Cinderella Screwed Me Over

know most everyone who works here. Including the guy who actually owns this place.”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “You mean me?”

“I mean Brent.”

“Right. Brent and I own the place.” Jake’s confused expression turned into one of amusement. “But you don’t believe me.”

I looked down at my menu, not wanting to have to call him a liar to his face. Sarah, one of the waitresses, walked up to our table, notepad and pen in her hand.

“Sarah,” Jake said. “Could you tell these ladies why I’m here?”

“By their table?” Sarah asked. She was a little on the ditzy side.

“At the restaurant. Why am I at the restaurant now, when I haven’t been for the past several months.”

“Jake was opening up another restaurant in Las Vegas, so he’s been there for a while, and just got back.” Sarah glanced at him. “Is that what you mean?”

“It’s exactly what I mean.”

Heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks. He wasn’t lying—he actually owned the place. My foot was inserted so far in my mouth, I couldn’t form words. I just stared up at him like an idiot.

He tapped the edge of the table. “Enjoy your meal. I’m sure Sarah will take good care of you. And feel free to let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

Nadine watched him walk away, then turned her attention back to me. “Holy hell, he’s hot. How do you know him?”

“I don’t,” I said. And after insulting him like that, I’m never going to.

…

As if my day hadn’t been bad enough already, I had a date tonight. Unless you’re in an actual relationship with someone, a Monday night date is basically a throwaway. It’s like, hey, if you suck, at least I didn’t waste a good day of the week on you; if you’re actually normal, we can always make a plan for the weekend.

Believe it or not, I’ve been accused of being pessimistic. Pardon the hell out of me for being what I’d call realistic, because my optimism had slowly been drained one horrible relationship at a time.

“Oh, they weren’t all bad,” Mom had said when she’d called to set me up on the blind date and I informed her why I didn’t want to go. While I’ve accepted the idea of never having a serious, full-blown relationship again, some people—especially my mom—don’t want me to give up on finding “the one” yet.

Apparently her friend had a son who’d recently moved to the city and “needed to be shown around.” Yeah, there’s Internet now. Most people in this country have a GPS device of some kind. They don’t need to be “shown around.” And if they’re too stupid to read a map or do a little exploring on their own, why would I want to be trapped anywhere with them?

But I digress.

No, my boyfriends weren’t all bad. Until they suddenly were. There’s that moment when you look at your significant other and think, Did I ever like you? I’m sure I did. But why? And right then, you know it’s not going to last. It’s sad, but true, and the final result is the same: the end of the relationship and heartbreak.

So while I had my doubts about this date, I knew it’d make Mom happy. If I could at least have a decent conversation with the guy, I’d consider it a win. After all, I’d sworn off relationships, not going out altogether, and if I didn’t start meeting new people, I’d have no one to hang out with when Stephanie was a busy wife with other obligations.

My date, whose name was Nick, buzzed in to tell me he was here. I loved that feature about my building. It made random drop-bys from guys I never wanted to see again a thing of the past. The building also had a pool, large hot tub, and a fitness room. If you were willing to drop a few more zeros than I was (or had), the top half of the building had floor-to-ceiling glass views of downtown.

Glass views or not, buying my one-bedroom condo four years ago was one of my proudest accomplishments. Since I’d worked on the building with Metamorphosis, I’d gotten a deal. I loved the hardwood floors, black granite countertops, cherry cabinets, and stainless-steel appliances. I’d done the living room in red and aquamarine and it’d turned out pretty good if I did say so myself.

I grabbed my purse off the granite countertop, locked up, and took the elevator down to the lobby, where Nick was waiting for me.

“Darby?” a guy said as I stepped off the elevator. He was in his midthirties, had a little extra love in the gut area, but not enough to be called fat, and was wearing a sweater vest. A bit on the preppy side for my tastes, but better looking than I’d imagined when Mom suggested I go out with her friend’s son.

“That’s me,” I said. “You must be Nick.”

He extended his hand. “Yep. Nice to meet you.”

I took it and we shook—weak and a little clammy. He’s definitely no Jake.

I quickly tried to shut that thought down. Not only was it an unfair comparison, but I shouldn’t be thinking about him right now. Not that flutter of attraction, or his nice jawline and firm handshake.

A sinking sensation went through my gut. I’d already blown any chance of even being friends with the guy. I can’t believe I called him a liar. I always insisted guys were the jerks, but I’d win, hands down, when it came to the guy who actually did own Blue.

I realized I was still holding Nick’s hand, even though we weren’t shaking anymore, and quickly dropped it.

A short walk later, we reached his car. “So, it’s a little embarrassing to be set up by your mom,” Nick said as he fired up the engine. “But it is nice to meet someone. So far, I just work and go home.”

“That’s about all I do,” I said. “My best friend is getting married, so she’s busy with all this wedding stuff and I’m left to hang out with myself.”

He glanced at me, that nervous OMG-she-just-said-marriage look on his face. Guys freak out about that. Like if your friend is getting married you must be desperate to do it, too.

“I’ve been kind of thrown into helping her plan, even though it’s not my thing,” I said, trying to smooth it over. “I’m not big on marriage in general.”

Now he looked even more disturbed, the creases in his forehead deepening.

Just stop talking, Darby. So much for thinking we could have a decent conversation. Maybe I really was destined to spend most of my nights alone.

The next few minutes were filled with nothing but the jazz music coming from his stereo.

Finally, we got to the restaurant. At least inside, the buzz of conversation and people eating made the silence between us less awkward. As we sat down and started talking, one thing was clear: we didn’t have a whole lot to talk about. Even though our moms weren’t here, it was like they were on the date with us.

“I heard your mom makes the best cherry pie,” Nick said a few minutes after we got our food.

I had to finish my bite of pasta before responding. “It is really good.” Then I felt like I should reciprocate. “And your mom is famous for her peach jam.”

A nod from him. More eating. Another comment about what he’d heard about my mom.

Toward the end of dinner, the conversation steered to his job. He loved talking about his job managing a store that sold golfing gear. To hear him tell it, he was the most important thing that had happened to the store. He prattled on about shipments, sales, and a slew of other things I couldn’t care less about, but tried to pay attention to anyway.

“I have to admit,” I said when he finished a lengthy discussion on the types of drivers, “I’ve been golfing and it’s about the most boring thing I’ve ever done. Old men drive around in golf carts pretending they’re sporty and getting grouchy if there’s any noise. It’s like the nursing-home Olympics.”

Nick’s mouth dropped open. “It takes great athletic ability to know how to aim and drive the ball that far.”

“I get more exercise shopping at the mall,” I joked. “I don’t come home and tell everyone that I won at shopping.” Although those red shoes I got on sale the other day felt like a win.

Nick frowned. “I think you’d change your mind if you got into it.”

Obviously, he didn’t think my jokes were funny—it wasn’t the first time I’d said the wrong thing, and I doubted it’d be the last. At least I knew to not add any more to the golfing conversation. I needed someone I could at least joke with, though, or there was no point in putting effort into going out. Sorry, Mom, but looks