“HOLY FUCK PUT YOUR FORK DOWN!” he immediately replies. “I’M COMING TO GET YOU RIGHT NOW! Where are you?”
I bite my lip to keep myself from giggling. “No can do. I’ve already ordered,” I write.
“Well, then, that’s an easy one. How about I join you? Are you with friends? Make sure you order whatever you want. Dinner’s on me.”
My stomach twists. Shit. I stare at my phone for a long beat, trying to decide how to word my reply. “I’m not with friends,” I write. “I’m on a date.” I press the send button, wincing. But I can’t figure out another way to phrase it.
“NOOOOO!” he replies immediately.
I bite my lip again, but it’s no use. A giggle escapes my mouth. I glance up at Cameron. He’s studying his menu intently.
“It’s a first date,” I reply. “We were supposed to go out the night I met you at Jonas’, actually. And then it got rescheduled and we were supposed to go out the night Sarah was attacked. And now we’re here. Finally.”
“Kat, the universe clearly doesn’t want you to date this guy. Get up and leave now! What do you need the universe to do before you start listening—send a fucking bus crashing into the restaurant?”
I laugh out loud.
Before I can reply, Josh sends another message. “Tell him you have to leave. I’ll send a car for you right now. It’ll be there in five minutes. Tell him NOW.”
I make a face at my phone. On what planet would I ever ditch Cameron like that? I’m a bitch, but I’m not that big a bitch. That might be how things happen in movies (and, admittedly, in one of the many fantasy-pornos that plays inside my head) but that’s not how nice people in real life act. “I’m not gonna do that,” I write to Josh. “Cameron’s a nice guy. And I’ve already cancelled on him twice.”
“So what. He deserved it. He’s a tool.”
“He’s not a tool. Far from it.”
“Yes, he is. Obviously.”
“He’s not.”
“Yes, he is. You wanna know how I know?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because you’re on a date with him and you’re more interested in texting me.”
I smile broadly.Touché,Playboy.
“Ergo, he’s a tool,” Josh writes.
I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t—but I can’t help myself. “He’s not a tool. He’s a professional baseball player.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” I text.
“Oh. Minor or major league?”
“Major.”
“Bah. He’s probably some benchwarmer, Kat, trying to impress you. He’s some utility player or relief pitcher who sits around waiting for someone to pull a hamstring so he can get in the game. That’s why he said ‘professional baseball player’ instead of saying his team or his position.”
“Well, a boy in the restaurant just asked him for his autograph. Do kids ask for autographs from players who sit on the bench?”
“No,” he writes. “Not usually.”
I smirk.
“Is he on the Mariners?”
