Cosy flags down the server and puts in an order for the three-scoop banana split with marshmallow cream sauce in addition to the chocolate fudge and strawberry sauce it comes with.

I tap on the table, aware that we’re getting closer to the end of this date and there’s a question I need an answer to before I go asking for a second date—which I definitely want. “So, Cosy, how old are you exactly?”

A sly grin tips the corner of her mouth. “How old are you?”

I mirror her smile. “I asked you first.” Please let her be close to twenty-five.

Her right eyebrow arches. “I’m not jailbait, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t. I’m fairly confident they don’t let women under eighteen work in adult stores.” But I sincerely hope she’s at least legal drinking age. I’ll be seriously disappointed if she’s in the undateable age range.

“Mmm. Good point. I’m twenty-two.” She pokes at her half-consumed float, expression curious and hopeful. “And if I had to guess, I’d say you’re what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

I’ve already done the math in my head. I have this equation for ethical dateability. It probably came from my cousin Lincoln, but it’s stuck with me since college days when it was hard to tell the difference between the enjoy - your - time - in - prison freshman and the totally dateable sophomores. To stay out of the creep zone, I divide my age in half and add seven. So at thirty-three the lowest I should go is twenty-three. I wonder when her birthday is.

“You’ll need to go up a bit.” A hot feeling works its way along my spine, and I rub the back of my neck.

Cosy bites her lip, inspecting my face. “Twenty-nine?”

“Not quite.”

“Thirty?” That hopefulness holds a hint of concern now.

“Thirty-three.”

“Oh, wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that at all.” Her body language changes, the easy openness shifting to hesitant and reserved.

“Is that a problem for you?”

Debbie picks that exact moment to show up with the sundae. It only has one spoon. She’s oblivious to the tension at the table, asking if we need refills. Neither one of us looks at her when we tell her we’re fine.

“’Kay, enjoy the sundae.” She flits off.

“Cosy?” I should probably enjoy the rest of this date and forget about her because she really is a lot younger than I am. But then maybe that’s part of her allure. She doesn’t have a decade of relationship baggage. With her lifestyle, she’s not looking to settle down. In a few months she’ll be off on her next adventure, and so will I.

She swirls her straw in her nearly empty glass before she finally answers. “My cap is usually mid-to-late twenties.”

“Mine is usually midtwenties. When’s your birthday?”

“Not until January. When’s yours?”

Which means she only turned twenty-two recently. “October.”

She cringes, and I laugh. “I guess I should’ve lied, huh?”

She drops her chin and shakes her head before she peeks up at me with a wry grin. “Might’ve bought you a few extra dates.”

My stomach sinks, and I don’t bother to hide my disappointment. As much as this shouldn’t be something to entertain, I like Cosy. She’s fun and easy to talk to and not guarded or looking to climb the social ladder because of who I am or what I could do for her. And it doesn’t seem like either of us is looking for something serious. So I’m not willing to give up that easily. “If I’d asked you for a second date before I told you my age, would you have said yes?”

“Maybe.” She debates that for a second. “Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Well, I can’t unknow what you’ve told me, so that changes things.”

“Why?”

“It just does.”

“Because of some arbitrary cut-off age you’ve decided on?” Until now, I’ve followed the same set of rules, but I’ve been playing by them all my life and they’ve gotten me nowhere good. Four long-term relationships and one broken engagement later, it might be time to shake things up.

“It’s not arbitrary,” she says defensively.

“Oh? Care to explain, then?”

She dips the spoon into the whipped cream and licks it off. “Well, there’s this formula.”

“What kind of formula?” My voice has dropped two octaves, thanks to her potentially unintentional sexually charged licking. Or maybe it’s the possibility that I’m not going to find out what it’s like to kiss her, thanks to my stupid fucking question. And I do want to kiss her, despite the ridiculous number of onions she’s eaten.

She dips the spoon into the ice cream. “So I take your age and divide it by two—”

“—and add seven,” I finish with a smile.

The spoon hovers midair, and her mouth drops open. “You know about that?”

“I do. Not sure it’s worked all that well for me in the past, though.” The ice cream is melting on her spoon, threatening to drip on the table. I reach across and cover her hand with mine, pulling her forward as I lean in and clean off the spoon. It’s all very high school style flirting. I drop back down in my seat and rub my thumb over my lip.