I’m lying because if he finds out I’ve been fantasizing about taking Blue out myself, the most likely scenario here is that JB would try to pick a fight—because he’s a whiny bitch like that—and do his best to hand me my ass. Or tell everyone on the wrestling team I’m poaching girls from his dating pool.

Which is ridiculous.

Me finding one of these girls remotely interesting was bound to happen eventually, and it happens to be Blue.

Him calling me out about it makes my left eye twitch.

JB opens his mouth to talk. “Of course she doesn’t get you hard—I’ve seen her and her cardigan sweaters. No one wants to fuck a girl wearing a cardigan, Grandpa—except maybe you.”

He says the word cardigan as if it’s something distasteful, says it like Blue has a contagious disease. Like syphilis.

Or gonorrhea.

“She’s funny.” My argument is weak. Funny is good, but to a guy like JB, hot is better. Sexy is better. Sexually adventurous?

Even better.

“Funny,” he repeats, unimpressed. Bored with the conversation. “Next you’ll be telling me she has a great personality. Honestly, Gramps, all I give a shit about right now—this very second—is how great her tits are.”

“Have you looked back at our conversations? Your date is tonight—you should know what we talked about so you don’t sound like a moron.”

He’s going to sound like he developed amnesia overnight.

“Stop talking to these girls so damn much. Your job is to swipe and get the date, not swipe and get to know them. You’re acting like a female, getting all personal. Knock that shit off so I can keep up with what’s going on. It’s my account, not yours, fucker.”

I get it. I crossed the line.

I crossed it and I regret it.

So damn much.

Skylar

He’s late.

JB is officially—I look down at the purple watch circling my wrist—twenty-five minutes late.

Not a great first impression, but I’ll give him five more minutes before bailing.

No message to let me know he’s running late. Nothing.

In the time we’ve been talking, he just hasn’t struck me as the kind of guy who would stand a girl up for a first date. Quite the opposite, in fact.

If he can’t chat, he lets me know. He says good morning and good night, and has been…consistent. Reliable in his communication? Reliability is a trait I value and am looking for.

So the fact that he’s almost half an hour late disappoints me.

One strike against him.

I fiddle with my purse strap, self-consciously tugging on the brown leather, and debate grabbing us a booth to sit in—if he ever shows up.

It’s busy in here for a Wednesday night, but in a college town, that’s to be expected—Wasted Wednesday and all that jazz. Students play pool in the back room, beers perched on the ledges surrounding them.

The music is almost deafening; a song I don’t recognize is blasting out of the speakers located in each corner of the main bar, my ears already ringing. Close to bleeding actually, ha.

The place smells like grease, spilled beer, and bad decisions, and I know as soon as I walk in the door tonight after this date is over, I’ll beeline for the shower.

Guaranteed.

Twenty-six minutes late.

Twenty-seven.

Is this a joke to him? Is that what this is about?

I’m reaching across the booth where I’ve dropped my things, grabbing for my jacket and rising, when the heavy glass door at the front swings open.

JB fills the doorway, his entire frame boxed out as his dark eyes scan the bar (I know they’re dark because I’ve studied his photographs no less than dozens of times). He’s not that tall or imposing, but his arms are positioned away from his body, hanging at his sides—shoulders back, chin up.

Arrogant.

Hmm.

I clutch the coat in my hands, fingers tightening on the black polyester fabric, nails digging into the puff.

JB struts forward, automatically recognizing me as his target, a slow smile spreading across his features.

He’s handsome. No—he’s hot.

Not as tall as I thought he’d be, and a little…sharper. For some reason I thought he’d be more…approachable? This guy feels like he’s trying to intimidate me rather than reassure me, and I know instantly that he’s not going to apologize for keeping me waiting almost half an hour.

I also know he isn’t taking this date seriously.

How?

It’s cold, but he’s not wearing a jacket—just an Iowa wrestling hoodie with the yellow school logo splashed across the front and the number eight in the corner.

Who wears a hoodie on a first date, even if it is just drinks?

A healthy dose of disappointment begins creeping up my chest, along with the dull ache of embarrassment that I’m standing here in a cami, jeans, and heeled boots when he showed up in clothes he probably wore to the gym.

“Hey,” is the first word out of his mouth. “You BlueAsTheSky?”

A reminder that I haven’t yet told him my name. Or have I?

Ugh.

“Hi. It’s Skylar.” I put my hand out to shake his, and instead of taking it, he slides into the booth, hands skimming the tabletop.

Okay then.

“You want to sit up at the bar, or will this work?” JB asks, grabbing at one of the menus wedged in between the salt and pepper shakers, beside the condiments.

“Um, this is fine.” Sit at the bar? I don’t think so, pal.

Despite his first impression, I’m still naïvely hopeful that JB will pull his head out of his ass and be the guy I’ve been chatting with on the app. So. I’m going to plop myself down across from him, order a drink, and pray for a miracle.

Mirroring his actions, I grab a menu and let my eyes roam the selections, not quite sure if I should go out on a limb and order alcohol.

“You getting anything, babe?” He doesn’t look up at me, and for whatever reason, his use of an endearment rubs me the wrong way. I might not date much, but I do know guys often use pet names when they can’t remember someone’s actual name.

“It’s Skylar.”

He finally lowers the menu, lifting his face to look directly at me. Smiles. “I know.”

“What does the J stand for?”

The menu lowers again. “Jack.”

Rises.

“Jack. I like that.” There happens to be a straw on the table, so I take it and start rolling it between my fingers to stop myself from fiddling with my shirt. Or the small hole slowly growing on the thigh of my jeans.

I’ve stuck my finger in it four times already, and I know this little factoid because I counted.

“Thanks.”

His short answers are killing me softly. Frustrated, I blow out a puff of air, my brown hair floating away from my face.

“Um…”

JB sets the menu down. “I’m getting a draft beer. How ’bout you? Wine or something girly?”

Wine? In this place? It probably comes in a cardboard box.

“Undecided.” It’s clear to me that this conversation—or lack thereof—isn’t going to improve the longer we sit here. JB and I have no chemistry; if we did, I would have felt it already.