8. Tyson
eight
Tyson
“Ahhhh.” Tipping her head all the way back, Lottie stares at the looming facade. “What exactly are we doing at the Smithsonian?”
“I told you, looking for dweebs —I mean, dudes.” I adjust the collar on my shirt as I take in the place.
I’ve never been good at anything besides hockey.
This is so far away from my normal hangouts, I already feel out of place.
But I’m committed for Lottie’s sake. “Apparently, there are lots of intellectual gentleman here. You know, men who are cultured, with refined tastes, and likely Ivy League college degrees. Someone who will be perfect for your mother’s image boost. We just need to find the right person. ”
She stares at me as I continue to adjust my collar.
I don’t remember ever wearing a shirt with a collar outside of game and media days.
It’s not my thing at all. It just seems silly to have all this extra fabric up by my neck, like it’s trying to choke me.
Normally, I wear T-shirts or jerseys and athletic pants.
Not these preppy dress slacks I’m wearing to impress her today for our excursion.
“Okay, so let’s pretend we find such a person,” she says slowly, as if this still doesn’t make any sense. “You’re forgetting I’m still confused about one thing. Just because we lay eyes on someone doesn’t mean he instantly assumes the role of my fake date.”
“Right,” I’m quick to quip back, my fingers moving in a walking gesture. “Then it’s the easy part—you walk up and ask him to help you out.”
“Are you aware of how insane this all sounds?” She widens her stance, peering at me with narrowed eyes. “There’s no one on the planet who’ll offer that much help to someone they don’t even know”
“It’s not insane at all.” I press my lips together and shake my head.
As if countering my headshake, she juts her chin. “Nobody will agree to lie for a complete stranger.”
I shake my head again. “You only think that because you don’t see yourself. Trust me, you can walk up to any guy here and ask him to help you, and he won’t hesitate.”
Squinting as if confused, she drops her voice to an almost whisper, “Why do you think that?”
“Because … because you’re you.” I motion sharply at her—there are no words to explain it, but every guy who sees her will know it.
Her eyes pierce right through me, unblinking, like she’s trying to read my deepest thoughts. “What does that mean?”
“It means, you know, you look like you. ” Dropping my gaze to my shoes, I don’t need to look at her to know how this will go.
No guy will ever say no to her. “You’ve got those surreal green eyes, and some hair and arms …
” I gesture vaguely, struggling not to go off about what an absolute smoke show she is.
Lottie laughs and echoes, “Some hair and some arms. Wow, that’s a great compliment.”
“Not to mention, if they have any sort of a career—which, of course, is why we came to this refined institution—they’ll get some serious free publicity dating a senator’s daughter.
It’s a win for them too. Come on. We’re wasting time.
” Before I say something more embarrassing, I wave her forward.
It’s hard not to glare at the building itself.
Even though it’s impressive, the simmering dread in my gut reminds me of what I’m about to do.
I pray the perfect dweeb is right where I need him to be.
“If you insist,” she mutters under her breath, and we ascend the steps.
We aren’t even halfway up when we pass a guy coming toward us.
He’s wearing a fitted short-sleeve shirt, showing off his trim physique and sinewy arms. Lottie slows her steps.
Like clockwork, her eyes slide over to him as she whispers, “He’s sort of cute. ”
And my heart convulses!
It’s all I can do not to dramatically grab my chest and fall backward. I didn’t actually think she’d get into this. I’m not cut out for it. Sweat slathers the back of my neck. All I want to do is grab her hand and run far away, but to make her happy, I do an inspection.
Thick, masculine facial hair, neatly trimmed.
The dude is practically a model, with a sharp jawline and high cheekbones.
Way over six feet tall. Not to mention his glowing white teeth.
On cue, he flashes his smile at Lottie. My gaze snaps to her as her cheeks flush pink, and I throw out my arm in disgust, grumbling, “Nah, he’s not good enough for you!
” My voice squawks as I rush out an excuse to keep walking.
“Come on, let’s hit up the Apollo 11 Command Module. There’ll be much better guys there.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with him.” She plants her feet on the step, her gaze following him.
My blood boils. I’m about to be cooked here!
There is no way I’m witnessing Lottie checking him out.
With their matching bright smiles, they would be too perfect together—Barbie and Ken.
Her tone lowers as she continues, “I mean, I have to find someone by the end of the day, and beggars can’t be choosers. ”
“Not him!” I jerk my head for her to follow me in the other direction.
“He’s got …” I draw a blank as I struggle to find a flaw.
He clearly won the genetic lottery, every facial feature perfectly placed.
I frantically search for a wedding band.
That would be an automatic dealbreaker. There’s not even a tan line on his finger.
With no way to compete, I freeze. I had envisioned stomach rolls and a bad comb-over.
Possibly even a hint of bad breath, so she won’t want to stand too close.
And yet, it’s just my luck that the first guy we see is a young Brad Pitt lookalike …
and he turns, looking up at her as he reaches the final step.
I catch a tiny glimpse of a mole on his chin and blurt, “Look! See that?” while frantically waving my finger in his direction. “Contagious Chin Mole Syndrome!”
“Ah, what?” Her brow wrinkles as her gaze stays glued to him while he slowly meanders down the street. She barely looks at me.
“I knew it!” I excitedly go off. “I saw it from the distance, but it’s confirmed.
It’s a new disease they just announced. It’s highly contagious, and it shows up as a mole on that exact spot on your chin.
But that’s not even the worst part. It, ah, basically, um, you just, ah, grow moles all over, and did I mention it’s contagious? ”
Her bottom lip pushes out as she continues to stare after him. “I mean, doesn’t everyone have a few moles? It’s not a reason to bully—”
“Not these moles!” I explode, my heart pounding so fast I feel like I’m in an emergency.
There’s no way she can ever go on a date with Intellectual Young Brad Pitt.
A bead of sweat springs on my brow. This isn’t going the way I had planned!
That guy probably has his own apartment just around the corner.
I was hoping for some guy who still lives in his mom’s cellar.
I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m protecting her from all the heartbreak that man will bring.
That’s why I launch into, “Well, these moles aren’t regular moles.
First, they’re just there, but then they start to grow hair.
You might think that’s okay, but no—it’s a lot of hair.
Then they start to get infected and rupture at the slightest bump, spewing buckets of pus.
And if you touch it, you’re cooked. Did I mention already they are contagious?
” I stop as she hikes a raised eyebrow at me.
Buckets of pus might have been too far.
I mean, this still has to be believable.
“I’ve never heard of this, and my mom’s a senator.” Her voice wavers, and she’s no longer staring off in the direction of Mr. Intellectual Young Brad Pitt. “If this were a real disease, my mom would know about it. It’s part of her job to make the country healthy and safe.”
“Yeah, it’s basically like a government cover-up thing,” I grumble and stare at my shoes, because there’s no way I can lie to her face.
“Okay, Ty.” Out of my peripheral vision, I see her fold her lips together and cross her arms. “How about we try this your way. You tell me who I should approach.”
Now we’re talking.
I lift my chin and scope out the place. We’re still on the steps, but the campus stretches out before us. A group of schoolchildren follow a teacher in a perfect row back to their bus. To my right, a small group of elderly women, wearing dresses and matching fancy hats, waltz up the stairs.
This might be harder than I thought.
Releasing a deep breath, I glance up and down the sidewalk, and then I spot a treasure of a lifetime— the one !
Carrying a leather book bag and mumbling to himself, a short man, maybe five foot six at the most, stumbles toward us.
He’s missing the stomach rolls I had envisioned, but he’s crazy thin—like he could walk sideways in the rain and not get wet.
Not a muscle on his body, and his skin is so pasty pale he looks like he’s been hiding in the stacks for days, maybe months.
Oh, and his glasses are perfect! They are so huge they cover the top half of his face.
He’s dressed perfectly in a pair of baggy khaki pants and a button-up shirt.
Guy’s got no game, he even buttons the top button at the collar.
To top it off, he’s half bald, and hunched over.
Seriously—a back hump!
Nothing is better than that .
I love him already!
When my gaze slides back to Lottie, her hand is planted firmly on her hip. “I know what you’re doing.”
My head jerks back. “Ah, helping you find a fake date.”
She whisper-screams under her breath, “That man has to be at least a hundred years old.”
“Age is just a number,” I fire back. “Plus, just think about how mature he will be.”