Chapter Three #2
One: that poor girl. That poor and desperate girl. She must be so lonely. How utterly insane to be going on multiple dates back-to-back over the course of one night, ordering way too many glasses of Pinot Noir and breadsticks.
Two: (if someone stuck around long enough to see her reach into her satchel bag and retrieve the dreaded green book) What a rude, unforgiving woman. A woman who held such little – or no – regard for someone else’s feelings. How could she? The sheer audacity of women these days…
Mario did not see the notebook coming. How could he when they had been having a pleasant time so far? Olivia even had high hopes for him. He was charming, respectful, ambitious. He was her type and had a ridiculously sexy Italian accent.
It was all going so well until he told her what he was passionate about and where that ambition was directed.
“I want to race cars.”
She pursed her lips, eyes examining the dark Italian features, floppy hair and thick moustache adorning his top lip.
“You want to race cars?” She had to bite her bottom lip to contain her amusement. Don’t laugh, Livvy. You’re better than this. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh…
Nodding her head, her eyes met Mario’s. “What type of cars?” she finally asked, intrigued to see if he was doing a bit or not. Surely, he was doing a bit. He was even wearing a red shirt, for crying out loud.
“Go-karts.”
That was it. Olivia burst out laughing. It was the first time that night she had genuinely laughed. “Go-karts!”
“Uh… yeah, go-karts.” Mario looked at her, his eyebrows coming together. “Is… is there a problem with that?”
Olivia wasn’t even embarrassed when she snorted, eyes filling with water as she continued laughing. She swore she had never laughed so hard on a date before. Real OR fake. This time, it was her turn to slam her hand against the crisp cloth.
“Excuse me,” Mario spoke, his voice lined with offence. “Just because I race cars—”
“Oh. Come. On,” she interrupted, wheezing slightly. “You cannot be serious.”
Olivia smiled, looking across at Mario. She watched as his expression remained stoic, and she felt her smile freeze.
Oh God. This man, who was named Mario, who liked to race go-karts and whose favourite colour was red… Was serious.
“Oh…” Olivia cleared her throat before whispering, “You’re serious.”
He stood up, stomping past the bar muttering a small but poignant “Bitch” under his breath, and left the restaurant with swift footsteps.
This time, once she had retrieved her notebook, she wrote her own name at the bottom of the lined page, right under his, and with two strikes, both were gone.
He’s troubled, she thought. No. He’s too much work. That’s what he is.
Regan.
He was number nine. His online dating profile had shown a picture of him at an indie pop concert wearing an open, white linen top and a thin silver chain around his neck.
She’d appreciated it with a firm right swipe.
Confidence is key, she had thought, and lo and behold, she had matched with him.
She had no idea how but was happy about the fact, nonetheless.
He had an Austin Butler look to him: sandy blond hair gelled and fluffed just right, eyes blue that glinted with mystery and smoulder. He had a sleeve of tattoos decorating his right arm, the curling patterns peeking out from beneath the cuff of his leather jacket.
He was undeniably sexy –? It was still a mystery how had she even managed to match the dreamboat in front of her.
But though this attraction pulled her in, and was the reason she hadn’t crossed his name out yet, the other more important question swirling around in her head remained: what was wrong with him?
She made a mental note to check her app settings once she returned home later that night.
He exuded stereotypical ‘bad boy heartthrob’ energy.
The kind of guy who owned a motorcycle, and your mother warned you against seeing.
The kind of guy you would climb out your bedroom window after midnight as a teenager just to watch him smoke a cigarette.
He was sexy, sure. But Olivia had to momentarily check in and ensure she was being realistic.
She didn’t want a bad boy. She had long since gone through that phase.
Numerous escapades in high school and university of the ‘let’s just go with the flow’ type, which had of course led to casual sex.
They had meant nothing to her. They were not real love, but instead a string of young infatuations.
So, she couldn’t help but sigh as Regan continued nattering his exciting, thrilling, maybe even dangerous tale.
He was captivating. There was no denying that.
It was just a shame bad boys were a breed she no longer had any interest in.
And, sadly, neither did the heroine of her novel.
No, this book would be different from the others lining the shelves.
No, it was out with the boys, out with the Jetts and Brads and Marios and Regans, and in with the real men.
The dependable kind.
The kind who fell in love hard and fast. Like passionate, spontaneous sex. The kind where you’re both so consumed with one another that before you even blink, it’s happening. You’re pressed up against the door with your skirt hitched up around your hips, moaning in pleasure.
Her male lead needed to be in control but also be able to recognise a woman’s ownership of her sexuality and feelings. He needed to love like Olivia’s leading character was his religion and her hips their god.
Regan was, unfortunately, not that man.
After Regan had left the table, furrowed brow and all, muttering the exact curse words and names she had heard numerous times that night, she no longer felt any guilt in crossing his name out harshly with black biro.
In fact, she pressed so hard the pen formed a small hole where his name was on the cream paper, rendering it decipherable after his melodramatic exit.
Olivia had had enough. Nine terrible dates, and she felt the enthusiasm of Danielle’s speed dating research proposal drain out of her.
Now, all she longed for was her fluffy slippers and the comfort of a Friends rerun. She was ready to give up, delete the apps entirely and throw her phone in the furnace. Or out the window. Either one would do.
She—
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice interrupted, before the familiar drag of the velvet chair sounded. “I believe you’ve been waiting for me?”