“Hey, that’s exactly what I said.”
“You’re a bastard—you know that, right?”
“Says the guy whose dog’s died how many times in the past year?”
I scowled. “No more than ten. Totally different.”
“Dude, you kill imaginary dogs. At least I make up an excuse about a very possible home disaster.”
“Fine.” I held up my hands. “I’m not going to argue with you. I’m just going to read, process, and then”—a deep sigh shook my whole body—“get drunk.”
“Right on.” Lex stood. “Maybe wait to drink more out of the bottle until you’ve read and fully understood all the calculations, alright?”
I nodded and pushed the bottle away. I’d had maybe two swigs, hardly anything noteworthy, but still, maybe I’d want to go for a drive afterward—you know, off a cliff.
The first page wasn’t so bad.
Then again, it only had my name, age, height, and weight. Shit, wouldn’t surprise me at all if Lex had my social security number too.
Next page had Blake’s information, everything I already knew.
And the third page had our results.
Her match with David had been in the eightieth percentile. I had that freaking number memorized. Hell, the stupid bar graph was cemented in my mind like a nightmare that came back every time I closed my eyes.
Fifty.
The number was daunting. Our match was in the fiftieth percentile. Numb, I continued reading.
I scored below average in the following areas: ability to commit and relationship history, and above average in sexual promiscuity.
Swallowing the giant lump in my throat, I kept reading.
Stats show that if Client A were to embark on a relationship with Client B, there is a 50% chance one or both hearts will be broken and that the relationship will end within two months once the honeymoon stage is finished.
Two months.
Our program even gave a freaking timeline of the relationship demise.
I shoved the papers to the side. I didn’t need to read anymore. Curiosity was an evil bitch, so I grabbed David’s info and read.
Stats show that if Client A were to embark on a relationship with Client C, there is an 88% chance that the relationship will bloom into success. The relationship will have an even higher chance of success once passing the three-month mark.
No shit.
I shut the folder and checked my watch.
She’d been on her date for one hour. And I was sitting at home, well on my way to getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself because of a few stupid numbers.
Without thinking, I grabbed my keys and marched toward the door.
“Oh no you don’t.” Lex’s voice echoed through the hallway. “I’ll drive. I had one drink. You had . . . who knows how many. Where are we going?”
I refused to answer.
“Oh, good, so a stakeout? Sounds fun. I’m in.”
“Don’t you have homework or something?” I pushed past him and grabbed my jacket. “Anything?”
His smile fell. “No.”
“What?” My eyes narrowed. “You’re never home on a Thursday night, or any night for that matter. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” His answer was quick, and his jaw ticked into place like he was trying to crack an entire row of teeth. “Drop it.”
“Okay.” Pain pounded through my head. “And we’re going to U Village. He took her to dinner at Pasta and Co.”
“Hah.” Lex laughed, then sobered. “Oh, you’re serious? Pasta and Co?”
“Not everyone’s an expert in seduction, thank God.”
“Pasta. Hands down the worst date food next to ribs.”
“Again, thank God for that.”
Lex paused in the doorway. “Look, do you really think this is a good idea? As much as I’m against any sort of relationship where you hang up the cape and actually stay committed to one person, this could end badly, you spying on her.”
“Superheroes don’t spy. We . . . check in.”
“And as the villain to your hero, I would just break in, so who am I to talk?”
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Spying didn’t feel wrong to me until we rolled up in my SUV like two dudes trying to scope out a bank.
“Far corner,” Lex said lowering the binoculars. “She’s facing him, not sitting across but to the side. Bastard may have skills after all. Wanna see?”
“No.” I stared straight ahead. “The absolute last thing I want to see is how close he’s sitting to her, or if he’s strategically dropping his napkin on the floor so he can have an excuse to scoot his chair closer.”
“It’s scary,” Lex said in a low voice, “how well you know the male gender.”
“Napkin drop?”
“Yup.”
“Chair scooting?”
“Hell yeah.”