Page 24 of The Dating Game

I pop my head around my car to give her a surprised look. “While I was waiting,” I say, like I don’t get the problem. “I honked like ten times before you came out.”

“Yeah, well,” she huffs, “most guys come to the door on a first date.”

“Oh yeah.” I frown, then turn back to my bike. “Not me, though. Nah, it’s easier this way. I don’t have to waste my time standing around in your doorway while you find your shoes.”

“Some men would say that waiting for a woman to finish getting ready is actually one of the highlights of a date,” she shoots back. “Builds the anticipation for her big reveal, and shows her that he knows she’s worth waiting for.”

I set my bike down on the ground, and turn to face her. “I don’t know about any of that stuff,” I say, even as my heart beats in agreement with the sentiment behind her words, “but if waiting for the woman is the highlight, those guys must not know about kissing.”

Brooke flushes from her head to her toe. Or at least from her head to her shoulder. I watch in fascination as the bare skin there turns adeep shade of red. If I pressed a kiss to that flushed skin how would she react?

Probably push me away in revulsion, I remind myself. She doesn’t want to be dating you.

Right. Good fact check.

I pivot and start fiddling with my bike like the height of my seat is suddenly a matter of life and death.

“Do you need any help getting your bike?” I ask gruffly before realizing this sounds way too nice—not the vibe I’m going for.

“Uh, no.” Brooke clears her throat, sounding flustered. “It’s just in my garage.”

“Right-o,” I say, then wince. I didn’t even plan that weird word choice. Which makes it infinitely more embarrassing than when I was being awkward on purpose last night.

I hear the garage door open as I grab hold of my helmet. I have a normal black one at home, but I borrowed this Batman one from my ten-year-old nephew. It’s a bit snug, but I’ll make do.

Another turn-off for women: men who act like children. I’ll be sure to work my desire to go to Comic-Con into the conversation too.

Brooke wheels herself up to where I’m still standing, her gaze flicking to my helmet then back to my face.

“Nice helmet,” she says without a hint of sarcasm. Then she snags her own helmet off her handlebar and places it on her head. It’s purple and has My Little Pony stickers all over it.

“Uh, you too,” I say, discombobulated by this new development.

“Thanks,” she says with a sheepish laugh. “My niece decorated it for me. I haven’t had time, or occasion really, to get a new one.”

“This one is my nephew’s,” I hear myself admit, once again going off plan.

“You’re not a Batman fan?” she asks with a quirk of her brow. “Too bad.”

“You like Batman?”

“When Christian Bale plays him.”

Right. She has some sort of celebrity crush. Of course that would be it.

“He did the best job bringing the comic book character to life, in my opinion. George Clooney was too smiley.”

So maybe not just a celebrity crush. Interesting.

“Are you a big superhero fan?” I ask.

“Not really,” she says. “My dad tried to get me and my sisters into the whole Justice League franchise because he likes the characters so much, but I only ever really got into Batman. I like the idea of a regular guy doing extraordinary things, you know? It’s more exciting and far more impressive.”

The strange urge to don a cape and fight crime roars inside my chest.

Don’t know wherethatcame from.

“I agree,” I say stiffly, still trying to get a grip on myself.

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