Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Pippa
I stand in front of my closet like it’s some kind of enemy combatant.
I suppose in a way, it is. It’s an enemy I have to defeat before I can leave the house.
I’ve been standing here for the last fifteen minutes with my arms folded and my head cocked to one side, glaring at the rail of clothes in front of me.
As if one of the outfits will decide to play ball and hold up a neon sign that says wear me, I’m perfect for a date that’s not a date.
What even is that, anyway? A not date, date.
A fake date. A ‘you were peer pressured into meeting some random guy from a bar because your friends are relentless’ kind of date.
There’s no category in the fashion guides for that.
There really should be. I can’t be the only one with pushy friends.
In fact, I bet this happens more often than people suspect.
I drag a couple of hangers out and consider the clothes on them.
A short black dress? No. That will look like I’m trying too hard.
An oversized hoodie and leggings? Nope. That’s like not trying at all.
Or worse, he could interpret it as a Netflix and chill with me vibe.
A silky blouse with tailored trousers? That’s getting closer, but it’s still not right.
I’d look like I was heading for a job interview, not to a bar to meet someone who may or may not even show up.
I could say I came straight from work, but then if I mentioned working from home, that would make me sound unhinged.
I groan and flop onto the edge of my bed, running both hands through my hair.
Why do I even care what I wear? I don’t want this to be a big deal.
It isn’t a big deal. I just don’t want to look like an absolute mess if he does show up.
But I also don’t want to give the impression that I’m already planning my wedding outfit since Sandra and Lucy roped me into this strange situation.
There has to be something in between those two options.
Ok, Pippa, think. Jeans. Jeans are safe. Jeans say I’m cool, I’m casual, I didn’t spend three hours panicking in front of my wardrobe.
I pull out my favorite pair of jeans. They are a dark wash, low-waisted pair, and they make my ass look like it owns a gym membership, even though the last time I saw the inside of a gym was when I got lost while looking for the vending machines after a lovely trip to the sauna.
I decide to pair them with a soft pink jumper. It’s cozy and not revealing, but it is fitted enough to still look feminine. It skims in at just the right places, and the color makes my skin look less ghostly under indoor lighting, which is a bonus.
That just leaves shoes. I turn my attention to my shoe collection at the bottom of the closet. What about sneakers? No, too casual. My eyes fall on my favorite black skyscraper heels. No, they are shoes that say I made a real effort today, which is definitely not the look I am going for here.
I purse up my mouth as I consider my other options.
Then my gaze lands on the perfect pair. My nude heels.
Yes. The little block heeled ones that add just enough height to make me feel like I am not slumming it in flats without making me wobble like a baby deer. They’ll say I tried, but not too hard.
I slip the clothes on and give myself a once-over in the mirror.
The outfit works. I leave my hair loose, an ideal curtain to hide behind if I need a quiet moment after saying or doing something embarrassing.
I keep my makeup light, applying just mascara, tinted moisturizer, and a pale pink lip gloss.
I think I have nailed the casual look and made it look effortless.
And only I know how much effort went into looking like I didn’t put any effort in at all.
Why is it harder to look like you haven’t tried than it is to look all out glam.
By the time I leave the house, I’ve almost convinced myself that it’s fine. That I’m fine. That this is fine. All is fine. Almost.
I arrive at Mason’s and step inside. The bar is busier than I expected it to be considering it is a Tuesday. Warm lighting glows on the wooden tables scattered across the empty dance floor, and the chatter of people mixes with clinking glasses. I approach the bar, and Mason grins at me.
“Where are your partners in crime tonight?” he asks.
“Ah, it’s just me tonight, I’m afraid,” I reply with a smile, thankful that Sandra only works weekend nights and does day shifts through the week.
“Oh, it’s the big date night, is it?” he says, his grin widening. “Do you want the Jessica dress?”
“God no,” I blurt out.
Peter laughs knowingly, and I feel the heat creep up my neck. Blasted dress.
I order a gin and tonic because it feels like the kind of drink that makes me appear sophisticated but approachable.
Carrying my drink with me, I grab a small table by the wall and settle in.
I am a little bit early, because that’s just me, so of course, the first thing I do is pull out my cell phone.
I debate telling Sandra and Lucy where I am, but I don’t text them yet.
He might not even show and then there will be nothing to tell.
Instead, I fall down the black hole that is Facebook.
And there it is. George’s latest post. I try to tell myself that’s not what I was looking for, but that’s a lie and I know it.
The post contains a photo of two opera tickets, neatly arranged next to a glossy program with Madame Butterfly written in swooping letters. The caption on the post reads: Saturday night can’t come soon enough.
My stomach twists, a weird combination of envy and curiosity. George is going to the opera, somewhere he always wanted to take me, and I always resisted. I would give anything now for one of those tickets to be mine. I wonder who he’s taking with him. A woman?
No, surely not! It’s far too soon for that.
We only broke up a few weeks ago. Maybe he’s going with his best friend, but do two men really go to the opera together if they’re not involved romantically?
I don’t really know, but my gut feeling is no.
Maybe he will take his mom. She is cultured, like she actually knows the difference between Puccini and pasta shapes.
I zoom in on the picture, as if that’s going to tell me anything more, then I quickly click out of Facebook and lock my cell phone. What am I doing? Stalking my ex on Facebook while waiting for my ‘not date’ to start? This is tragic. Absolutely tragic.
I take a cautious sip of my drink and check my watch.
Ten minutes to eight.
Then five.
He’s not coming, is he? I try to remind myself I am early and he’s not even due yet, but that doesn’t change the fact, he’s not coming.
Of course he’s not coming. I can’t believe I came.
I’m about to resign myself to finishing my gin and tonic and sneaking out for a cheeky takeaway when a shadow falls across the table.
I glance up, and just like that, breathing feels like an optional activity.
Oh Gosh! How can a man be so effortlessly gorgeous?
And he’s really tall. I forgot that about him.
His broad shoulders are currently filling out a midnight-blue, button-down, rather gorgeous shirt that looks like it was made specifically for him.
He has paired it with a pair of low-swung, black jeans that perfectly hug his slim hips.
His sleeves are casually rolled, showing his forearms in that careless way that somehow makes the veins on his arms more noticeable than they have any right to be.
His glossy hair is slightly messy in that artful way that suggests he either spent a lot of time on it or none at all.
And his jawline, yeah, I can’t ignore that.
That jawline could cut glass. Definitely made in America.
He places a drink on the table, the exact same one I’m already drinking, which gets him a brownie point for noticing, and another for top-grade smoothness. I watch bemused as he slides down opposite me like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.
“I thought you might want a refill,” he says, his voice low, his American accent even more sexy than I remembered it to be.
I swallow, suddenly aware of the flutter in my chest. He’s too good-looking for my liking. Nerves. Just nerves. Not attraction. Definitely not that.
“Thank you,” I manage, glancing at the glass and then back at him. “I’m Pippa, by the way.”
“Pippa. I like it,” he drawls, and he looks so adorable, my stomach flutters. He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the chair as if he owns the freaking place. Effortlessly hot. Effortlessly confident. “I’m Rhett.”
“Rhett?” I say with a frown. “I thought your name was Roger. From the text?”
His mouth curves into a grin, slow and knowing. “Roger Rabbit. It was… a joke.”
I feel the damned heat rush up my neck and fly into my cheeks. I try to hide it behind my hair, but it’s too late.
“You’re blushing … again.”
“I am not.” Except I am, and the smirk on his face says he knows it.
“Admit it,” he says, leaning in a little. “You walked right into that one.”
I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch despite myself. “So, you get me here under false pretenses, huh? We’re already off to a terrible start.”
“What’s in a name?” he says easily. “Rex. Roger. It makes no real difference to the date.”
“This isn’t a date,” I tell him quickly.
“Of course not,” he agrees, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Still, not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night.”
Ok, I’ll give him that one. I tilt my head, studying him. “So why did you even agree to this? Some random woman dressed up as Jessica Rabbit approaches you in a bar, and you think, yeah, sure, let’s do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I agree to this?” he says. His smile is quick and sharp. “What guy doesn’t want to date Jessica Rabbit? And I was in awe of your confidence.”
My blush deepens, and those gorgeous eyes lock on me, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“It wasn’t confidence,” I say quickly. “It was a forfeit. I lost a game. This whole thing …” I gesture vaguely between us “… is the result of peer pressure and humiliation.”
“Well,” he says, lifting his glass and smirking. “Whatever it was, I’m a fan. Confidence, forfeit, whatever you want to call it. Not everyone would’ve gone through with it.”
I shrug, sipping my drink. “As long as you’re cool knowing this isn’t about the romance.”
“That suits me perfectly, actually,” he says smoothly. “I’m only in London for work, anyway. I figured I could use a break from hanging out with the same people from the office.”
“You’re American, right?” I ask, though his accent makes that obvious.
“What else can I be with a name like Rhett?” he teases.
“Let me guess. Your mother was a fan of Gone with the Wind?”
He nods. “Lifelong. Want to guess what our family house is called?”
My eyes widen with surprise. “Twelve Oaks?”
“Got it in one.” His voice is dry.
I shake my head in wonder at the thought of him growing up in a house called Twelve Oaks. Even so, I can’t imagine that he ever got teased. He must have been the best-looking kid in his school. “How are you liking London so far?”
He takes a sip of his drink and shrugs. “It’s been mostly work.”
I laugh, the tension loosening from my shoulders. “Boss working you to the bone, is he?”
“But London finally got interesting last Saturday night,” he says, kind of avoiding my question and asking his own. “You work around here?”
“I’m freelance,” I say. “A graphic designer. Which is just a fancy way of saying I sit in my pajamas at home and occasionally remember to send people logos.”
“That sounds ideal.” His eyes glint with amusement. “No one to boss you around.”
“Exactly.”
And just like that, the conversation flows.
He tells me about his job which is something to do with software development and consultancy, though he makes it sound more entertaining than it probably is.
I tell him about clients who don’t know what they want until they see what they don’t, and how many times I’ve had to explain that make it pop isn’t actual design feedback.
We laugh, and as the night goes on, I relax. The nerves settle into something warmer, lighter.
And I try very, very hard not to notice how his eyes linger on me when I laugh, or how his smile curves just a little differently when it’s aimed at me. I will not allow myself to be charmed by this man. There is only one man for me, and it isn’t Rhett with his amazing jawline and hot accent.