Page 18 of Bad at Love
I swat his hand away. “Get your own fries.”
“Can’t. I’m watching my figure.”
I growl at him. Laz has the metabolism of a horse. He also works out a lot, so he’s incredibly ripped and in shape. Not that I often see it since he’s usually in layers except for in the most sweltering heat waves. It’s probably for the best. It’s hard to be friends with someone when you’re already aware of how attractive they are. Luckily I’ve trained myself to not look at him in that way.
“So, let me start again,” he says, adjusting himself on his seat so that he’s facing me, his long legs and shit-kicker boots hooked on the bottom rung of my stool. “What if the two of us dated each other? Just for a little while. Just as a test.”
“A test?” I ask, trying not to choke on the burger.
“Yeah. We go on some dates. Definitely at least three. And see what we’re doing wrong.”
“Who says I’m doing anything wrong?” I glare at him. “I thought we agreed that it’s their problem, not mine.”
“Even so, wouldn’t you want to learn?”
“But it would be your opinion.”
“And don’t you trust my opinion?”
I do. He’s got the experience that I don’t have.
“So, this whole thing would be about teaching me how to be a better date?”
“Kind of.”
“What about you? Like you’re so perfect.”
“I’m not. I know.” He chews on his lip for a moment. “Maybe then after the third date, we start getting into a relationship.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, putting the burger down and wiping my lips with the napkin. “Relationship?”
“A fake one.”
“How is that going to help?”
He runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “I don’t know. I’m spitballing.”
“Maybe you ought to think this all through before you start spitballing. I mean, we’re friends and this…this seems like it’s going to get really complicated, really fast. I need a beer.” I wave at the bartender and order one.
“We’ll have rules in place so it doesn’t.”
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I blurt out.
He winces. “Not that it was an option, but ouch.”
“Sorry.” And I don’t know why I said that. It’s something I wouldn’t dare let myself entertain for a second.
The bartender slides me the beer, eyeing the both of us like we’re the most interesting customers he’s had all day.
I slam back half the beer, let out a burp I immediately cover with my hand, and then give Laz a sheepish look.
“Please don’t tell me you’re burping on your dates,” he says, grinning.
“I hope not,” I tell him. God, what if I am?
“This is what I mean,” he goes on. “We’ll go out on dates, pretend to be different people…or we’ll be strangers to each other. And we’ll see what happens.”
“Yeah, but while you’re judging and schooling me on whatever I’m doing wrong, what will I be doing?”
