Twelve
LEXIE
The black dress makes me look like I'm attending a funeral. The red one screams "desperate." I hold up the emerald green against my chest, studying my reflection with a critical eye. Maybe? At least it brings out the warmth in my brown eyes and complements my reddish-brown hair.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter to the empty bedroom. "It's just a blind date that will probably end in disaster like all the others."
Still, I slip the green dress over my head, smoothing it down over my hips. It hugs my curves without being too clingy. Classy but not stuffy. The kind of dress that says, "I made an effort but didn't reorganize my entire life for this."
Perfect for a blind date with a pack.
A pack. What was I thinking?
I shake my head at my reflection. "You weren't thinking. You were drinking wine and feeling sorry for yourself because Mark's getting mated."
Mark and his picture-perfect pack with their color-coordinated outfits and their golden retriever in a matching sweater. Like some kind of Hallmark movie come to life, minus all the warmth and sincerity.
I still can't get the day I found him with that bitch out of my head. The woman I'm pretty sure sent me that invitation, since it was feminine handwriting even if it was signed by Mark.
They were in my bed. She looked exactly like she did in the Instagram photo someone tagged Mark in. Perfect blonde hair, sleek influencer body with tits that probably cost as much as Mark's prized Lexus. She had the decency to look ashamed, at least, and pretended like she had no idea while he made all the excuses in the world, but that invitation suggests she's not as innocent as she pretended to be.
I should've thrown that invitation directly into the trash instead of letting it burrow under my skin. Now I'm actually considering going to the ceremony, just to prove I'm fine. That I've moved on too.
Maybe if tonight goes well, I could bring my dates. Whoever they are.
Because blind dates arranged by algorithms always end in happily ever after, I think, reaching for my mascara.
The dating app had been frustratingly vague. Beyond Bond's "Blind Match" feature apparently doesn't believe in sharing basic information, like how many people are in this pack I'm meeting or what they look like. Just a restaurant name, reservation time, and an assurance that we're "highly compatible."
Whateverthateven means.
I brush on a final coat of mascara, then step back to take in the full effect. My hair falls in soft waves past my shoulders instead of my usual practical bun. The dress fits well. The ankle boots add just enough height without guaranteeing blisters.
"Not bad, Goodwin," I tell my reflection. "Even if this ends with you climbing out another bathroom window, at least you'll look good doing it."
I grab my purse and keys, taking one last glance around my apartment. The stacks of inventory waiting to be shipped. The half-finished designs on my drafting table. The empty walls I still haven't bothered to decorate.
This is my life. Simple. Safe. Predictable.
And lonely as hell.
Maybe that's why I'm actually going through with this ridiculous blind date. Because while I've gotten good at being alone, I still haven't figured out how to stop being lonely.
The restaurant is nicerthan I expected with its soft lighting, exposed brick walls, and white tablecloths. Not quite Martin's level of fancy, but definitely a cut above the casual bistros I usually frequent. As the hostess leads me through the main dining area, I scan the tables, wondering which one holds my mystery date.
Ordates, plural. Since it's a pack.
Four failed relationships with men who ultimately left me for packs with an omega. Why am I potentially setting myself up for number five?
Because sitting at home alone on a Friday night while everyone else moves forward with their lives feels worse than the uncertainty.
The hostess stops at an empty table by the window. "It looks like your party made a reservation for 7:30. Can I get you anything while you wait?"
"A glass of the house red, please." I slide into my seat, checking my watch. 7:22. I'm early, thanks to unexpectedly light traffic.
As I wait, I find myself rehearsing potential exit strategies. I'll give them until 7:31. One minute late, and I'm out of here. My dating history has earned me the right to be ruthlessly efficient with my time.
The wine arrives, a decent pinot noir that takes the edge off my nerves. I sip slowly, watching the door and trying not to look like I'm watching the door. The minutes tick by.
