How to Find a Guy in Five Weddings

Chapter 1. There’s No Such Thing as the Perfect Kim

There’s No Such Thing as the Perfect Kim

This might be an extremely unpopular opinion, but whoever invented dating apps should be arrested and jailed for life, because thanks to that possibly unhinged individual, I was only a few steps away from the fiery gates of hell right now.

I knew my time for finding a guy was running out, but I shouldn’t have listened to my “well-meaning” friends when they convinced me that I should try the internet.

Should have stopped them when they went rogue and created a dating profile for me, then convinced me to swipe right on the men that had seemed suitable, because nothing good could ever come out of uploading my picture and personal details for virtual stalkers to salivate over.

It only gave them a chance to plan their kidnappings, tortures, and eventual murders—or whatever it was that stalkers usually got up to.

“Gosh, the music is atrocious here.” My date sighed. “So, Kimmy, what do you do again?”

I suppressed my own sigh. Nope, I didn’t need to find dates online. What I needed was someone to have invented a time machine, so I could skip forward to the end of this dinner. It was online date number twenty-eight, and, by far, the worst of them all.

“Like I said, it’s Kim. Please don’t call me Kimmy.”

At least I should thank my friends for not choosing a serial killer, although my ODOTD—Online Date of the Day—had his own unique brand of torture.

Five minutes after meeting Shane, it was obvious that we weren’t destined to be soulmates.

Not in this life, not in the next one, not even if the universe was imploding and we were the only two survivors the future of humankind depended on.

Right now, fifty-two (painful) minutes into the date, I’d rather have a sleepover with a couple of saltwater crocodiles than endure a second date with him.

Shane’s dating app profile had proudly boasted that he was a dentist, the owner of a successful, thriving private practice, winner of the highly coveted Best Dental Clinic Award four years in a row.

His roster of patients (supposedly) included several well-known celebrities.

In hindsight, that should have been my cue to insert a major eye roll before quickly swiping left.

The “thriving practice” was actually owned by his uncle, and the award was bestowed a decade ago.

The “well-known celebrities” were: (1) a local lawyer who had gone viral for all the wrong reasons and (2) the mayor’s assistant’s sister-in-law’s second cousin twice removed.

The cherry on top: My date was a dental assistant, not an actual dentist. Not that there was anything wrong with being a dental assistant, only if you lied about it.

His profile had listed him as six feet and five inches, so I was expecting a towering, Thor-like specimen.

In reality, I stood eye to eye with him; and the last time I checked, I was a foot shorter than that.

The smiling thirty-something man I’d seen on his profile, who looked like he’d be a lot of fun to chat with, turned out to be a moody fifty-something with an enormous chip on his shoulder who’d criticized almost everything in his sights from the minute we met: The place was too busy, his appetizer was too small, and the wine I’d chosen wasn’t sweet enough.

Plus, he was pleasantly surprised that I looked the same as the picture my traitorous friends had posted, because he was convinced everyone lied generously on their dating profiles.

Like he did, by posting a photo of his much younger stepbrother.

And no, he wasn’t at all remorseful about it when he’d confessed that to me.

The only reason I had swallowed my irritation and stayed was because I’d been waiting for six months to eat at this upscale fine-dining establishment.

The Orchard at Waterfront was the newest talk of the town, and I was lucky to have made my reservation early on because the waiting list had exploded to over a year now.

Its owner and head chef had previously worked at famous Michelin-starred restaurants, so when word spread that he’d opened his own place at Port Benedict, almost everybody I knew had raced to book a spot here.

Thankfully the food didn’t disappoint, so it was worth the wait and this torturous date.

“Kim, yes, you did say that. Sorry, old habits die hard.”

I paused, my fork suspended midair, ready to plunge into the last piece of my fancy herb-crusted yellowfin tuna. “Old habits?”

A bitter scoff preceded his answer. “My ex-wife was named Kimberly. Kimmy for short.”

“Oh.” I stabbed the fish and mopped the lemon sauce with it. No judgment on his ex, but I hated that nickname. Obviously, my unenthusiastic one-syllable reply was exactly the invitation he needed to regale me further with his sob story.

“She left me. For our personal trainer. Twenty years together, gone down the drain, just because she wanted to ‘explore things’”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“with a guy ten years her junior. Ten years younger! I mean, he’s practically still a child!”

I wasn’t a genius, but the math sounded straightforward. “Assuming you’re the same age as your ex, if he’s ten years younger, wouldn’t he be in his forties? Pretty sure that’s way past the age bracket for a child.”

He frowned. “I’m only thirty-one. Same age as you are.”

Riiiigghhttt. And I have Mary Poppins on speed dial.

Shane was still waxing poetic about his ex. “She’s a great cook, beautiful, and has an amazing body. All the other Kims I’ve dated since could never measure up to my Kimmy.”

Wait, what?

I didn’t know how he managed to cram so many wrong things in just a few sentences, but, somehow, he did.

“First of all, that was really sexist. And did you just say ‘all the other Kims you’ve dated since’?

” I put down my fork, a precautionary move just in case I had an overwhelming urge to stab something other than the lone piece of asparagus on my plate.

I wasn’t a violent person, but there was always a first for everything, right?

And after twenty-seven failed first dates (give or take) in the last year and a half, tonight might be the time I finally snapped and explored my darker side.

He nodded. “I only date women named Kim and their variations. Kimberly, Kimberley, Kimball, Kimani, Kimiko. One day I’ll meet the right Kim, and our love story will be even greater than the one I had with my ex-wife.”

Oh boy. Now I really wished time machines were real.

To be fair to Shane, we’d chatted a few times on the dating app, and he had always seemed …

normal. He was polite, said the right things, told the right jokes, absolutely nothing weird to indicate an unhealthy obsession with his ex, so I didn’t think twice about inviting him to dinner tonight.

Or maybe it had been his stepbrother chatting with me instead of Shane himself?

I blew out a long breath. Had I known this was going to happen, I would have asked one of my best friends to dinner tonight, but noooo, they both insisted that I needed to go out, meet new people, and enjoy myself.

Well, they can be damn sure I’d be reassessing those so-called friendships as soon as I got home tonight, because there were plenty of other ways to enjoy myself, and none of them included suffering through an awkward, excruciating evening with a creepy, ex-obsessed stranger.

The sound of a chair lightly scraping the floor caught my attention as an elderly woman at our neighboring table got up and smiled at me, reminding me of my late grandmother.

It slapped me back into the cold, hard realization of why I was giving up several precious hours of my life doing this.

The real reason I suffered through this date, and so many others before him.

I steeled myself, vowing to give Shane another chance. Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t they?

But my date wasn’t making it easier, and things only escalated from bad to epic shit show.

He went on about his Original Kim, the other Kims after that, and what he was looking for in his Perfect Kim.

I pretended to listen while silently counting the seconds and telling myself to hang on for a few more minutes.

My oat milk latte and raspberry mille-feuille should be here soon, then I could leave and be done with this dreadful nightmare.

But alas, the universe had other plans.

“Kim? Is that you?”

I stiffened.

Not just other plans, but the universe also had a peculiar, warped sense of humor.

Looking up slowly, I came face-to-face with Leo De Silva—my ex-fiancé, the first guy I’d ever loved, looking exactly as I’d remembered him: tanned, lanky, clean-shaven, but this time with the addition of a stunning, very pregnant woman hanging on for dear life to his arm.

“Wow.” Leo gave me an awkward smile. “How long has it been?”

“Not long enough,” I muttered under my breath, before pasting an overly bright smile on my face. “Hey! What are you doing here? I thought you moved overseas.” Or to another galaxy, somewhere far, far away.

“I came back.” He squeezed the hand of the pregnant woman on his arm. “This is Lila, my fiancée. Babe, this is Kimiko Halim. We used to go to college together.”

“Oh.” A look of recognition flooded into her eyes. “You’re Kim.”

“That’s me.” I stopped myself from saying that we used to do a lot more than just going to college together, because that would be petty and crude, and my grandparents raised me better than that.

“Lila wanted to move back home so the baby could be surrounded by family.” Leo flashed her an adoring smile, and I nearly threw up in my mouth. He pointed to a table at the other end of the restaurant. “It’s my dad’s birthday, so we’re all here to celebrate.”

My smile vanished as I glanced in the direction he was pointing. His parents, his siblings and their partners—people I used to regularly talk to—were glaring at me, resentment plastered all over their faces.