Marley has a propensity for dating surfer boys and beach volleyball players. Bleach-blond hair, rock-hard abs, and a killer smile are pretty much all she requires. Conversation isn’t a top priority. Marley doesn’t do serious. Neither do I, but casual isn’t my strong suit either, which puts me in a bit of a predicament.

Terry is dressed in a pair of beige pants and a short-sleeve button-down. Both are wrinkled, which I find odd. His shoes are brown and he’s wearing sports socks. They should be white, but it appears he’s washed them with something red, because they have a slight pink hue. In fact, his shirt might also have the same slight pinkish hue.

Terry’s profile states he’s six one, but I think that’s an exaggeration. He’s maybe six feet at best. He’s also incredibly lean. So much so that I imagine if I put on a pair of his boxers, there’s a good chance they would fit me just fine. Not that there would ever be a reason for me to put his boxers on, but for the sake of waist-size comparison.

His brown hair is parted to the side, and I note the hint of recession at his crown. I’m not so vain that he needs to have a full head of hair forever, but I think his profile said he’s thirty-one. I imagine in ten years he’ll have a horseshoe.

Like the rest of him, his face is narrow. He has a straight nose and brown eyes. I assess my bodily reaction to his physical appearance. Nothing. No tingles. No zingy zaps anywhere. Which is perfect, because it ensures that I won’t make any hormonally charged decisions.

I take a deep breath, check my dress—dear Lord this cleavage is insane—and cross the last few feet to stand in front of him.

He looks up when my shadow crosses his phone. He does a full-body scan, eyes moving down to start at my shoes and he works his way slowly up. His gaze gets caught at my chest.

“Rian. Wow.” He pushes to a stand, eyes still fixed below my neck for a few more seconds before he finally makes eye contact. His cheeks flush pink, and he jams his hands in his pockets. I think there’s a grease stain on the front of his pants, but I don’t want to look too closely since it’s near his crotch. “You look”—he gestures to my dress—“incredible.”

“You look … great.” My voice is all squeaky. If he knew me well enough, he’d know I’m lying. How great can one look in pants that are a size too big with a stain on the front and a wrinkled shirt? Also, he’s sweating. His forehead and upper lip are dotted with perspiration. I don’t remember him being this gross last time.

He glances down and then back at me, the flush in his cheeks deepening. He laughs a little and tugs on the collar of his shirt. “I came straight from work. I had a bit of an issue and didn’t want to be late.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah. Fine. Just, uh, problems after a lunch meeting. Everything’s fine.” He pulls a tissue from his pocket and dabs at his upper lip. “We should go in.” He motions me forward, holding the door open like a gentleman. With these heels on, he’s almost exactly the same height as I am. Definitely not even six feet, then.

“Would you prefer to sit inside or on the patio?”

“Either is fine with me.” My skin pebbles at the blast of air conditioning as I enter the restaurant.

He runs his knuckle along the back of my arm, and my first instinct is to step away from his touch, which isn’t a great sign. It’s one thing not to have heaps of immediate chemistry, but such an adverse reaction is way bad. “Maybe the patio will be better? It’s warmer out there.”

I glance at his glistening forehead. “Sure. As long as you’re okay with that.”

“Oh yeah. Totally okay with outside.” His eyes drop and bounce back up. Maybe the camisole would’ve been advisable after all.

The hostess leads us to a lovely little table on the outdoor patio, away from most of the other patrons. There are a couple of business meetings taking place, and one or two other couples, but we have a bit of privacy, at least until the rest of the dinner crowd shows up.

The view is spectacular, beautiful sandy beach leading to the ocean, quaint houses dot the coastline, and in the distance, the Mission Mansion rises against the bright blue sky, its once stately splendor diminished by the lack of upkeep. I take the seat facing away from it, so I don’t fixate on it.

We’re still a long way from sunset, but a few clouds streak the sky, and in a couple of hours the view will be devastatingly romantic. At least it could be without sweaty, disheveled Terry sitting across from me.

I ask how his day was and he launches into an animated monologue about an account he’s dealing with. I order a glass of white wine and he orders ginger ale—Terry doesn’t drink—and I attempt to listen. He drones on and on about the subtle nuances of an accounting mistake made by one of the rival firms in Long Island. I’d like to say it’s riveting, but he even makes numbers sound boring.

As the patio continues to fill with dinner patrons my mind wanders, and I start thinking about Pierce, who I haven’t heard from since I cut the check at Starbucks. I want to be glad that he hasn’t messaged or called since then—that means that he got the hint that I’m not interested. But, I begin comparing the two men, which is completely unfair. That’s like comparing an old, withered potato with a perfectly curved, ripe banana.

Movement to my right catches my eye. I glance over in time to see a tall, leggy blonde who looks like a much more proportional, but incredibly beautiful version of a Barbie doll, being led to the table across from us. She has a to-die-for body, wrapped in a pale-blue sundress, and her face is angelic. A man follows a few steps behind, head bowed as he scans his phone. He’s wearing khakis and a crisp white polo, paired with white deck shoes.

I have never seen that combination look so damn good on the male form before. He’s built as hell, the sleeves pulling tight around his biceps and the rear view is magical. I finally make my way up to his face.

A face I recognize. Pierce.

Sonofabitch. I can’t believe he kept pushing for a date and he has a damn girlfriend. A supermodel girlfriend. I bet they have supermodel-y sex in front of mirrors so they can enjoy the view of themselves.

I get trapped in the forest green of his eyes for a moment. They really are a piercing shade. His name is rather apt. One side of his mouth quirks up. He’s caught me checking him out. Of course he knows how hot he is. And now I’ve boosted his horrible ego with my blatant appreciation, while I’m on a date with someone else. I’m a terrible person.

I realize I’m still staring and that appreciation shifts into a leer of disgust. I can’t believe he’s dating someone so beautiful and has been flirting with me behind her back up until two days ago. What a jerkface. His gaze shifts to my date and his brow lifts as he takes a seat across from Barbie’s real-life sister. I have a disturbingly perfect view of both of them.

“Do you know him?”

Shoot. That’s my date. I turn my attention back to Terry, keeping my voice low. “I’ve done business with him before.” It’s not a total lie.

“Oh.” He nods slowly, eyes darting over to the blonde. “Do you want to say hello?”

I wave a hand around and take a gulp of my wine. “Oh no, he’s a lying a-hole.” I raise my voice and try to focus on my date instead of drilling holes in the side of Pierce’s face with my laser-beam eyes. “So tell me about your plans for the weekend.”