“It’s bloody freezing.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t seem to bother her. She’s from Minnesota; it’s colder than the top of Everest in the winter from what she tells me. Maybe this is like a balmy spring day for her? Anyway, you might still catch her if you—”
I don’t even wait for her to finish the sentence before I dash out.
Sure enough, I find Reggie in the park, situated close to a festively decorated, leafless tree, wearing a giant parka, wool cap, scarf, and mitts. Her breath leaves her in lazy white puffs as she lies on a checkered white and red blanket, drinking canned wine barefoot while nodding her head with AirPods, through which her music seeps out. I recognize The Cure’s “Pictures of You”. She immediately gets bumped up from a love interest to a deity.
I squat down, watching her head swinging back and forth with her eyes closed. When she pops them open, patting the blanket for another piece of cheese, a scream rips from her mouth. I realize belatedly that I am literally three inches from her face.
“What the heck! Ho? Is that you?”
“Excuse me?” I blink.
“Your name is Ho.” She tears the AirPods from her ears, tossing them onto her blanket. I am behind an unspoken line—the edge of her blanket—on the dark grass that smells faintly of rain and earth and dog urine. I briefly wonder how much of it comes from the park and how much of it is from her assaulted leg.
“Horace,” I correct. “And you’re Reggie.”
I don’t know why I tell her this. I’m sure she is well aware of her own name.
“Regina,” she waves her hand dismissively, as you do when you confess a particularly shameful vice, “but everyone calls me Reggie.”
“I’m sorry I dashed without leaving a tip, Reggie.” I peer into her face, hoping to find the same wild fascination and mischievous amusement I saw in her while I was on my disastrous dates. Every time I chanced a look at her, she gave me an amusing, quirked eyebrow look that said, Is this really your life? To which I wanted to reply, Not even remotely.
So far she maintains a blank, sober expression. She’s on guard off-shift. And why wouldn’t she be? I bloody came after her like a savage.
“I had an emergency at work, but here.” I toss another twenty euros between us, because explaining I left a tip with her Aussie mate seems clumsy and about as gentlemanly as depriving a senior citizen of a seat on the tube.
“Oh, how…” She picks up the note, watching it in confusion. “Romantic?”
“I can be romantic,” I assure her.
“You definitely seem to have plenty of experience,” she mutters. I guess I deserve that.
“Let me buy you a drink.” I flash her an apologetic smile. Things can only improve in the romance department from our first impression, and a two-week fling with a gorgeous American is not the worst thing that could happen to me before leaving for London. Bonus points: I’ll be able to tell Eugie that I made an effort in the women’s department, and it won’t even be a lie.
“I don’t know, can you?” Reggie wonders aloud, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Your dating hobby borderlines on addiction. This will be your third date today, if I accept.” She makes air quotes when she says the word date. “Can you support this kind of habit? Gambling seems more economical.”
I let out a laugh. It’s more of a snort, really, shaking my head.
“I’m not addicted to dates.”
“Are you a masochist then?” she asks.
I shake my head again.“I don’t normally date.”
“Snap, called it. You’re a pimp.” Her eyes widen. They glitter like rare diamonds. Blue dusted with golden flakes, like a sunset-hued sky when the stars peek just before nightfall.
Jesus, mate. She is turning you into a wuss and you haven’t even slept with her yet.
Wait.
A pimp?
“Did you just call me a pimp?” My quads are burning from squatting at her eye level, but giving up is not an option. She nods.
“Why else would you have a pager, meet with attractive women, wear a suit, and have cash handy, which you happily throw at unassuming women?” Her eyebrows dart to her hairline.
“Because I’m a businessman,” I deadpan. “Who was forced to go on dates to pacify his very bossy younger sister.”