And I won’t even get started on how many times I’ve shared my virgin status only to have my date act like I just confessed I was infested with flesh-eating parasites and flee the restaurant/bar/my bedroom as fast as her stilettoed feet could carry her.
It isn’t overstating things to call my post-Mariah dating life a raging dumpster fire.
Until last night, in fact, I was starting to think I’d never find a woman who was on my wavelength. That maybe I’d missed my shot at hooking up with someone who was still optimistic about love and would spend the rest of my twenties growing just as disillusioned as the rest of the feral singles roaming the city streets.
No matter how naturally optimistic I tend to be, even I knew that a person can only try and fail to form a connection so many times before he either gives up or gets too jaded to find that honest, unspoiled kind of love I’ve always wanted.
And then I met her, and everything changed.
Absolutely everything.
I’m going to see her again, Diary.
Maybe sooner than either of us can imagine…
Chapter One
Cameron
A man about to lose his heart
while the woman of his dreams loses her lunch.
No one meets the love of their life over chocolate-covered crickets.
Or chili-lime cricket tacos.
Or sweet and spicy cricket granola.
And I’m positive love at first sight is rarely accompanied by so much…barfing.
“I’m so sorry.” The woman heaving into the bucket I snatched from beneath a leaky sink in the corner of the basement kitchen, sucks in a deep breath. “I thought I could handle it. I wanted to handle it. Crickets are so healthy and packed with vitamins and minerals.”
I gather more of her silky reddish-brown hair into my hand, keeping it free of her face in case the vomiting starts up again. “They are,” I agree. “And an ecologically responsible source of protein.”
“And good for your gut. Allegedly, anyway.” She sits back on her heels on the tile floor and swipes the sleeve of her chef’s coat across her mouth with a shudder.
“And they reduce inflammation in the body,” I add, letting my hand slide from her hair to rest gently on her back, rubbing my palm in circles as her breathing slows. “If eaten in large quantities.”
She slides pale blue eyes the color of a summer sky my way and whispers, “Large quantities. God…that sounds like torture.”
I grin. “The chocolate ones weren’t so bad.”
“But the tacos,” she hisses, glancing over my shoulder toward the opposite side of the room, where the rest of the class has moved on to the granola recipe, bravely ignoring the purging in this corner.
I would feel bad for the instructor, but what kind of chef books a kitchen without access to a bathroom? Sure, there’s a handwashing station, but the class is three hours long. Most humans need to hit a toilet at least once every three hours, and that doesn’t include the travel time to reach this dreary corner of the East Village. The closest subway station is eight blocks away.
“The tacos were brutal,” I agree. “Way too many spiky bug legs in one tiny corn tortilla.”
“So many. So, so many.” The woman’s face pales until I can count every freckle on her adorable little nose. Even kneeling on the floor by a bucket of sick, this woman is so cute it should be illegal.
I have to know her name and her favorite recipe and when she got hooked on cooking and if that hint of a dimple I spotted on her right cheek pops when she smiles. Which means we need to bail. I can already tell smiles aren’t going to be forthcoming as long as she’s surrounded by bins full of crickets and the mealworms drying on the counter behind us for the next class.
I nod toward the door. “Want to get out of here? There’s a tiki bar a couple blocks over that has great mai tais.”
Relief sags her shoulders. “That would be amazing. Yes. Thank you.”
“I’m Cameron,” I say, extending a hand.
“Natalie.” She reaches for my fingers only to halt before we touch and snatch her hand back to her chest. “I may have wiped my mouth with this hand. I don’t remember. It’s all a blur of legs and crunchy bodies and my head in a bucket. I’m so sorry.”
I laugh. “No worries. You can clean up in the bar bathroom. They actually have one, and if I remember correctly, it’s not totally gross.”
“Thank you,” she says, as I help her to her feet. “And thank you for being so quick with the bucket. When I realized that door was a closet, not a toilet, I froze for a second.”
“My pleasure.”
She arches a wry brow. “Really? Got a vomit fetish I should know about?”
I shake my head. “Nope. But I’m pretty into dimples, so...”