He stares at me, open-mouthed and in shock, because, yep, I just mentioned marriage during a date that was already tanking.
Trying to recover, I tag on, “Oh no, not to you!” My smile fades when I see his face contort. “Well, maybe to you. Who knows? If things go well tonight anything can happen.” Now I realize I’ve made it sound like we’re absolutely going to bed together tonight, and John has to pleasure me well enough to win me over. Super.
“Sorry—no, I didn’t mean you have to be good at you know what…for me to marry you. I’m sure there’s a learning curve when it comes to that sort of thing.”
Now his face drains of all color because I’m making this so much worse. John blink, blink, blinks at me, completely at a loss for how to respond. There’s no salvaging this date.
“Will you excuse me, John? I need to use the bathroom.” And regroup. And possibly climb out the window and run away.
He’s so relieved he will be exempt from my company for a few minutes that he eagerly nods. “Yes, take your time!”
I stand on wobbly legs and walk across the restaurant, irrationally feeling like everyone in here is staring at how awkwardly this dress fits me. It’s my sister’s dress, so it’s a little long on me. It hugs all my curves like it’s supposed to but then drowns my knees and hovers midcalves, unlike where it hits on Emily, just above her knees. She wears this dress on her many successful dates because she doesn’t have an ounce of social anxiety. I stole it out of her closet and stowed it away in my purse so she wouldn’t notice when I left our house and ask where I was going. I didn’t have anything of my own to wear because I never go on nice dates (I haven’t been on one since three years ago, when one progressed very similarly to this one).
I would have taken a dress from my other sister, but Madison is the size of a spritely fairy, and there’s no way any of her dresses would get over my hips.
After what feels like a mile-long walk, I make it to the bathroom and sink back against the wall. The automatic hand dryer goes off at my shoulder, making me jump out of my skin and shriek.
“All right, Annie, pull yourself together. You can do this,” I say while scooting away from the hand dryers and pulling my phone from my purse. I swipe across it to open a text conversation with my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Amelia. She’s the only person who knows I’m on a date tonight.
Ever since Amelia (you might know her as Rae Rose, world famous pop star) came to town a little over a year ago and fell in love with my older brother, we’ve had an instant bond I can’t quite explain. Like she was always meant to be in our family. And despite the fact that she’s new to the family, I trust her in a way that I don’t trust many other people. Which is why I text her now.
Annie: HELP!!!!
Amelia: Oh no! Not going well?
Annie: I spilled my drink on him. And then told him I want to get married.
Amelia: Yikes! Do you like him that much?
Annie: No, I hate him.
Amelia: Hmm, confusing. Can you bail?
Annie: No! That’s so rude!
Amelia: Em and Maddie are coming over in a few minutes. Just tell him you had something come up and then come hang out with us!
Annie: I can’t do that to him after spilling a drink on him and then insinuating he has to please me in bed or he won’t make the marriage cut.
Amelia: Oh my gosh. So much to unpack there.
Annie: I’ll just eat fast. Don’t start a movie without me.
Amelia: Good luck!! Bring me home a brownie. They have the best.
* * *
—
I steel myself in the mirror, smooth back my long blonde hair (which at least looks really pretty thanks to Emily’s curling wand, which I also stole), and then step out of the bathroom.
Unfortunately, I arrive back at the table just in time to hear John finishing up a phone call that he doesn’t intend for me to hear. “Yeah, I’m telling you she’s so unbelievably boring. And just sort of awkward and weird. Like zero personality.” He listens to the person on the other end of the line. “I mean, yeah, I guess she’s prettyish, but I don’t even want to try to hook up with her tonight because she’s so dull. So just call me in five minutes with an emergency. Okay, yeah. Thanks.”
My cheeks flame. The lady at the table next to us heard the whole thing and gives me Pity Eyes. I hate Pity Eyes. I’d rather she’d laugh. I can handle laughter. My siblings are professional teasers, so I’ve been conditioned to laugh my way through life. Pity—no.
I breathe in through my nose so I don’t cry—because that would really be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?—and walk backward several steps. I count to five, and once I’m composed enough, I make a loud reappearance.
“I’m back!”
John shifts and adjusts his napkin, a new bright smile on his face (most likely so he can be convincingly sad he has to leave after his emergency call). “Great. Do you know what you want to order?”
“Probably just a brownie,” I say more to myself than to John before the corner of my eye catches a couple entering the restaurant. I look up and do a double take.
It’s…the pirate.
CHAPTER TWO
Annie
Or no. Not a real pirate but Will Griffin—former bodyguard of pop star Rae Rose—also known as my brother’s fiancée, Amelia. Noah and Amelia met a little over a year ago when her car broke down in his front yard. They’ve been pretty inseparable ever since. So after Amelia’s last tour, when she decided to officially move to our little town of Rome, Kentucky, to live with my brother, Will came with her for a few weeks until she settled in and the press cooled off. Without there being much of a threat to her safety, Will was transferred to provide security for another high-profile celebrity.
Before that, he was Amelia’s bodyguard for five years on and off as she needed him. During that time, he became kind of famous for being one of the hottest bodyguards in the world. And a dangerous one. If you google Hot Dangerous Bodyguard, Will’s picture is the first one that shows up, along with a slew of videos of him pinning against walls scary people attempting to get to Amelia, or showing him tackling a guy to the ground who pulled a knife when he was guarding a politician. There are lots of terrifyingly brave images and videos of him doing his job thoroughly and successfully. And then there’s the BuzzFeed article, which is my personal favorite. They devoted an entire piece to the many looks of Will Griffin. It’s basically a rotation of images and GIFs where he’s either stern or swoony. Will has perfected the balance between I-will-knock-you-flat-if-you-try-to-cross-me, but my-hands-can-be-oh-so-tender-on-your-body.
There’s also the People magazine article showing photographs of him with several different women on various dates around the world. And there are many. I don’t love that article as much.
Amelia—the one woman in the world who seems immune to his charms—claims he looks like a street fighter, but she’s wrong. Street fighters have chunks missing from their ears and chipped teeth and meaty fists. Will Griffin is…beautiful.
He has these strong inky black brows that slash over mischievous blue-gray eyes. A muscular lithe body, and a playful mouth that looks absolutely wicked when he smiles. And there’s his left arm, covered in beautiful, ornate, black-line floral tattoos that wind all the way down his toned arm to end at a butterfly spread over the top of his hand and knuckles. I don’t have to look now to confirm the butterfly is there. I studied it enough times to have memorized its shape when Will wasn’t looking at me over those weeks he was around town.
Will has the kind of face that dares you to cross him because he would adore the chase—craves the adventure of it. No, he’s not a street fighter, he’s a roguish, wild fiend. A pirate. At least, he is in my fantasies. Also, in said fantasies, he has an earring and wears tight buckskin breeches with an open-collar, white linen shirt that reveals the chest portion of his tattoos that I’m assuming exist.