Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
“I have filled out your very bizarre dating application.”
Her grandfather was talking before Haleigh could raise the phone to her ear.
Good lord. It felt as though she’d barely just said goodbye to Dana (even if that had been three days ago) and already her grandfather was lining up another person. Haleigh was usually a yank-off-the-Band-Aid type of girl, but this was romantic whiplash.
“Hi, Pépère.”
“I don’t understand how any of this is going to help you choose a husband. I was married to your grandmother for forty-seven years and I have no idea if she would rather meet an alien or a dinosaur.”
Mémère would have, 100 percent, wanted to meet an alien. The X-Files was her favorite show, and she’d been half in love with Mulder. She’d smirk and shrink her chin to her chest whenever he was on screen. And once, after one too many brandies, she might have mentioned that he had a “delectable back end.” But that was beside the point.
“You’re not supposed to fill it out. My date is.”
“Bradley and I filled it out together.”
“Okay. Then send it along and give Bradley my number.”
Her grandfather cleared his throat. “Well… he has questions for you first.”
Haleigh sat up a little straighter. Someone who wanted to play along? She was intrigued. “Go for it.”
“Do you have any food allergies?”
Bradley was planning a date and being thoughtful about it. Her heartbeat kicked up, and for the right reasons for once. Imagine if Pépère was the one to find her a match? Haleigh would never live it down.
“I do not.”
“Any phobias?”
Okay. A little weirder. But still considerate. “Spiders and clowns.” Hopefully he wasn’t planning a night at an abandoned circus.
Pépère grunted. “Do you like being outdoors?”
“About as much as a couch does.”
“I’m going to write that verbatim. Care to change your answer?”
“Nope.”
She could hear her grandfather’s fingers clacking against a keyboard. “Just a few more,” he mumbled. “What is your spending budget each month?”
Haleigh coughed. “I’m sorry, what?”
“And what about your gross monthly income?”
“Oh my god, Pépère. Am I going on a date or applying for a loan?”
A sigh burst through the phone. “Relationships are about giving a little. No one is ever going to be perfect, you know that, right? You make the thing perfect together.”
It was a beautiful sentiment, but this was a first date. She shouldn’t be expected to disclose anything more personal than a favorite food or TV show. “I’m not giving him my financial history.” Practical stuff wasn’t supposed to matter in romance. It should be about how you feel .
Besides, talking about money was only going to amplify Haleigh’s stress levels. She still hadn’t figured out how to approach Stanton and Ryan about the apartment—since she’d technically been eavesdropping the other day, she couldn’t just ask. Nosy wasn’t exactly a quality to put on display when she was trying to convince them to keep her as a roommate. On top of that, she hadn’t had any luck bringing in more paychecks. So far all the feelers she’d put out for new editing and dog care clients had yielded nothing, and she’d had too many dates in a row to put any time into a full-time job search.
“I think you’ll like this one,” her grandfather said. “He’s got a good job. He’s a decent-looking guy. He takes care of his grandparents. He’s got good values.”
She and Pépère had vastly different ideas about good dating criteria. “But is he funny? Nice? Will we get along?”
“He doesn’t spend a lot of time telling me jokes, but he can hold a conversation just fine.”
Haleigh swallowed back a groan. Pépère, perpetually unhelpful in all situations. “I guess we’ll see how it goes. Assuming he still wants to hang out without knowing my tax bracket?”
Her grandfather laughed. “He’d be a bozo not to, kid.”
The next night, Haleigh sat in Bradley Cooper’s (not that one) fancy car, learning more random facts than she’d ever need about one vehicle.
“It’s one of the few rear-engine cars that have figured out the handling issues,” he explained, dropping his eyes from the road to fondly run a finger over the insignia at the center of his steer ing wheel. It looked like a coat of arms. Apparently Porsches were the knights of the car world.
And hugged the road “like a glove.” And had more trackability than most everyday cars—whatever the heck that meant. Haleigh liked to imagine it had something to do with science fiction and alien-ship tracking beams. She’d have to add it to her Notes app.
He’d been so focused on talking about his car that he hadn’t looked at her yet. And right now, Haleigh deserved to be looked at. A fancy night out in a fancy car deserved a fancy outfit, so Stanton had snuck her a dress from On the Plus Side ’s costume closet, an A-line maxi dress in a blur of purple, red, and cranberry scattered across the silkiest satin with a daringly high slit in the skirt and a plunging neckline. It screamed Look at me. The tousled waves Stanton had worked into her hair and her sultry nighttime makeup only added to the effect.
Haleigh never got to wear stunning dresses like this, or ride in sports cars, or eat at expensive restaurants. She was determined to enjoy this date, even if Bradley did nothing but read from his vehicle manual all night.
When he finally paused to ask her a question, it was such a stark shift from his monologue on fuel efficiency and tire grip that Haleigh physically jolted in her seat. “What’s your aspirational car?”
Haleigh thought she had been on enough dates to have experienced every “get to know you” question, but here was a new one. One she’d never given any thought to before, because for her, the sole purpose of a car was to get from point A to point B. “Something with less than one hundred and fifty thousand miles,” she answered.
He barked out a laugh. It sounded too much like Scooter’s loud honks, and Haleigh almost cringed. “No. Seriously,” Bradley said.
Haleigh stared blankly at him. “I am serious.” She couldn’t afford her own place. Why would she care about what she was driving, as long as it ran?
The valet was practically salivating when he opened Haleigh’s door, then Bradley’s. Bradley noticed his enthusiasm, and his already broad chest puffed out like a peacock’s.
Haleigh stepped onto the sidewalk. Reflections from the twinkle lights on the building’s sign glittered in the puddles on the pavement. Chantilly’s was the most upscale restaurant she’d ever been to. The soft glow of candlelight leaked from the large front windows, brightening the evening’s growing darkness. Inside, Haleigh could see black-clad waitstaff slipping stealthily between shiny mahogany tables and cushioned seating upholstered in lush leather.
Bradley sidled up beside her in the glass’s reflection. For the first time, his eyes passed over her with interest.
Typically, Haleigh had excellent date-dar. She could sense almost immediately if someone was into her, and, nine out of ten times, her instincts were correct. Bradley could take those odds to whatever it was he did at the bank.
As a fat woman, she’d quickly learned to spot the signs when someone wasn’t attracted to her. The tightness that settled into their faces as they took her in. The distance they’d work hard to keep between them, as if an accidental brush of the hand would send the wrong message or ignite Haleigh’s presumably insatiable libido, inciting her to maul them like a bear hyped up on cocaine.
Or worse, the fear that her fat was contagious. Something they could “catch” if they stood too close. If they connected with her at all.
But Bradley was giving her nothing. Just a quick sweep of her frame with his gaze and then a smile when she glanced his way.
“Did I tell you I know the executive chef? I helped him secure investors for this place,” he said as he guided her inside.
“Oh. Cool,” she mumbled.
The ambience was impressive to the point of intimidating: everything clean and organized, the lighting and décor tasteful but expensive.
Discomfort tugged at her shoulders as she glanced at the other diners. Though her clothes helped her play the part, Haleigh didn’t fit in here. And anyone looking at Bradley probably assumed she didn’t fit with him either. For all she knew, after her lack of serious aspirational car options, Bradley might be thinking that himself.
The hostess led them to a corner table near the kitchen. It was open concept, so they could see the line at work, hear them calling out tickets, chopping, searing, all those other kitchen verbs. And the smell. The smell was heaven. It hinted that the food would be the same.
Not that Haleigh’s palate, developed on a regular diet of tacos, Caesar salad kits, and peanut butter sandwiches, was that discerning.
She couldn’t stop herself from inhaling deeply. Across the table from her, Bradley grinned, as if he liked seeing her enjoyment. To her surprise, her heart did a little flip in response. Maybe he was into this. She was letting her worries get the best of her.
She picked up the menu and began to peruse. “I’m guessing you’ve been here before?”
“Not since the soft opening. I was waiting for a good reason.”
Heat spread across Haleigh’s cheeks. Her lips tipped up in a small smile. “And I’m it?”
“In that dress, absolutely,” he said, his voice going a little husky. He leaned in, and the light from the small candles between them sharpened his cheekbones and summoned golden tones to his green eyes, making him look like a magazine cover model.
Forget phone filters: everyone should take photos by candlelight.
As she let his gaze capture hers, Haleigh realized she was still grinning. Was she starting to relax?
Then he spoke again. “I bet it was expensive.”
She had to swallow a sigh.
This guy wasn’t flirting with her: he was flirting with her couture. It could have been Michael Myers wearing this dress, his mask smeared in blood, and Bradley probably would have loved it just as much.
She settled deeper into her chair and pinned her eyes back to the menu. “I borrowed it from a friend.”
He practically cringed at the word “borrowed.” Imagine how disappointed he’d be by the library books in her room.
She scanned the options for the cheapest entrée. How were they charging forty dollars for chicken ? Was it plated in gold? Stuffed with caviar and lobster?
Maybe she’d order a salad. That would speed up the evening, and make it easier for her to pay for herself.
She reached for her water, only to have Bradley cover the glass with his hand. “Wait for the sparkling.”
Haleigh gaped at him. “It’s water.”
“But it’s not the best water.”
Since when was there a hierarchy? “I’m okay with second-best water.”
In a moment of mercy from the universe, the server arrived before Bradley could respond.
He began, no surprise, by ordering wine, whose label and year and orchard and kind of grape and whatever else people cared about with wine meant nothing to Haleigh. Like everything else, she happily imbibed whatever was cheapest.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll have the winter salad with house vinaigrette.”
Bradley chuckled.
Chuckled.
Like a cartoon villain. Someone get the man a mustache to twirl.
“She’s being shy,” he said, giving the server a knowing smile. “She’ll have the filet. Medium rare. Same for me.”
Haleigh’s mouth had to be swinging open as she gawked at her dining companion. It was the twenty-first century. Women could vote. Hold jobs. Have their own bank accounts. Certainly, they could order for themselves.
Yet Bradley kept going, as if steam wasn’t practically coming out of her ears across the table.
“We’ll start with a bread course and an order of the oysters. And please bring over a bottle of sparkling water. Preferably ROI.” He finally glanced at Haleigh. “It has the cleanest taste.”
Haleigh responded by grabbing her glass of tap water and gulping the whole thing down in one swallow. As she drank, she stared Bradley directly in the eyes, challenging him to say anything.
He watched her curiously as the waiter hurried away.
“I’m not a fan of oysters,” she said.
“You’ll like these.” He smiled loosely.
“They’re basically sea slugs. I don’t care how much they cost or what world-famous chef is scooping them out of the shell—”
“Famous chefs would never do that kind of menial labor.”
Haleigh liked to consider herself an even-tempered person. When you had to keep a lot of different clients happy to pay your bills, your patience threshold grew sky-high. But right now, she had to grind her foot into the hardwood floor to keep from kicking this guy in the shins.
“That doesn’t change my feeling on oysters, alas.” She folded her arms tightly over her chest, making sure her cleavage was well covered. Time to scream in body language. “Also, what if I was a vegetarian?”
Brad’s blond eyebrows drew together. “There’s chicken in the winter salad.”
“Maybe I don’t eat red meat?”
“This filet will change your mind.”
This. Dude.
Less than half an hour into the night and Haleigh had a new contender for worst date ever.