Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

I'm an utterly terrible flirt. Really. I know some girls might say that just to hear their friends jump to their defense and shower them in compliments. Not me. Oh, I'm really great at coming up with something fabulous to say five minutes after the boy is already gone, but in the moment? I'm a deer caught in the headlights, then…bam!

 

 

I'm determined to hit this first column out of the park. So determined that when I arrive home after my first day, I dive full force into reporter mode, which in this case could loosely be defined as stalker mode. But I need to find a boy—not Ollie!—to harass—I mean flirt with—for research.

So I wait, idling by the mailboxes, keeping an eye on the entrance.

He's too old.

He's with a girl.

He's too cute—I'd have no chance whatsoever.

He's not my type.

And then miraculously, a boy I've never noticed steps through the front door. Sandy blond hair. Gangly build that I secretly find sort of cute. Business casual. And as he walks by the doorman he nods in greeting—polite!

Okay, go time.

I pick up a discarded letter from the floor, pretending I actually have mail—which really, for the first time ever, the one time I really need mail, I have nothing, not even a dear resident marketing pamphlet. But the envelope I just grabbed from the floor will do.

Trying my best to look casual, I step next to the boy to wait for the elevator, peeking at him a few times, until there's a ding and the door slides open. He lets me in first—such a gentleman—and then steps in behind me.

The doors close.

Silence descends.

I lick my lips, turning my head to the side to take a full-on look at him. He senses the movement and reciprocates. I smile. He smiles. I coyly look away for a moment, and then glance back. He's still looking at me. Cue second smile, friendlier this time.

Wow.

We're totally vibing. This never happens. Maybe this job was the good luck charm I needed.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hey," he says.

"I'm Skye." I shrug.

"Neal." He shrugs.

A very long second of quiet passes.

"Hey—" I start, unsure of where I'm really going, but then the elevator swings open, cutting me off.

"Have a good night," he says over his shoulder.

"Yeah, you too," I call after his disappearing body just as the doors are closing.

But hey, I think that went well. I take it for a win. We had a conversation—sort of. Words were said. Introductions were made. That counts—I think.

"Bridge!" I shout when I walk into the apartment.

"On the couch!"

"Bridge," I say, turning the corner into the living room and dropping my bag on the coffee table. "I think the first day went really well."

"Awesome," she says, and then turns away from the TV, giving me her full attention. But she flinches when her eyes land on my face. The flinch turns to a bitten lip. Which then turns to a grin.

"What?"

Now she's shaking her head. God, she's just like her brother.

"What?"

"Nothing," she sputters. "Might want to check the mirror though."

I race to the bathroom, heart stopping as my eyes land on my reflection.

There's a freaking forest growing in my teeth. A forest!

"Crap!" I shout, digging for the spinach that's nestled in the gaps between my incisors. I ate that like two hours ago—why didn’t anyone tell me?

And then I remember the elevator, the boy, the vibing…

No wonder he was smiling!

And the rest of the week passes in pretty much the same fashion. Even though I've never seen Neal in my building before, he's miraculously on my elevator the next morning.

"Skye, right?" he says when he steps on. I smile politely. To which he exclaims, "Hey, you got it out. I wasn't sure if something was stuck or if it was just some weird medical thing. Didn’t want to hurt your feelings."

Weird medical thing? Did he think I had fungus growing in my mouth? Ugh!

There are no words. I just nod and stare at the floor for the rest of the ride. That night I make sure to sneak onto the elevator when he's not around. Thankfully the next morning he's nowhere to be seen and I can rest easy. But that night, I time everything incorrectly and he sneaks onto the elevator at the last second.

"Skye," he says, smiling. But I can't tell if the smiling is cordial or if he's still laughing at the memory of my green, fungus-infested teeth.

"Neal," I force the words through closed lips. I'm too embarrassed to do or say anything else.

I hide in my room all night writing a column about how dating where you live is the worst idea possible. I've been reduced to a bundle of nerves, unsure where and when Neal might show up, heart pounding anytime I walk into a common space. I'm the opposite of a stalker—I'm an avoider. But I have to admit, writing about the experience is a little fun. With help from Bridget, I throw a few R-rated tidbits into the story, and voila—my first sex column.

Victoria loves it.

She makes me rewrite it five times—but she loves it.

And it's finally Friday, meaning I have two blissful days off from the stress. Or I would, except Bridget decided it was high time I learned to flirt, so she dragged me to a club downtown and now I'm leaning over a bar, trying to get the bartender to notice me long enough to order a drink. Looks like the key to my success would be to pull my shirt down by about three inches.

Yeah, not happening.

"Bridget, you try."

Ten seconds later, we have cocktails.

"So, what are we—holy crap, what did you just order?" My entire face spasms as I take a sip of whatever beverage Bridget just bought.

"Long Island Iced Teas," she says with a shrug, easily taking a sip of her drink.

I shake my head. Bridget and I are both creative types, but while studying for my art involved a lot of reading and even more writing—alone in my room I might add—studying for her art involved lots of experimentation—the typical college kind filled with boys and alcohol and things it might be incriminating for me to mention by name. "I thought the purpose of this evening was to teach me how to flirt, not to get me drunk."

Bridget slides her gaze away from the cute guy at the other end of the bar, meeting my eyes pointedly. "The purpose of tonight is to loosen you up in whatever way I can. We start with a little alcohol and then we move onto the rest. Come on."

She grabs my hand, pulling me away from the bar and into the throngs of people pressed up against each other on the dance floor. So not my scene. We weave in and out, pushing people around, being pushed around in return, making our way closer to the music. Finally, we find a small space to claim as our own and hold steady, rocking to the music as we sip our drinks, keeping our elbows out as defense against the dancers bumping into us from all sides. But the longer we drink and the longer we dance, the more relaxed I feel.

And I'll admit, it's fun. Especially when our favorite songs come on—mostly girl-power pop anthems—and we both belt out the words, totally and completely free in the moment because no matter how loudly we sing, no one will be able to hear us.

But then the inevitable happens.

"So," Bridget shouts, but I can still barely hear her. "Let's find some guys to dance with."

My heart sinks.

For a moment I wonder, why? Why can't we have fun with just the two of us, like we normally do when we go out? With Bridge, I know I can trust her. I know I can depend on her. I know we have a great time together. I know she's not a creepy a-hole who'll ditch me as soon as he realizes I won't go home with him. You know, the usual stuff.

But then I remember the column, the research, my desperate search for a topic to write about next week, and I relent.

"Okay!" I shout, nodding to emphasize the point in case she can't hear me.

We drop our elbows, no longer keeping the crowd at bay, and it's as sure a sign as any that we're open for business

Wait—not business. Open for fun? For a good time? For… Okay, there's just no completely innocent way to say this, but you know what I mean! We're available to dance.

In less than ten seconds, a guy comes up to Bridget, grabbing her waist and pulling her close, and she accepts the offer, unsurprisingly. Shall I count the reasons why Bridget is a boy-magnet? I mean, aside, from her dazzling personality of course? Well, number one—red hair. Number two—tall and thin figure. Number three, at least tonight—ridiculously tight little black dress.

Shall I count the reasons why I am not? Well, you probably already know them. Neurotic. Shy. Book nerd. Oh, boys come up to me sometimes, sure, but my usual response is to run in the opposite direction rather than, you know, do something drastic and actually say hello.

Hmm.

I sigh, looking around, dancing by myself, trying to stay close to Bridget and her mystery man so I don't look completely pathetic.

Soon enough, a boy takes pity.

Hands grip my waist, pulling me back into a waiting body. He starts gyrating against my hips, not really to any rhythm I can follow, but I try to just relax and let him take the lead. There's no greeting. No asking if I'd like to dance. No manners.

Is chivalry totally dead, people? Come on.

I turn, peeking over my shoulder, and yell, "Hi."

He doles a lazy smile in my direction, but doesn’t bother to say anything back. His bloodshot eyes are still scanning the dance floor, checking out other girls.

Ick.

No, thank you.

Without so much as a goodbye, I shrug out of his embrace, trying to hold back a grimace. A few minutes later, another boy approaches. Pretty much the same thing happens. And two times after that, I'm done.

"I'm going to the bathroom," I shout in Bridget's direction.

She motions, using girl sign language to ask if I want her to come with me. But she's still dancing with the same boy—who is pretty cute, I'll admit—and I can tell she's having a good time, so I tell her to stay put.

A few minutes later, I'm free of the dance floor, standing close to the exit, reveling in the gusts of wind blasting in my direction every time the door opens.

Air.

Blissful, cool air.

I breathe in the sweat-free smell, closing my eyes for a moment as my entire body drops a few degrees. So much better. I can actually reach my arms to the side without touching another human being.

Being alone is wonderful.

"Skye!"

Well, it was fun while it lasted. My eyes shoot open, searching for the voice I could barely hear over the ringing of my own ears. "Ollie?"

And there he is, smiling at me with a questioning knot in his brows. "What are you doing? Where's Bridget? She told me to meet you guys here after the restaurant closed."

"What time is it?" I grab his arm, bringing the cell phone in his hand closer to read the clock. 1:37? How did it get so late so quickly?

But then I stop, realizing I'm touching Ollie's arm. Touching him. And his skin feels warm and soft, contoured with muscles, firm and strong. And my fingers tingle, too aware of the contact. My entire body goes still, frozen, as my mind focuses on the tiny little space between us.

Since that first night, I haven't seen Ollie the entire week. The restaurant life is work all afternoon, work all night, mornings off. He's usually asleep when I leave in the morning and working when I come home.

But now he's here. Inches away. And we're touching.

I look up.

Ollie is still watching me.

My heart leaps into my throat.

But then I remember, and I drop his arm. I remember that I already went down this road, already spent most of my life crushing on Ollie, and I won't do it again. "Bridge is dancing with someone," I say, and take a step back, licking my lips. "I just needed a break."

His ocean-hued eyes flick to the dance floor, darkening with a hint of overprotectiveness, but then they find their way back to me, filled with something I don't recognize. He blinks, and the storm clouds dissipate. "Do you want anything from the bar? I need a beer. The first Friday shift at a new restaurant is always tough."

"Water?"

He nods, disappearing. For a moment, I expect to see him walking to the dance floor with some girl. But he doesn’t. He comes back. To me.

"So why did Bridget drag you down here? Doesn’t seem like your usual scene."

I roll my eyes. "How'd you guess?"

"Well, the fact that you were standing alone in a dark corner was sort of a dead giveaway. But the look of general disdain on your face didn’t hurt."

I try to hold back my grin, but from his self-satisfied expression I know it didn’t quite work. I shrug. "She thinks I need to learn how to flirt."

"Do you?"

"I don't know."

"Want help?"

I start choking on my water. Nice—way to be cool. "From you?" I squeak when the fit subsides and I can finally speak again.

"What?" He shrugs, leaning against the spot beside me on the wall while he takes a long sip of his beer. I try not to notice the nicely chiseled shape of his jaw—and fail miserably. "We're…friends. I can help."

I'm not sure I like where this is going.

Scratch that—I one hundred percent, no doubt about it, do not like where this is going. And yet…

"Sure." The word just pops out of my mouth, from nowhere. Stupid voice with a stupid life of its own. But then, trying to draw some boundaries, I rush to add, "Strictly in the name of journalism of course."

Ollie grins, taking another sip from his bottle. "Of course."

"So, what's first, teacher?" I chug my water, mouth growing dryer by the second.

"You really want to know how to attract a guy?" Ollie glances at me, lips slightly pursed, turquoise eyes twinkling from the strobe light, a slight layer of stubble across his cheek. Does the room feel low on oxygen to anyone else? Because I suddenly feel unable to breathe.

He leans in closer.

Yeah, definitely can't breathe. It's a little painful actually. Constricting my chest.

"Just show him that you're interested," he whispers, holding my gaze. The rest of the room seems to fade away. The lights go dark. The sound mutes. All I can hear is the thud of my racing pulse.

I look away first, sucking in a long, slow breath. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

"Go up and say hello, sometimes just a look will do it." Ollie shrugs, pausing to scan the room. "Like that girl at the bar over there, that's the third time she's made eye contact with me."

I zone in on the girl he's talking about, standing at the bar with her friends, sipping on a cocktail, eyes still locked on Ollie. Short dress. Big hair. Suggestive grin. Heels that reach about as high as my thigh.

My stomach drops immediately, and then coils into a tight ball of anger. Okay, jealousy. No, anger. Well…ugh. Let's just stick with anger. "Oh my gosh, she sees us talking here and she's still ogling you so blatantly."

"What? It's not like we’re dating," Ollie mutters.

"Yeah, but she doesn’t know that. We could be. I just," I pause, stammering for a response that doesn't make me sound totally whiney and bitter. "I could never do that. If that's flirting, no wonder I'm horrible at it."

"Well, it's not all her fault."

I look at Ollie, aware of what's coming next and waiting for the appropriate time to release my eye roll.

"Women just can't help themselves around me."

Instead of the roll I expect, my gaze just sinks to the floor. I'm in no place to judge anyone—not for falling for his charms. "You should go talk to her," I find myself saying, eyes still on the stain-covered ground.

"Really?" He looks at me, but I refuse to reciprocate. The floor is much safer. Much easier to understand. Much less complicated. "I don't want to leave you here all by yourself."

And I suddenly realize what this entire conversation has been.

Pity.

Pity for his little sister's best friend alone in the club.

And now that I realize it, I can't bear to talk to him any longer. I can't bear to stand next to him. Can't bear to have him so close.

"Go, go," I say, swallowing back the pain and finally glancing up with a smile. "I'm fine, really. I just needed a break. I'm going to go find Bridget. You should talk to her."

"If you're sure…"

"I am," I say and nudge him with my shoulder. "Go."

"I'll see you at home," he says, then winks, "or not."

I don't watch him leave. I don't want to see him lead her to the dance floor, put his hands all over her body, and, ugh, kiss her.

A few minutes later, Bridget finds me. Her smile drops immediately when she sees my expression, eyes filling with concern. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I shake my head and shrug.

And though I know her boy is out there somewhere waiting for her, expecting her to come back, Bridget grabs my arm and says, "Come on, I'm so over this place. How about pizza on the way home?"

And that's just one of the reasons why I love her.

 

The best boyfriend I've ever had was a fictional character. After all, the only one I've really had was John, and after almost four years, that ended with him cheating and me ruing the day he was born. So, yeah, I'll stick with my books.

 

 

The past few weeks have passed in a blur of failed romantic attempts and columns chronicling my ineptitude in the dating world.

Leaving my number with the cute barista? Now I need to walk an extra five minutes out of the way each morning to buy a coffee. Well that, or face him again and ignore the fact that he never called me—even though he put a heart next to my name three mornings in a row! I thought we had something, nameless barista boy, I really thought we did. And it would have made such a cute story too.

Visiting the local sports bar during Monday Night Football? A twenty-dollar dry cleaning bill to wash out the beer stains on the jersey Bridget's work friend let me borrow. Well, that and the number of a man who's old enough to be my father—because he thought it was adorable that I called a touchdown a goal. Sorry, my time at high school football games involved drooling over the quarterback—yes, it was Ollie—staring at his butt in those tight pants—come on, we've all done it—and gossiping with Bridget.

Or how about the time Bridget thought going to the gym would be a great idea? After half an hour on the treadmill, I was red-faced, oozing sweat, and in absolutely no place to attract anyone.

Of course, we've gone to about a million clubs and even more bars, but I'm pretty sure I don’t have the right pheromones to attract a guy in that situation—not drunk enough, not sexual enough, or if I'm telling the truth, too worried that every guy who approaches me is a sociopath. Okay, I'll admit I have an overactive imagination. Pair that with my addiction to crime shows and you might see where I'm coming from.

But after weeks of dead ends and fruitless attempts to get a boy's attention, you'll understand why I'm miserable when I come home and announce, "Victoria says I need to find a boyfriend."

Then I proceed to collapse on the couch, wallowing in a cocoon of my own despair. I sink further when Ollie walks out of his bedroom, grinning like a buffoon.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" I ask, too exhausted to move.

"Lucky you, it's my day off."

Bridget just rolls her eyes at the two of us, scooting over to give Ollie room on the couch—a couch that wasn't really made to fit three people despite our three bedroom apartment.

"So, what happened?" Bridget asks after tossing and turning for a few seconds. In the end, she leans against her brother and puts her feet on my lap so all three of us fit together in a discombobulated puzzle pieces sort of way.

I leave my head dropped against the back of the couch and stare at the ceiling while I recount my morning at the office. "Victoria called me in for a meeting to check in about the status of the column and how it's working out. She said the content is resonating well according to early research, and the online postings are getting a good amount of social media interaction."

"But?" Bridget asks.

"But." I sigh. "She's worried the content is becoming too stale and thinks we need an ongoing storyline to really pull people in—a Mr. Big to my totally unworthy Carrie. So, I need to get a boyfriend. By next week. Or at least go on a real date." I finally shift positions, burying my head in my hands. "What am I going to do?"

"Make something up?" Bridget says cautiously.

I slap her leg. "No! I'm not going to risk all of my journalistic integrity. We just need to think about what I haven't tried yet."

There's a pause.

A long pause.

Okay, a humiliatingly long pause.

I peek at Bridge, and I'm pretty sure there are daggers shooting out of my eyes.

"What?" she grumbles. "I'm thinking."

I refuse to look at Ollie—I don't need to actually see the grin rapidly widening his annoyingly perfect lips. I can picture it just fine on my own.

"What about online dating?" Bridget asks, cringing in anticipation of my response.

"Aren’t I too young for that? I thought online dating was for, like, single moms with kids in college. Widowers. You know, people our parents' ages."

"No, it's not," she says, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "Here. Take a look at this." Bridget grabs Ollie's phone, plugging in his password and swiping through his pages.

"Hey." He reaches for it, but Bridget elbows him out of the way.

"I know you have one." Then a few seconds later. "Aha!" And she hands me the phone.

I take it begrudgingly, staring at the screen, which is filled with the photo of an incredibly busty blonde. I mean, could those things possibly be real? "What is this?"

"It's an app. I mean, this is Ollie's so I'm sure it's programmed to only show brainless girls, but we can download it to your phone and give it a try."

"I resent that," he says, reaching across the couch to snatch the phone from my hands. My heart jumps when his fingers brush against mine, but I shove that feeling down into the pit of my stomach.

No more.

That stage of my life is over. Ollie is my roommate and absolutely nothing more. Nothing. The crush is done. Long gone. Finito. And maybe if I tell that to myself enough times, it'll eventually be true.

"So," I say a little too loudly, trying to force my thoughts back on topic, "what do I have to do?"

A sly smile spreads across Bridget's face. "Surrender your phone."

I know that look. That look got me grounded one too many times. That look means trouble.

I give her my phone anyway.

What? I'm desperate.

A few torturous minutes later, Bridge hands my cell back. I close my eyes tight, torn. Do I even want to see what she's done?

I sigh.

Yes.

Yes, I do.

A moment later…

"Bridge!" I whine, half-wanting to close my eyes and forget this ever happened. Of course, she used the only photo ever posted of me in a bikini—spring break senior year, the one that came about a week after my split with John, the one where Bridget volunteered to take his place and help drown my sorrows, the one where in my weakened state she managed to take more blackmail-type photos of me than ever in the history of our friendship.

And now she's cashing in.

"What, you look great in that photo."

"I'm practically naked in that photo."

"What photo?" Ollie perks up, straining his neck to take a peek at the phone. My face goes beet red—or at least it feels that way from the heat crawling up my neck—and I hastily bury the screen against my chest, hiding it from him.

Bridget pushes her brother back down, turning to me. "Just keep reading."

"Reading what? I don't even know how this works."

Scoffing, Bridge takes the phone from me, switching positions so her feet are on Ollie and her upper body is snuggled against my side. "Here," she says, shifting her finger on the screen to bring up the text for my profile. "Skylar Quinn, 22. Columnist. Recent grad. Looking for romance in the city that never sleeps."

I shrug. "That's not bad."

"And I put up these photos too, the bikini one is just to grab the initial interest." Bridget flips her finger to the side, shifting through the photos to prove her point. There's one of me at graduation. One of me with my dog back home. One of me surrounded by a pile of books on our campus quad. One of me laughing at a party. A nice enough variation saying I'm intelligent but not stuffy, fun but not too fun.

"So, what now?" I ask, a little more intrigued by the idea. Maybe online dating isn't so bad. You sort of get to feel the person out first—a photo, a bio, maybe even a little conversation before the first date. That's not that horrible.

"Now, we search."

And the screen suddenly changes from my face to that of a relatively cute guy. Below his face is a green check or a red x. Before I even have a chance to read his profile, Bridget hits the x, shaking her head and muttering, "too jock."

Another image pops up of a different boy. And I suddenly realize what's happening. "Wait, so you just like, check yes or no? Pretty much entirely based on their photo? That's sort of horrible."

She ignores me. "Ooh, he's cute. Glasses, a little nerdy, but still sophisticated. I'm checking him."

"Wait!" I reach for my phone, but it's too late. The green check has been hit and his photo has disappeared into the void. "What did that just do? Did I ask him out? Isn't that, like, desperate or something?"

"Relax, he'll just get a notification that basically implies you're interested. And if he takes a look at your profile and likes what he sees, he'll send you a message to meet up."

"Hmm." I nod and lean back, letting Bridge continue to take the reins on this whole online experiment. She knows me better than I know myself, so really, she'll probably pick better guys for me than I would anyway. "This is way easier than I thought it would be."

"I told you."

But then my phone dings. And again. And a third time.

"What's happening?"

"Oh, nothing…" Bridget trails off, but I can't help but notice she is slowly pulling my phone farther and farther out of reach.

"Bridge, what's that noise?"

"Just guys responding."

Another ding. And another.

"Give me the phone!" I shout trying to yank it out of her grasp just as another ring chimes through. But her arms are longer than mine and she easily keeps it out of reach. "How many guys did you check?"

"Just two, the others are guys finding you."

I pause. Sit up. Guys are finding me? Guys are noticing me? They're singling me out based pretty much only on my photo? I mean, it's totally demeaning and a little gross, and I know it's really the pull of the bikini and not much else, but still. A sort of buoyant feeling trickles up my spine, puffing out my chest, bringing a slight smile to my lips.

Another ding.

My heart starts bubbling like champagne, fizzy and light. So what if it's the bikini photo? It's still me in the bikini, not some other person whose photo I stole. I feel pretty good right now. Confident, and dare I say, a little smug. "That's like seven guys."

"You know…" Bridget looks up from the search to meet my amazed gaze. "Guys hit on you all the time, it's not their fault that you tend to run away every time they say hello."

"I don’t run away," I grumble under my breath. I walk…quickly…

But Bridge won't let me off that easy. "You do too. Ollie, back me up on this."

He remains silent.

"Ollie?" Bridget says again.

"Wh—what?" He snaps to attention, pulled from a daze. Was he looking at my phone? For a moment, it looked like he was staring at my phone.

"Tell Skye that guys hit on her all the time."

He turns his eyes to me. They're sparkling with controlled laughter. "Guys hit on you all the time."

"And that she's just too nervous to take notice."

"And you're too nervous to take notice," he repeats, eyebrows raised in mock admonishment.

"And that she should try saying hello once in a while."

Now he's nodding his head, fighting back a grin. "And you should try saying hello once in a while."

"And that she's beautiful."

Ollie pauses. Swallowing. Humor gone. "You're beautiful."

Was his voice breathy or was that just in my head?

"And that your sister is your favorite person in the world." Bridget turns to me with a wink.

But Ollie just ignores her and stands up, pushing her legs off of his lap. "I'm going to start dinner. I bought supplies for dumplings, can you guys help me wrap them? I'll do the rest."

"Oh, so we're your sous-chefs now?" Bridget teases.

I interrupt before this carries on for too much longer—between the two of them it could be hours before I eat. And my stomach is already growling. "Yes, Ollie. We'll help."

He holds my gaze for a moment before disappearing into the kitchen. I stare a little too long at the spot where his face used to be, pulled away only when Bridget starts giggling in my ear.

"What?"

"Um…" she starts. "You need to read these yourself."

"Oh god, what now?" I ask, grabbing my phone and looking at the screen.

At first I don't notice what she's laughing at, but then it hits me. I race to click on the little envelope at the top of the screen, dread tightening into a deep, dark pit at the bottom of my stomach.

Your place or mine?

That's all the first message reads. Your place or mine!

Are you kidding me? Is that serious?

I'll choose neither, thank you very much.

I delete his chat from my phone, erasing it completely before I click on the next message from a different guy.

Sex?

And that's it.

Delete!

I click on the next, heart racing, vision turning the slightest hint of red.

Your gorgeous… Okay, well that one's not so bad, except for the incorrect grammar. Not ideal, but at least he was trying. I scroll down and read the second half of the message. I want to lick chocolate fudge off your body.

What the?

I mean, does someone actually think that is a good pick-up line? Or not even a pick-up line, but just an acceptable thing to say to a human being you've never even met before? Scratch that. Even if we had met, heck, even if we were dating, I'm not sure I'd ever want to hear that from someone. Ever.

I turn off my phone.

"Bridget, is this for real?"

She licks her lips, a sorry expression creeping onto her face. "Well, it's not the ideal first online dating experience. But, what's that saying? My mom always used to say it. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince?"

I gawk. "Kiss a lot of frogs…?" I trail off, shaking my head. "He asked me to lick chocolate fudge off of him. Not just chocolate, but chocolate fudge!"

"What?" Ollie shouts from the kitchen. A moment later, his head pokes around the corner. "Who? What's going on? I'll be back in a second, wait for me before you guys say anything else."