Chapter 9
DOUBLE BLIND TEST
GRYFF
“That's the fifth one, Gryff. The one, two, three, four, five... count them, fifth perfectly nice guy you've rejected.” Sean's exasperated face filled my phone screen as I sprawled on the couch, trying to look casual about systematically destroying every dating option for Artie.
“The sommelier was pretentious,” I said, scrolling through my tablet like I wasn't fully invested in this conversation.
“This is California. He knows about wine.”
I gave him a no-duh nod. “Exactly. Pretentious.”
Sean rubbed his temples. “Okay, what about Kyle? The pediatric nurse?”
“Too tall.”
“She was five-eleven.”
Yeah, but so was Artie. “That's basically six feet.”
“That's basically not how math works.” Sean looked ready to throw something at me through the phone. “Manuela, the personal trainer?”
“Too into CrossFit.”
I think Sean growled. Maybe it was just gas. “You're a professional athlete.”
“Exactly. I know the type.”
“Oh my sainted grandmother.” Sean disappeared from frame for a second, and I heard him muttering to Ren in the background. “Your weird twin friend is being impossible... No, the other twin... Yes, the one who's in love with his roommate...”
“I can hear you,” I called out.
Sean reappeared, his expression shifting to something craftier. “Okay, last chance. If you reject this one, I'm telling Artie you're sabotaging her love life.”
My stomach dropped. “That's not—I'm not—“
“Sure you're not.” Sean's phone shifted, and suddenly he was showing me a photo. “Rob Kramer. Five four, stunt coordinator, rock climber, teaches kids' martial arts on weekends, volunteers at the aquarium, and literally everyone who meets him falls a little bit in love with him. Literally.”
I stared at the photo. Rob was... annoyingly attractive. Compact, muscled in that functional way that came from actually using your body rather than just sculpting it. Confident stance, genuine smile, surrounded by kids in tiny gis in what was clearly a charity event.
“How do we know he's not a serial killer?” I tried weakly.
“Because I've known him for three years, and the most violent thing he's ever done is choreograph fight scenes where no one actually gets hurt.” Sean pulled the phone back to his face. “Also, he fosters senior cats. Serial killers don't foster senior cats, Gryff.”
Fuck. I couldn't find a single legitimate reason to reject him.
“He seems...” I swallowed hard. “Fine.”
“Fine? He's perfect. He's confident, funny, emotionally intelligent, and completely unfazed by tall, muscled, athletic women. He dated a six-foot blonde goddess of a volleyball player for two years.”
Each word felt like a nail in the coffin of my stupid, hopeless feelings for Artie.
“Great,” I managed. “Set it up.”
“Done. Tomorrow night, seven o'clock, Constellation in West Hollywood.” Sean looked entirely too pleased with himself. “You're welcome.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I ended the call and immediately wanted to throw my phone across the room.
Why had I agreed to this mutual dating setup thing?
Oh right, because Artie had asked for my help.
Because she'd looked at me with those blue eyes and said she trusted me to find her someone good.
Because I was apparently a masochist who enjoyed watching the woman I was falling for date other people.
My phone buzzed with a text from Artie.
ARTIE
Your date is all set. You're going to LOVE him. Meeting at Constellation at 7. Ren says he's perfect for you!!!!
That was entirely too many exclamation marks. She was clearly joyfully excited about her plan. I wasn't going to be the one to rain on her dating parade.
You didn't send me a picture or anything
It's more fun as a surprise. Trust me, he's exactly what you need.
Great. I was so looking forward to a double blind date. To watch Artie with Rob the Perfect while some stranger tried to make conversation with me. This was going to be the longest night of my life.
I arrived at Constellation ten minutes early, wearing the dark jeans and button-down Artie had insisted made me look “approachable but still hot.” Not that it mattered what I looked like when I'd be spending the evening watching her with someone else.
The restaurant was one of those trendy LA places where they cared more about how the food photographed than whether humans could actually sit comfortably. Every surface was either marble, exposed brick, or Edison bulbs. The hostess looked like she weighed less than my left earlobe.
“Reservation for Kingman,” I said.
Her eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, yes, Mr. Kingman. Your party is already here. Right this way.”
I followed her through the maze of tiny tables and decorative chairs that looked like they belonged in a dollhouse, and there was Artie, standing by a table, looking absolutely stunning in a dark blue dress that made her eyes pop.
Her hair was down in waves, and she'd done that thing with her makeup that made her look like she was glowing from within.
And right behind her was Harry the cameraman and, joy of joys, Sloane.
She gave me a little finger wave and I tight-lipped smiled.
She'd been very insistent on recording every second of this date.
Had even made me and Artie send contact info for our dates in advance so they could sign the filming releases before the date.
“Gryff,” Sloane waved me over. “You look great. Your date's running a few minutes late, but he texted that he's almost here. I'm anxious to see if it's love at first sight. He's adorable and apparently doesn't follow sports at all, so he won't care that you're famous.”
I glanced over at Artie who shrugged and smiled. “I think you'll like him. Ren assured me he isn't a serial killer.”
Before I could respond, someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned to find myself looking down, way down, at a man who barely came up to my chest. He stepped around me and held his hand out to Artie.
“You must be Artemis.” Rob's voice was warm and confident, completely unfazed by the fact that he had to tilt his head back to make eye contact. “Wow, Sean completely undersold how beautiful you are.”
Artie's face went through about six different expressions as she looked down at him, her body automatically bending at an awkward angle like she was trying to figure out the logistics of.
.. existing near him. She extended her hand for a shake, then seemed to second-guess it, pulled back, started to lean down for a hug, aborted that mission, and ended up doing an odd curtsy-bow hybrid that made Rob grin.
“I'm... yes. Hi. You're... compact,” she blurted out, then immediately turned red. “I mean, Sean mentioned you were... I just meant...”
“That I'm short?” Rob laughed, easy and genuine. “Five four on a good day. Five six if I spike my hair, which my ex said made me look like an anime character, so I stopped doing that.”
Fuck. Sean was right. Rob was sweet, funny, confident, and good-looking, and Artie was going to fall in love with him tonight.
Before Artie could respond, a tall whirlwind of energy bounded up to our group.
“Oh my god, you're even taller me. This is uh-mazing.”
I looked over to find possibly the most willowy adult man I'd ever seen beaming at me. He couldn't have been bigger around than my pinky, with platinum blond hair in a short spiky cut that matched his personality perfectly.
“I'm Puck.” He actually bounced on his toes. “This is so cool. I've never dated someone I could actually climb like a tree.”
The hostess, who'd been watching our group with increasing concern, cleared her throat. “Right this way to your table.”
She led us to a booth that was clearly designed by someone who'd never actually eaten food before. The table was fixed in place, at a height that would hit both Artie and me somewhere around our sternums if we managed to squeeze into the seats.
“Here you are,” the hostess chirped.
We all stared at the booth. Rob tilted his head, assessing it like a stunt he was planning. Puck was probably the only one who could fit at the table at all. Artie was doing that thing where she tried to make herself smaller, shoulders hunching in.
“Actually,” the hostess said, apparently realizing the geometric impossibility of fitting us into the space, “let me show you to our bar seating. Much, uh, better lighting for your camera crew.”
The bar seating turned out to be backless stools that looked like they were made from repurposed bicycle seats, positioned at a counter that would have both Rob swinging his legs like a child, and have me and Artie dying about three minutes in from having the sides of the metal seats digging into our larger-than-those-seats asses. I couldn't subject her to that.
“Those are a Larry, Curly, and Mo style accident waiting to happen,” I said, louder than necessary.
Several nearby diners looked over. “Look, I'm six four and built like a truck.
Those things are going to snap the second I sit down, and then you'll have a viral video of League Player Destroys Pretentious Restaurant on your hands.”
The manager materialized instantly, probably sensing the bad publicity.
Rob stepped forward smoothly. “We're going to need your VIP booth, the one you keep for celebrities who actually want to eat their food.”
“I... we don't...”
“The one in the back corner,” Rob continued pleasantly. “With the adjustable table and real chairs. The one you gave to that action star Fox Daws last week. It looked great in his InstaSnap post.”
The manager's face went through a journey. “Right this way.”
The VIP booth was like finding an oasis in a desert of aesthetic discomfort. Real chairs with backs and cushions. A table at actual table height. Space to exist as humans with bones and muscles and the need for back support.
“Thank god,” Artie breathed, then caught herself. “I mean, this is lovely.”