I Wish He Would (Sweeter Than Fiction #4)

1. Chapter 1

I am the queen of bad first dates.

I’m talking about a list so long and egregious that I could turn it into a best-selling novel.

Maybe tonight will be the night my luck changes. I went out of my way to get my nails done and buy a new dress at my favorite thrift store, so here’s to hoping.

When the time on my dashboard screen changes to six, I grab my clutch from the passenger seat and lock my car before heading into the restaurant.

It’s one of those places where the lighting is dim enough that it makes you question if you’re getting old when you can barely read the menu without using your phone’s flashlight.

“How many are in your party today?” the hostess asks.

“I’m actually meeting someone.” I smooth my hands along the form-fitting black dress, loving the feel of the cool satin beneath my fingertips, and smile at the hostess.

I pull my phone out of my clutch as I move past her, opening the text thread with my cousin, Patrice.

I scroll until I find the picture she sent me of Mike, the guy from her work, who I’m supposed to be meeting.

Brown hair that’s just the right length where it looks intentionally messy.

Gold-rimmed round glasses. Kind eyes. He’s also twenty-nine and a realtor.

He sounds stable, unlike some of the guys Patrice has set me up with before.

I slide my phone back into my clutch and scour the tables for him.

The first checkmark in the pros column for Mike is that he invited me to a local steak house for our first date.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good taco truck or hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but this place is quiet and romantic.

The perfect spot to get to know someone without it being so loud that you can’t hear the other person talk.

When I spot Mike at a table near the back windows, I let out a relieved sigh. He gets another check in the pros column for being on time, early even.

I always end up regretting going on dates with the men Patrice sets me up with.

The last guy took me to a smoothie shop and proceeded to order two drinks.

I thought it was a little forward of him to order for me without knowing what I wanted, but I went along with it…

until he tried both smoothies, took the one he liked the most, and left me with the crappy, healthy one that tasted like blended grass and dirt water.

If that wasn’t bad enough, he then proceeded to talk to me for two hours about his recent metamorphic experience at a crying retreat. I laughed a little, thinking he was kidding.

He wasn’t.

Nope. He was so offended that I didn’t understand the life-altering experience that he proceeded to cry for the last thirty minutes of our date because he learned during the retreat that crying is the best way to let all your emotions out.

That was two and a half hours of my life that I’ll never get back.

But for some reason, I let my cousin convince me to give her another shot. Probably something to do with my avoidance of any form of conflict. At least this date looks promising so far.

I take a steadying breath and walk through the maze of tables, taking note of the exits and where the bathrooms are along the way because when a girl’s been on as many dates as I have, I know it’s best to always have an exit strategy.

I stop in front of the table, and my date doesn’t bother looking up. “Are you Mike?”

He glances up at me with a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes. Nice to meet you.” He presses his lips together and glances around like he’s searching for my name in his mind but can’t recall it.

“Alyssa.”

“Right.” He looks back at his menu with squinted eyes and a furrowed brow.

Okay, then. I take the seat across from him and set my clutch next to my glass of water.

It’s a little weird that we’re at a four-person table when there are plenty of available two-seaters, but maybe he likes having his space.

Or maybe he’s one of those people that orders every appetizer on the menu and needs a space big enough to hold all the food.

A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, a nice blouse, and black slacks approaches our table.

I place the black cloth napkin across my lap and look up to order my go-to drink at restaurants: lemonade.

But she doesn’t ask for our drink orders.

She leans in and presses a kiss to Mike’s cheek, then takes the seat in between us, closest to the window.

I’ve never been to a restaurant where the waitress sat down at our table to take our order, but maybe it’s a new thing I’m not aware of.

The woman clasps her hands on the table and stares at Mike. “Are you going to introduce me?”

My brow furrows. Why would my date need to introduce me to our waitress?

He nods and gestures to me. “This is Allison.”

I shift uncomfortably in the wooden chair. “Alyssa,” I correct him. There’s strike one in the cons column.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alyssa.” She reaches her hand out. I shake it, not liking where this is going. “I’m Susan, Michael’s mother.”

No.

I must’ve heard her wrong. Because there’s no way this twenty-nine-year-old man brought his mother on a date.

There has to be some other reasonable explanation. Maybe she has a disorder that causes her to kiss strangers on the cheek and sit at random dinner tables and refer to herself as their mother.

But the more I look at them, I can’t unsee how much they look alike.

They have the same shade of brown hair. Their faces are both a similar shape, and when they smile at each other, their lips lift in a similar fashion.

The only difference is I can see the grays beginning to reappear at Susan’s roots like she’s due for her next color appointment.

I don’t know how I didn’t see it before she sat down.

Waitress, my butt. It’s clear as day now that they’re related.

That still doesn’t explain why he brought her on a date…with me.

What did I do to end up here? Patrice can’t seriously think I’d want to go out with a guy who’d bring his mom on a date. I’m sure I’ll be up all night reexamining the life choices that led me to this moment.

I glance over at Mike to get his reaction, and he’s staring at me with a pinched expression like he’s wondering why I haven’t responded to his mother yet.

I take a steadying breath. Well, now I know why he picked a table with four chairs.

I go ahead and mentally add two strikes to the cons column.

I’ve had some real doozies of dates, but I can’t say I’ve ever had someone bring their mom to dinner with them before.

I force a smile. “Uh, it’s nice to meet you, too.”

A middle-aged woman in a simple black dress with a white apron tied around her waist approaches our table.

“Good evening. My name is Tracy, and I’ll be serving you this evening.

” She tells us about tonight’s specials, then asks, “Can I get you folks started off with something to drink?” She looks at me first, but Susan jumps in before I can open my mouth.

“I’ll have whatever red will pair best with your steak special tonight.”

The waitress looks at me again, but Mike speaks in a loud whisper to his mother. “What do you think I should get?”

I glance over at them as Susan places her hand on her son’s arm. “You’ve always loved apple juice.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing and look up at the waitress just in time to see her mouth twitch.

It’s slight, but I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks this is absolutely comical.

Also terrible, but at least I’ll be getting a good laugh out of tonight.

Although, I’m still seriously considering disowning Patrice.

“I’ll have a lemonade, please,” I say.

“Regular, strawberry, or peach?” The waitress leans closer. “We make all our syrups and sauces in-house, so the flavored lemonades are to die for.”

“Peach sounds great, thanks.”

Mike grimaces. “I’m allergic to peaches.”

I blink rapidly. “Strawberry then.” I smile up at her. Poor Tracy didn’t know what she was getting into when she came into work tonight. To be fair, I didn’t know what I was getting into when I walked into this restaurant either.

Tracy smiles politely at me before turning to Mike. “And you, sir?”

“I’ll do the”—he glances at his mom again—“apple juice.”

“That typically comes in a plastic cup.”

I bite the inside of my cheek hard to rein in my laughter. I don’t know how our waitress is keeping a straight face right now while talking about sippy cups for an adult, but she could definitely get into acting school.

“Would you prefer it in a normal glass?” she asks.

“A wine glass.” Mike makes a weird sound between a scoff and a snort as if the question was ridiculous. “I’m not a child.”

Says the grown man ordering apple juice at a fancy steak house.

On a first date.

That he brought his mother to.

Tracy offers him a curt nod. “Would you like any appetizers? Might I suggest the crab cakes?”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “We don’t eat shellfish.” He spits out the words in a way that has me wondering what vendetta he has against crabs. It sounds personal.

“Right.” Tracy offers a tight smile. “I’ll go get your drinks.”

She shoots me an apologetic look before leaving me to my mother-son misery.

“Mom,” Mike hisses after an extended moment of awkward silence. “Should I ask her what she does for work?”

“That’s a great question, sweetie.”

I don’t know why she sounds so enthusiastic. It’s not like asking me about my job is going to win him an award. And it certainly doesn’t outweigh the fact that he brought his mother with him tonight.

“Alyssa.” Mike sits up higher in his seat and squares his shoulders. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m a hairstylist.”

“I guess your hair does look nice. I’ve gotten my hair cut every other week by the same stylist since I was a boy.” Mike runs his fingers through his hair and shoots me a devilish grin. “She keeps me looking fresh, so, sorry, I won’t be switching to you.”