“Isn’t America a free country?”

“You know, so we can double.”

“Double what?”

Stewart—whose first name is Braeden—rolls his eyes like I’m slow on the uptake and reminds me what a double is.

“I told you about the double date after the game, remember?”

“What I remember is telling you I didn’t need to be set up.”

That’s what I said, right? I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, let alone something I said to the lad a few days ago.

Stewart drinks from the plastic cup in his hand, beer foam covering the tip of his handlebar mustache. He’s wearing aviator glasses and a khaki green flight suit, looking quite douchey as usual.

“It’s one date, and Ariel—”

“Are you mad? I don’t need to be set up.”

“Bro, you have to put yourself out there.”

“I am out there.”

Georgia’s head bobs among the crowd, still taller than most of the girls in the room. Easy to spot and keep track of.

If a bloke wanted to pay attention to her.

Which I do not.

“You’ve been here four years, dude, and I’ve never seen you on a date. You need to get a life.”

“I have a life.” One that includes more responsibility than he could ever dream of. The duty behind a title I’ll inherit, land, which means I won’t be single forever—I’ll need to get married, have a wife and heirs.

It’s the British aristocratic way.

Stewart sips at his beer.

I ignore him and signal for Pauly, the “bartender”, to pour me one from the keg, too. No sense in standing here idly, letting Stew harass me about women.

Two girls walk up, one with bright flaming hair—some of which I’m sure is fake—and one putting her arm around Stew’s waist and going up on her tiptoes so she can kiss him on the cheek.

Shite. They were supposed to be in the bathroom; how did they find us? More importantly, how the hell am I going to disappear without coming off as a rude wanker?

“Hi, I’m Allie. We haven’t met, but I’ve heard so many good things about you.” The blonde sticks her hand out to shake mine, and I stare down at it, wanting to be rude.

My good breeding won’t allow me to.

“Ash.”

Allie separates herself from Stew long enough to thrust her red-haired friend in my direction.

“This is my friend Ariel.”

I have no idea what to say; it’s bizarre every time a girl is shoved on me and I know I’m supposed to act interested. That’s the intention, but this isn’t the outcome.

One, Ariel isn’t my type.

Too much makeup, too much lipstick, too much hair.

Fine, I’m a shallow bastard, sue me—but I like a woman I can take shooting in the country or lie around casually with, who feels comfortable enough in her own body that she doesn’t have to hide behind layers.

Two, Ariel looks like the goddamn Little Mermaid. Yes, I know what that is—I wasn’t born living under a bloody rock—and no, I’m not interested in dating a cartoon character.

Clearly she dyes her hair red, and it’s a shade too bright.

Too, too, too.

Much too everything.

My mother would have a fit.

Not that it’s Mum’s choice, but you don’t waltz a girl into a family like mine without a care for their opinion, not when you care about their opinion.

And I do.

Luckily, Ariel does not try to shake my hand. “Hi, Ariel.”

I’m not a conversationalist, and no one says anything, which makes this entire thing awkward. Not even Stewart, who hasn’t been able to shut up about setting me up.

“You know what would be fun?” Allie finally chimes in, bubbling with the idea I know she’s had brewing for weeks. “Stewart and I thought it would be so fun if we all went on a date. You, me, him, and Ariel.”

There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don’t know where to begin.

Ariel’s cheeks get pink, which looks terrible against her hair.

“Mates, it’s probably not a good idea.”

Allie nudges her friend knowingly. “See, Ariel—I told you he has a sexy voice.”

I can hardly believe they’re having this conversation in front of me, as if I weren’t standing here, my eyes roaming the room, searching for any semblance of an escape, finding it in the form of an approaching Georgia.

She’s closing the gap, on her way over, oblivious to my distress, not that I’m giving off any signals.

I’m cool and collected as usual. Only the pit in my stomach betrays me.

“We could go wine tasting this weekend and then go to the vineyard,” Allie hurries to add.

Wine tasting and a vineyard?

The fuck kind of combination is that?

It sounds ghastly, just friggin’ ghastly.

“I already have plans this weekend,” I blurt out.

“Doing what?” Stewart wants to know. “We have a game and then what are you gonna do? Jerk off the rest of the afternoon?”

Georgia comes to a halt just as the blubbering nodcock is asking about masturbating, eyes widening as only eyes can when a person hears something shocking. Not what she was expecting when she walked up, but there you have it.

My friends are twats.

Nothing I can do about it.

“Hi,” Allie greets her, giving her a classic once-over, looking her over from top to bottom then back up again.

“Hi,” Georgia says sheepishly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You’re not,” I push out, stepping closer. “I’ve been waiting on you.” Without thinking, my arm goes around her. “Babe.”

Stewart, Allie, and Ariel gape.

“Did you just call her babe?” Allie laughs in an attempt to make light of this new development.

“This is Georgia,” I explain. “I can’t do the double date with you because I’ve got a date with her.” I kiss the top of her head as if it were the most natural thing to do, and if she’s stunned, she isn’t showing it.

She hasn’t even bristled beside me.

What a poker face this bird’s got!

I’m impressed.

“I owe him” is all she says, voice good-natured.

I owe him.

She’s referring to the bet, the dare, whatever you want to call the night she asked me on a date as part of her track and field initiation hazing bullshite.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Allie suddenly announces. “Ariel, come on.” Loyally, Allie takes her friend by the arm and hauls her off, glaring at Stewart; I imagine they’re headed to re-strategize in the bathroom.

“I don’t understand—why didn’t you say something about having a girlfriend?” Stewart wants to know, his dander in a bit of a huff.

Because she’s not my girlfriend!

“I did. I told you numerous times I wasn’t interested in a double date.”

“Numerous times,” he repeats, scoffing. “Could you not sound so goddamn stuffy for two seconds?”

Sorry?

“And besides, I wouldn’t have kept bringing it up if you’d said you have a girlfriend.”

Is he going to keep saying it?