“Oh, yes, actually. Looks like he’s already seated.” She walks from behind the counter and gestures for me to follow her. But as we turn a corner near the booths, she slows down and tosses me a little wink. “Good luck, divorcétante!”
Okay, fans…
I mouth my thanks just as she stops in front of a man who isn’t another AI Linc so much as a classically corporate Black guy. He’s got the rich brown skin and the towering height, but he’s skipped the gray eyes, and his idea of athleticism seems a little more akin to that of a sedentary retired basketball player.
“Ah, you made it? It’s Zaire, but my friends call me Zeek.” He stands, stepping his long legs out of the booth to hug me. “Wow, you’re even more beautiful in person.”
And that’s tenpoints for starting out the gate right.
“Thank you.” I smile, sliding in on the left side. “My friends call me all kinds of inappropriate things, but you can call me Ebony.”
We both laugh, and already, my nerves start to subside.
See? This isn’t so bad.
We quickly fall into an easy conversation about Leslie. It’s both of our first times using a dating concierge, so we swap stories about our most recent relationships—my marriage, his series of almosts. It feels like a small red flag. Why didn’tanyof them turn into more?
But I brush it off because I’m enjoying the conversation.
When our server arrives with warm banana bread and whipped honey butter, we place our orders. Fried green tomatoes to start, and a plate of shrimp and grits each, paired with bottomless peach mimosas.
“So, what do you think makes your profile stick out?” Zeek asks as soon the server leaves.
For a beat, I’m confused. Did he even look at my profile before he agreed to join me on this date?
“I guess that I’m an event planner.” I laugh self-consciously. “I don’t know, and also maybe it stands out because Leslie asked about my love of waterfalls and swimming. I collect conch shells because I love the sound of the ocean. How about you?”
“Travel.” He nods a few times. “Definitely my love of travel,” he says, and ain’t that about a B? I went into great detail, providing multiple tidbits about myself, and he’s tossed out a vague answer. Travel to where? What placesgeographically? And what kind of first-date question is that anyway?
Grabbing my appetizer plate, I load it up with a slice of banana bread, then evenly spread on honey butter and try not to judge this guy too harshly.
When I lift my eyes, though, my attentions drifts past Zeek to a table directly in my line of vision where Lincoln Bridges—with a fresh tapered haircut, wearing jeans with a casual white button-down—is pulling out a chair forher.
Now, I’ve got no right to feel anything. We shared a kiss. Singular. Then I told him it couldn’t happen again. But as I look at this woman, I’m silently praying,Please be ugly. Please be ugly.
I hold my breath as she turns slightly.
Dammit.Even her profile is gorgeous. Deep brown skin, long, textured dark curls, cheekbones to die for, and full, wine-stained lips. She’s got a cute boho chic vibe about her. It only stands to reason, by the adorably boyish smile teetering on Linc’s dangerous lips, that there’s a strong chance he’s noticed too.
Shoot.
“Is everything okay?” Zeek draws my attention back to him. “I lost you there for a second.”
“Sorry. I was just trying to remember if I, um, left my iron on.”Smooth, Ebony.
He chuckles, nodding, and I breathe a sigh of relief because that was a close call.
But as my attention drifts slightly past his ear again, Zeek shifts gears, taking this conversation from easy coast to interrogation overdrive. “High-pressure situations,” he says, straightening as if he’s really about to discover what makes me tick. “How would you say you handle conflict and confrontation? Relationship-wise,” he adds in what feels like more of an afterthought than a getting-to-know-me query.
The red flags are soaring.What is happening?
I look away for a few seconds, and suddenly, we’re planning for our first fight? I don’t even know this guy’s last name, let alone his middle. Or how he takes his eggs and coffee. What size shoes are those clodhoppers? Where’s his family from? What are we talking, hygiene-wise? Let’s start there.
And it doesn’t stop.
In a matter of minutes, I learn exactly why he’s got a deck ofalmostsup his sleeves. How would my friends and family describe me in three words? When was the last time I did something completely out of character? Would I consider myself a girl’s girl? Like, what in the actual hell?
How about. Not. The. One?
