Page 25 of The Dating Game

“Well, should we do this thing?” she asks, snapping the clasp of her helmet.

“Uh, yeah, let’s go.” I hop onto my bike, straddling the seat as I wait for her to mount hers.

“Where are we headed?” she queries.

“There’s a trail about half-a-mile away,” I tell her. “I thought we could go there, then stop for some food along the way. There’s a spot about four miles up the trail where a bunch of food trucks usually congregate.”

“Phew, dinner!” She huffs out a laugh of relief, rubbing her stomach. “I was worried you weren’t going to feed me.” She flushes. “Not that you need to pay for me,” she adds hastily. “I didn’t mean to imply that. Sure that’s always appreciated and sweet, but I only meant that I’m going to need to eat.” She lets out an uneasy laugh. “I danced for over six hours today, so I’m not trying to be a diva about needing food. I’m just, you know, hungry.” She breaks off abruptly, lifting a hand to fiddle with the end of her braid.

I watch her for a second, noting her obvious discomfort. Are these things that have actually happened to her before? Guys either getting upset about paying for her or worse, expecting her to not eat? Was dating a jerky guy like Grant not out of the norm for her?

Welp. There goes my plan to act like I expect her to pay for my food.

I just don’t think I can do that to her.

“Oh no, we gotta eat,” I say, trying to put her at ease. “I can’t have you fainting on me.”

A soft laugh dances from her pink lips like even her laughter has its own melody.

I turn my attention back to my bike and the road ahead. Time to get this ride going before I find myself forgetting all about Operation Dating Game and start trying to date this woman for real.

***

Imakeupformymomentary display of weakness once we hit the trail. Bring water, the worship team women said. And I did. For me. Which means when we stop after about three miles of me going my all out maximum speed, I have a nice refreshing drink and she has nothing.

Also her face is really red and her chest is heaving from the exertion. I feel a tiny spasm of guilt forpushing her so hard—she did dance for six hours already today—but then I remember that this is all a bet to her and steel myself for another round of being obnoxious.

“One more mile until the food truck hot spot,” I say as I screw the cap back on my water. “How’s our speed for you? Good?”

I’m expecting her to lie and say it’s fine, but she surprises me.

“Honestly, it would be nice if we could slow down,” she says. “My legs are tired from a full day of dancing, plus we’re not even getting to talk.”

“What do we need to talk for?” I ask, swinging my leg back over my bike and settling on my seat.

“Um, how about to get to know each other.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, if you really want to.”

Brooke looks as if she just sucked on a lemon, but a second later she pastes on a smile. I can practically see the reel playing across her mind: just two months of this guy, two months. Ha! She’ll never make it that long.

“Great,” she enthuses, though I don’t miss the faint undercurrent of irritation in her tone. “How about we play this or that?”

“What’s that?” I ask.

She hops back on her bike before answering, setting off ahead of me.

“What’s this or that?” I repeat when I’ve caught up to her.

“It’s a get to know you game I play with my students sometimes. Basically you pick two similar things and ask the other person which they prefer. For instance, I might ask you, cake or ice cream and then you would say…” she trails off expectantly.

“Brownies,” I reply, just to be annoying.

“Ah, see, but that wasn’t one of the choices.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like cake, and ice cream is only good if it’s served with a brownie.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll allow it. My answer is cake, heavy on the frosting, light on the cake.”

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