The Introvert's Guide to Speed Dating (The Introvert's Guide 2)

“After—after lunch?”

“Got anymore shelves to put up?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, be quiet.” I tossed a cherry tomato at him.

He caught it.

Damn it.

Then he ate it.

Double damn it.

We ate the rest of lunch in peace, if you ignored the fleeting looks we shared. I didn’t really know what to say to him, thanks to the awkward purgatory we found our relationship in.

And when I say relationship, I mean in general. You know. Not specifically romantic.

Were we friends?

Were we more?

Flip a coin, see what happened!

No. That was ridiculous.

Don’t flip a coin to determine your relationship status, kids.

Big mistake.

Ollie stood. “Are you done?”

“Oh, yes, thanks.” My gaze followed him as he took my plate and carried it to the trashcan where he scraped off the remains of the salad, then took them to the sink where he proceeded to run hot water and… “Are you doing my dishes?”

“You wanted normal stuff. This is normal stuff.”

“If you’ve been dating for a few months.”

“I carried your son to bed last week. I think we can go for a bowl of hot, soapy water, London.” He squeezed dish soap into the sink.

I got up. “No, that’s weird.”

“Weirder than your shelf that you didn’t need?”

“Oh, shut up.” I tried to push him out of the way, but he was bigger than stronger than me, so it achieved a whole lot of absolutely nothing.

So I did what any mature adult would do.

I grabbed a handful of the bubbles and smooshed them into his face.

He sputtered as they went into his mouth. “Ugh!”

I giggled and backed up, but he was quicker. He grabbed me and did the exact same thing to me, except he followed his up with the dishcloth on top of my head. Hot water dripped all down my hair and my back, and I gasped.

“Ollie!” I squealed, wriggling out of his grasp. “Oh, my God!” Water dripped in my eyes, making my mascara run. My left eye stung as the makeup smudged, and I had to wave him off to quickly grab hold of some of the baby wipes from the cupboard.

Look, it didn’t matter if your kid wasn’t a baby anymore. You always had baby wipes. They were good for so many things other than bums.

Sticky hands? Yep. Sticky table? Yep. Grazed knee? Yep. Emergency tissue in a public restroom? Yep.

Makeup wipes?

Yep.

Especially that.

They were cheaper, too. Bigger packets.

I wiped away my makeup, glaring at him the whole time. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“You started it.” He laughed and turned off the tap so he could wash the dishes. “I felt like Santa there for a moment.”

“Yeah, but now I have to redo my makeup,” I grumbled, getting another wipe to give my face another once over to make sure it was clean.

“Why?” He looked over at me, frowning.

“I have to get Leo from school and probably run by the office.”

“Why do you need makeup for that?”

I motioned to my face.

“I don’t see anything wrong.” Ollie turned back to the dishes, wiping a plate clean.

I blinked at him. “Did you just pay me a compliment or did you forget your words?”

He dropped his head back and laughed. “London, I think you look beautiful without makeup. You don’t need it.”

“Thanks, but I don’t wear it for you.”

“I’m sure you don’t. I was just clarifying the compliment.”

“Oh.”

Ollie washed the last dish and put it on the drying rack. “I believe the correct response there is ‘thank you, Ollie.’”

“Thank you, Ollie,” I parroted. “Better?”

“Maybe.” He dried his hands, keeping his eyes trained on me.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Thinking.”

“About?”

He clicked his tongue, but didn’t answer, instead going outside.

Well, that was rude.

I followed him out. “Hey! You can’t just say that then walk away.”

“Come here. I need to tell you something.”

Uh-oh. “That is never a prelude to anything good.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I’m a mom. Every time my kid says, “Mom, I need to tell you something,” it means he’s either broken something, lost something, or done something. None of them are good things.” I sat down next to him on the sofa on the porch. “What have you either broken, lost, or done?”

He stared at me for a moment before he started laughing. “Sorry. That’s exactly what my mum would have said about me as a child.”

“Great. So you’re how my child is going to turn out.”

“Hopefully he becomes the professional footballer and gives you a good retirement home.”

“We all hope for that. Now what do you need to talk about?”

Ollie shifted his position so he was facing me and leaned on the back of the sofa. “I spoke to Seb yesterday.”

“Lucky you.”

“London.”

“Sorry.” I mimed zipping my lips.

He looked at me for a moment until he was sure I was silent. “He gave me a contract. A new job offer.”

Oh.

“Director of Soccer,” Ollie continued. “I prefer Director of Football, but you can’t win them all.”