The Blind Date

Alex Lighthouse has a full cafe up on the second floor. The food’s pretty good, and through the big arched windows, there’s a great view of Hamilton Park, which is one of the nicest public parks in the city.

In the café, the mood is different. It’s more casual, with soft chatter from the tables of people as they sip their coffee. It’s perfect for a first date.

I find an empty table and sit down, taking out my phone to message Mark.

R: Hey, I’m here a bit early. Found us a table.

A moment later, Mark replies.

M: Great! I just turned into the parking lot. I’ll be inside in 3 min.

I smile. That’s so Mark. Not ‘in a minute’ or ‘see you in five’, but specific . . . three minutes. I bet I could time him and he’d be spot on.

I wiggle in my chair, smoothing my dress and my hair. Then, just in case, I huff a breath into my palm to make sure it’s okay. Minty fresh.

Taking a quick glance around, I see three other women in blue. Uh-oh, how will Mark know which one is me?

I don’t get a chance to figure that out because a man comes up the winding staircase, and at first, what I see is a thick shock of nearly jet-black hair, definitely a business cut, with no hair touching the collar of a bright white shirt. He takes another step, and broad shoulders clad in a smoke-gray suit come into place, not so wide that he casts shadows when he walks, but strong and athletic.

I can feel my body start to yearn, and my core starts to yell yes! yes! yes! with every beat of my heart.

Another step, and he starts the turn that’ll bring him up to the café level, and my mind really, really needs to slow down. Still, it’s somewhere for my nervousness to go, and I eagerly anticipate his approach. He hits the landing, and as he turns this direction, I start to get up.

“Mar—”

My knees become unhinged as he comes around a bookshelf and I see who he is. Not Mark.

Noah Daniels. My best friend’s brother. Arielle’s brother, and River’s best friend.

Panicking, I duck my head down reflexively.

What is he doing here?

Oh, no! I can only imagine if Mark shows up right now and Noah sees us. He’ll for sure embarrass me and ruin the whole thing. And if he finds out that I used his and River’s app, the teasing will be even worse. I’ll never live it down! Even though there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s the sort of button a brother pushes on repeat just to get a rise out of you. And with Noah being his best friend? Button pushing times two.

I keep my head buried, snagging a newspaper from the next table over, and pretend to read. But Noah walks right by me. He does a double-take, and I see the smile fall from his face as he says, “Riley?”

I look up, and I can’t help but lift my lip in a sneered response. “Well, hello, Noah. Fancy seeing you here.”

What am I saying? Have I turned into some nineteen-forties Hollywood starlet? At least I can tell Mom that she doesn’t have to worry about my being too influenced by my ‘porn’ book choices. I’m suddenly so strait-laced, I feel like there’s a corset squeezing my insides into goo.

Noah doesn’t look fazed at all. If anything, he looks amused. “I suppose so. I’m meeting someone.”

“Me too,” I snip back, ruffling my stolen newspaper.

“Does River know?” he asks, one dark brow lifting harshly.

“What I do or don’t do, and who I do it with, is none of my brother’s business,” I tell him primly.

Why does Noah Daniels rub me the wrong way? I don’t even know him except from hearing stories from Arielle and River. We’ve barely met in passing! He came to Mom’s with River once and pissed me off and hurt my feelings with some stupid comments about my ‘sunny personality’.

I can’t put my finger on it, but he makes my skin feel like it’s on inside out and full of cactus barbs. I want to scratch and spit and bite back against everything he says. No one else makes me feel like that. I’m Riley Sunshine, after all, but he makes me feel like Riley Doom-and-Gloom.

His chuckle prickles over me, and I can feel my face flushing. “Who you do? I definitely think River would have an opinion on that.”

“You think Arielle cares who you . . . do?” I hadn’t meant it like that, but now that he said it, I won’t back away from the challenge of his words.

“Arielle would have an opinion on what I eat for breakfast, how often I shit, and whether I sleep on my right or left side. She would definitely care who I . . . fuck.”