Page 70 of Gigi and the Gym Rats

He looks offended. “You wouldn’t want many children with me?”

“I hardly know you,” I snap.

We stare at each other.

“Fair enough,” he says. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to be the shouting type—another mark checked.Wow, Coco, you’re something. He doesn’t sound sweet either, though, when he says, “Tell me about yourself.”

I bristle at the order. Did he mean it like an order? Am I so annoyed with him, the entirety of him, that already he ticks me off like this?

And then I wonder why I like Zayne telling me what to do.

Jesus.

Since I’m the one who asked for this meeting, I force myself to calm down and get talking. “I work in a sports store in the mornings and study mostly online in the afternoons. I’m taking a few courses, psychology and biology mainly, and?—”

“You’ll want to psychoanalyze me then, I assume.”

I’m left with my mouth open. I close it. “Not sure I’m at that level yet,” I say.

“Go on.”

So I go on, still bristling. “I enjoy going to the gym, and jogging in the mornings, and reading fantasy books, and?—”

“You don’t sound like you have much time for the house.”

“No,” I agree, “I don’t.”

He leans forward. “Are you a good cook?”

“Why,” I say slowly, “are you?”

He chortles. “What kind of question is that?”

“Same one you asked?”

“I don’t cook,” he says, frowning as if I’m saying something stupid. “Which is why I need to know if you’re a good cook.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re looking for a girlfriend or a cook?”

“I’m not looking for either,” he says. “I’m looking for a wife.”

It’s a punch to the stomach, because that’s the idea, right? That’s what I’m looking for, too: a husband, not just a boyfriend. Maybe what he expects is that I’ll grill him about his job, his income, whether he owns a place or has a plan on how to get one, maybe in the suburbs, where we can raise our five kids.

And I want to throw up, because I look into his blue eyes and see nothing I like, nothing I want. The thought of kissing him, let alone have sex with him and even less live with him makes me feel dizzy and sick.

Pushing my chair back, I get up. “Listen,” I say, “I don’t think this is going to work. Thank you for your time.”

He chortles again and I find I hate the sound. “What is this, a job interview?”

“You made it into one,” I grind out between my teeth, grabbing my bag and jacket, turning around and walking away. “Good luck finding your cook.”

He doesn’t call out for me to go back.

Just as well, since I’m not planning on it.

That was… bad.

This is just one beta man,I tell myself as I hurry out of the diner,just one. Plenty more out there. You can’t call this experiment done. Not by a long shot.

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