“I’m not the one getting stood up. Why would I be embarrassed?”
“I’m not actually going to get stood up, jackass. It’s just an excuse.”
“Why not just say that you’re eating alone, and then I invite you to eat with us?”
“Because eating alone at a restaurant on a Friday night makes me look like a loser.”
He laughs … a little too much. “But being stood up doesn’t?”
“Fine. My date had to cancel because he’s a pediatric cardiologist who gets called into work because a heart just became available for one of his patients. A two-year-old. It’s heartbreaking yet a miracle because her family has been waiting, slowly losing hope for months. He’s a lifesaver. I’m so lucky to be his girlfriend. And although he has to cancel our date, he insists I go to his penthouse and make myself at home until he gets there to have mind-blowing sex with me. And it’s going to be the best sex of my life because the whole time I’ll be thinking … he just saved a little girl by giving her a new heart with his talented hands and brilliant mind.” I release a dreamy sigh.
The expression on Shep’s face morphs into something sour. “You’re right. Go with the scenario where you get stood up.”
“Why? Because you don’t want Dr. Amazing to overshadow you in your parents’ eyes? In my eyes?”
“What? No. Christ. He’s a fictional dude you just made up on a whim.”
“I’ll think it over.” I bite my thumbnail as if the thinking has already begun. “And I’ll make a split-second decision that night. Just go with my lead.” I resume my trek toward the pond, retrieving a rope ball attached to my treat bag strap. “Cersei!” I throw the ball and all three dogs chase after it.
Shep clears his throat. “I once carried a girl three blocks to her house after she fell off her bike and cut her knee. And I was only twelve. But my hands felt talented, and I was a solid student in school, so you could say I had a brilliant mind.”
I giggle. And giggle. He’s jealous of my made-up boyfriend. The flowers are no longer the highlight of my week. This is it. This crazy conversation with Shep. “You should add that to your profile on your dating apps. I’d be all over that.”
“I’m not on any dating apps. And you were all over this, but now you have an unhealthy fixation with a doctor who doesn’t exist. And as your friend, I feel the need to bring you back to reality.”
When Cersei returns with the ball, I throw it again, and again, three dogs chase it. “And what is my reality?”
He’s going to fail at this because he has no real clue as to my reality. Our friendship and this past weekend have been nearly as “not real” as my doctor scenario.
“In reality, the date standing you up scenario or the dinner by yourself scenario is more likely because you can be a little persnickety.”
I glance back, lifting an eyebrow. “Was that on your word of the day calendar? Have you been dying all day to call someone persnickety?”
“It’s an app, not a calendar.”
Damn him. Really. Damn him! Why does he have to be so entertaining, so funny, so sexy, so everything I can’t have right now?
“Sometimes you really bumfuzzle me.”
“Not a word.” He rolls his eyes. “Nice try.”
“It is.” I tip my chin up, accentuating my confidence. “It means to confuse or fluster.”
“Well …” He smirks. “I believe I fluster you. You blush and bat your eyelashes as your gaze shifts to anywhere and anyone but me. My gaze goes straight to your nipples then because I know you’re turned on.”
“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”
He grins, reaching out to snag the ball that George Clooney managed to fetch before Cersei. “I’m learning quickly. Observation is my strong suit.”
“Conversing … observing … you have so many talents.”
“Fucking …” He winks at me. “Don’t forget how talented I am at that.”
“So Friday …” I clear my throat and change the subject before I do that blushing and gaze shifting for which he has such a keen eye. “You’ll have to text me the time and the restaurant.”
“Is our playdate over?”
“It’s not our playdate; it’s for the dogs. And I really should head back home.”
“Well, maybe we need to schedule a playdate for just the two of us. Do you want to play with me, Sophie?”
I don’t want to laugh or give him any reaction whatsoever. There’s no need to feed his ego, to play his game. But it’s really hard because he’s good at this. Too good. “Golf? Do I want to play golf?”
He shakes his head. “Not the balls I had in mind.”
“I’m not five. I don’t do playdates anymore.”
“Spoilsport,” he says.
He’s bringing out all my scowls today. “Spoiled brat.”