I don’t either, except my stomach is sloshing like crazy, and there aren’t any deep-breathing techniques that will stop it.
“Oh, but I do. I know you are an amazing catch, and Trevor Kelly is apparently a smart man. I didn’t want to put too much pressure on the situation, especially knowing you’re on your dating hiatus—which I support, by the way. I just could tell by the way he looked at you that he wanted to scoop you up.”
Claire’s enthusiasm, while appreciated, isn’t helping me keep focused on what this is.
And what it isn’t.
“This is not a date,” I say evenly. “Please chill a little.”
“He’s picking you up for dinner. It’s a date, Haley.”
I swipe a container of lip balm off the counter and smear it on my lips. My stomach flips, knocking all my internal organs askew.
When he called today, I expected him to be making sure I knew he was kidding about the dinner thing. I knocked an entire glass of sweet tea over the notes I was taking on résumés when he said he was still planning on meeting me for a meal.
If he thought I would change my mind, he’s wrong. I need the help on my résumé, especially since Jen hasn’t called, and spending an evening bantering with him in the process isn’t the worst way to pass some time.
You’re not sharing a bed with him, I tell myself. Just a meal.
“This is why I almost didn’t tell you,” I say.
“Because I’d call you out?”
“No, because you’d jump to conclusions.”
I adjust the silver-colored shirt with black stitching that flatters my curves but doesn’t cling to them. With no idea where we’re going, it’s the most universally accepted outfit I could dig out in ten minutes. Ten minutes, because I put it off until the last minute so I didn’t primp and make myself a nervous wreck. This outfit will work anywhere. And most importantly, it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard. Or like I think this is a date.
Because it’s not.
It’s not a date.
I’ve reminded myself of this a hundred times since he called. I’ve also second-guessed myself a hundred and one times about whether I can remember this when I’m sitting across a table from him. When we’re intentionally alone. And he’s there just to see me without an excuse—the résumé notwithstanding.
“I’m not jumping to conclusions,” Claire says. “I’m basing this off definitions. He called you and asked you to dinner. That, by every definition in the book, is a date.”
“We also made an agreement last night. It’s a business arrangement, Claire. He’s getting a dinner companion, and I’m getting help on my résumé. We both win.”
“I think you’re wrong,” she counters. “He pointedly asked you to dinner.”
“And told me on a napkin that he’ll be sure not to make me fall in love with him.” I tug on my shirt a little harder than necessary. “He lives in Nashville. Hours away. And he has no interest in a relationship, and I don’t either.”
“Really?” she asks.
“Yes, really,” I huff. “This might look like a date, and if I’m being honest, it could feel like one if I let it. But it’s not, and I’m not entertaining anything otherwise. I’m protecting my heart this time if it kills me.”
I spin on my heel as the doorbell rings. Even though I was expecting it, my heart still races. “He’s here.”
My heart goes from racing to pounding in a matter of a few seconds. I take a couple of deep breaths, silently ridiculing myself for agreeing to this while also reminding myself to play it cool. And for the love of all that’s holy, breathe.
“Okay, go,” Claire gushes. “Wear your hair up, and if you didn’t wear that emerald-green scoop neck—”
“Stop.”
“You didn’t, did you?” She sighs. “This is why you should’ve called me. I could’ve helped you get ready.”
“Stop it, Claire. I’m not kidding.” I take a deep breath and blow it out until the air flows smoothly from my lungs. “This isn’t a date.”
“Fine. It’s not a date. But please have fun. And relax. And believe for a minute that this guy might just like you and that’s perfectly okay.”
My shoulders sag as the kindness of her words sprinkles over my soul. “I love you, Claire.”
“I love you too. Now go have fun on your not-date. And call me after.”
“Goodbye.”
I end the call. Shoving my phone in my bag, I head down the hallway. Doing a quick check of my reflection in the mirror by the door, I wonder if I should’ve worn the green top.
Too late.
My hand wraps around the knob and I tug the door open.
“Hey,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
“Good evening.”
His eyes twinkle, their blue matching the color of his button-down shirt perfectly. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, displaying a watch that catches the light above. He’s fresh and perfectly put together in a way that appears to have taken about a minute.