright, a week it is.”