“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“You’re…smiling.”
“Am I not allowed to smile?”
“Of course you are, but you don’t usually do it much.”
“I think this fake dating business is agreeing with me,” I say. “Perhaps I should try it more often. It’s better than real dating.”
“Is it? Or perhaps it’s me. I’m just a particularly good date.” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that’s rather…sexy? Huh?
I’m not used to Taylor Li saying anything cocky, and that eyebrow waggle is definitely different from usual. Is he acting slightly differently because we’re on a so-called date?
After we finish eating, I excuse myself to go to the washroom, where I splash water on my face because I feel slightly out of sorts. When I return, I discover that Taylor has paid the bill. Dammit. I should have realized this might happen.
“You weren’t supposed to do that,” I protest. “You already bought me flowers, and this was all my idea.”
“You can pay for dessert,” he says as we pull on our jackets and head outside. “I have a great place in mind. They specialize in small, heart-shaped cakes. Perfect for two people.”
Now, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s heart-shaped things. It’s not as if the human heart looks anything like that, so it’s nonsensical. Part of the reason I hate Valentine’s is that I have to see that stupid shape everywhere.
“What kind of terrible business plan is that?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says cheerfully. “Lots of people like hearts. They’re a sign of love.”
“It’s silly.”
“You’re saying you wouldn’t want a decadent chocolate cake with raspberry filling just because it’s in the shape of a heart?”
That’s unfair of him. Taylor knows how much I enjoy chocolate cake.
He knocks his shoulder against mine. “If you prefer, they also have a cake dusted with rose petals, and I hear you like rose and lavender in your food.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
That’s something I do not like. Flowers are for looking at, not eating. That’s why there’s a bouquet sitting on my end table, rather than in my stomach.
“This date is going downhill fast,” I mutter.
When you’re on a fake date with a friend, you can say shit like that. Taylor laughs.
“Fine,” I grumble. “We can go to this dessert place, but we’re getting the chocolate and raspberry cake, no ifs, ands, or buts.”
“What if—”
“Taylor.”
“They have a chocolate and coffee cake, too. Would you prefer that, or the one with raspberry?”
This is not a fair decision.
“I need to see a detailed description of each cake,” I say. “Where is this place?”
“I made it up.”
I knock my shoulder against his, except I do it much harder than he did it to me. He stumbles toward an overflowing trash can, and I grab his arm before he falls over.
“Sorry,” I say. “But I’m just a little sorry. You made up a whole business that serves only heart-shaped cakes—”
