Wait.
Who is this now?
A giant mountain of a guy has just entered the living room through a side doorway, plastic beer cup suspended halfway to his lips.
He’s smiling down at something another guy is saying, and I catch a gap in his front teeth.
I squint: is that a gap, or does he actually have missing teeth?
His cheek is noticeably bruised, and his bottom lip has a gash. The closer he gets, the more dry blood I can see on his face—as if he couldn’t be bothered to wash it from his skin properly.
Shaggy hair that could use a trim.
Rumpled shirt, like he rolled out of bed to join the party.
Of course, that alone does not an ugly man make—he’s not. Not really. But the combination of things—the bumps, the scars, the hair, the clothes—certainly make him a fitting candidate for my task.
Perhaps tomorrow in the morning light, he’ll have shaved and thrown on some clean clothes.
But for tonight, he’s not looking all that cute.
Ten out of ten would not bang him.
“Be right back,” I tell Ronnie on the sly, stepping forward toward my mark, anxious to end my own misery, striding toward the other side of the room so I can breathe—the teammates at my back are not a comforting force. They’re stifling and breathing down my neck like a gaggle of micromanaging biddies eager to watch me crash and burn.
I will not allow that to happen.
With more confidence than I’m feeling, I do a quick lap of the room, giving my teammates the show they obviously want. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me only about half of them are paying attention—Ronnie, Tamlin, and Clarissa all have their eyes glued to me.
Ugh.
My target pays me no mind—obviously, since he has no idea I exist or that I’m in the same room, watching him.
I notice several other sets of eyes watching him, too, and give him another once-over.
He’s tall—one of the tallest guys in the room.
Big.
Broad.
Did I say that already?
Muscular but not in a gym-rat sort of way.
But man, that shirt he’s got on…
He clearly gives no fucks.
I toss my hair—I have it down so it falls straight down my back, though the dark strands are normally kept in a messy top bun. My hair is also usually an air-dried disaster. Bedhead. Rushed.
I am no supermodel myself, but I do alright, though it’s been an age since I’ve actually been on a first date.
You don’t have to go out with this person. Ronnie’s voice echoes in my head. The goal is to ask him out and bring him to us so we know you’ve done the thing.
Okay. Right.
I don’t have to go out with this guy.
He looks like a man, kind of—more mature than the rest of them. How is that possible when we’re all around the same age?
I feel like a stalker hunting its prey, my second lap around the room almost complete.
Such a creep, Georgia!
Good gracious, what would your mama say about this?
She’d be dang pissed.
A short perky-looking girl says something to make the guy laugh; he tilts his head back and bellows out, Adam’s apple bobbing, stubble covering his entire neck.
He needs to shave.
Beards aren’t really my thing, but then again, I was raised by a father who wore a button-down dress shirt and tie daily to the office. The first thing Dad does every morning when he wakes is go to the bathroom to shave.
No mustache, no beard, never any stubble.
I cock my head, gathering more details before realizing I’m wasting time; he’s the most unattractive guy in this room if I’m judging him against the guys in this room.
Not that he’s all that unfortunate-looking. It’s just…
I have this one job—one goal. One mission.
He’ll do.
He’s what I need to get my tush back out the door, back home in bed, and back in the good graces of my team.
Mustering up my courage is hard; it feels much like being in a national championship. Waiting for the starting pistol to go off at the start of a race.
Sweaty palms.
Beating heart.
I’m not short by any means, but he towers over me when I’m finally close enough to touch him, giving him two taps on the arm when his attention is free from onlookers.
The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself or have anyone overhear me.
I would die.
Not sure if he felt me the first time, I tap him again, more firmly.
He turns.
Looks down at me, at my finger, still poised on the tan skin of his arm.
One of his bushy brows rises in question.
“Hi.”
Hi? Is that the best I can do? I’m here to charm the pants off the guy and drag him over to my group of friends.
No, not friends.
Not now, probably not ever—not after tonight.
It’s not too late to leave, Georgia.
“Hi,” he says back.