From the writer of Sweet Spot, comes the sequel of two familiar characters you already saw coming.
Harper Davis has many titles: marketing connoisseur, almost-lawyer, disappointment to parents, and most importantly: liar. Big. Fat. Liar. But what el...
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I jinxed myself. So bad.
Never, ever, say that your life isn't going to fall apart unless the angels of high heaven themselves have told you so. Because the second those words leave your mouth, said heavens will drop an anvil on your head.
"Are you going to eat that?"
"Uh..." I look down at my half-finished dessert and gingerly slide it across the table. "Guess not."
"Thanks." My date places it on top of his empty plate and digs in without another word.
That's right. Date. As in of the romantic sort. And yes, he ate half of my dinner too.
I look around the restaurant as if someone's going to hand me a "get out of jail" card. I wanted to leave the moment he made me choke on my water when he took off his denim jacket, revealing a Not A Virgin t-shirt. He wasn't wearing it ironically either. Trust me, I asked.
In my defence, my judgement has been clouded lately. Between turning my house upside down in case my parents spontaneously try to drop in on me and still looking for a potential boyfriend, I've added a sixth stage to the stages of grief.
Defeat.
Failed tinder date after failed tinder date has now led me to believe that good men just don't exist anymore and if that's the case, how the hell am I supposed to find one to date before my parents come? I could go with Motor Mouth here because aside from his impressive appetite and obvious need to get laid, he doesn't have the worst qualities I've seen.
The dude before him took one look at me and decided to speak in strictly Korean after he boasted on and on that he studied abroad for years. He didn't get it when I told him I'm not that kind of Asian and continued speaking in a language I didn't understand.
So yeah, Motor Mouth is looking pretty promising even as he shovels my remaining tiramisu in two bites, eyes widening in delight. He gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up that I reciprocate with an awkward laugh of my own. At least he seems like the type of guy who will go along with anything. Should I break it to him now?
"So..." I start and lean forward with my arms on the table. My non-existent boobs have a decent fighting shot in this position and I'm not above exploiting myself to get what I want. "This might sound crazy but I was hoping to ask you for a favour."
"What was this called again?" He points to his—my—now empty plate. "I could really go for another."
Seriously? I stumble over my words, my pride shot to shit at my clearly failed flirting attempt. He didn't glance at my cleavage once! Usually that's a win but right now I'm in major need of being objectified.
"Uh," I press my arms deeper into my ribs in another, hopefully better, attempt to push the girls up. "Just a tiramisu. No fancy names. So that favour—"
