Page 76 of What's in a Kiss?

Jake, this is Olivia Dusk. I hope this isn’t too forward, but I got your number from a friend. She thinks we’d really hit it off. If you’re not afraid of a blind date, I’ll be at Bar 1200 at eight tonight.

He made me wait six excruciating minutes before those three reassuring text-dots appeared, followed by:

See you there, Ms. Dusk. I look forward to making your acquaintance.

I’m wearing a black dress I grabbed at Bloomingdale’s in the Grove on my way here. Tight, cinched, ruched, short—it’s the kind of thing any straightish man on earth would like. I’ve dressed it up with bare legs, strappy red stilettos, and a chic lack of panties.

I’ve got on less makeup than I think High Life Olivia wears,and my hair’s in a simple sleek ponytail, rather than the wavy blowout favored in the photos of actress-me online. So as I sit here, munching on the olive in my drink, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the smoked mirror behind the bar, I look more like Real Life me than I have since I arrived. As nervous as I am, this makes me more at ease.

“Olivia Dusk?”

I turn, and there he is in a crisp pin-striped suit that makes him look—for a moment—like Glasswell, the talk show host I used to love to hate. This connection makes me nervous, makes me wonder if I’ve made a mistake...

But then he smiles, and it’s all there—the real Jake. The Jake I’ve gotten to know these past few days.

“YouareOlivia Dusk, right?” He’s doing a spot-on impersonation of someone starstruck and nervous. He even acts like he’s blushing, like he can’t find the right words.

“I could be,” I say and look him up and down.

“I’m Jake. Jake Glasswell.”

“Jake Glasswell,” I say. “What a pleasure.” I put my hand in his, expecting a shake, but he draws my fingers to his mouth and presses his lips to my skin—slowly, holding my eyes the whole time.

“The pleasure’s mine,” he says and slides onto the empty barstool beside me. He signals the bartender—“I’ll have what she’s having”—then spins toward me so our knees are overlapping. “I’m having the strangest sense of déjà vu,” he says. “Have we met somewhere before?”

I twirl the toothpick in my drink and take a sip. “Maybe inside a bubble in Ibiza?”

“Where did you go to high school?”

“Palisades. Class of ’14.”

“What a coincidence,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Me too.”

“Big school,” I say.

“Enormous,” he whispers, shifting to run his knee up my thigh.

“But I think I remember you,” I say, teasing. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you used to be cute.”

“Oh no,” he says, but he recovers quickly, propping an elbow on the bar and leaning in to say: “In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire that on the ashes of his youth doth lie.”

I swallow. Did this fine-as-hell man just quote a Shakespearean sonnet at me? I could kiss him. I could—wait. I remind myself of the game we’re playing and try to project cool.

“You should take something for that.”

He smirks, plays with the stirrer in his drink. “Didn’t you play Juliet senior year?”

“That’s right. While you were sliding past first base.”

“So, you remember I played baseball? The truth is, I only tried out because the catcher was hot. But then, mysteriously, she quit.”

“Maybe she was sick of wading through your fan club of sophomore girls to get to the dugout.”

“Never happened,” Jake says, “or at least I never saw them.”

“That’s why I quit debate, too.”

“What?” He blinks. “I definitely did not have a debate fan club.”

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