I stare at Zack. He just winks back at me, his bright blue eyes twinkling.
Zack Harding (player nickname: Zack Hard-On) is a thirty-year-old ex-rugby player — but he looks more like a Viking. Massive arms, blonde hair usually pulled back into a man-bun, scruffy beard, and a barrel-chest the size of a fridge. He lives in the apartment opposite mine with two other guys. Since we live across the hall, we hang out all the time — which is how I know that he’s definitely not the man I am meant to be on a date with.
“Christ, man.” He shuffles a bit, then pulls a face at the waiter. “Ever think about buying a chair for us regular people? Not all of us are pipsqueaks like this lass.”
The waiter just stares at him, wide-eyed.
“Zack,” I say levelly. “What are you doing here?”
Zack looks surprised. “We’re on a date, babe. Don’t you remember?”
I roll my eyes.
The waiter looks completely flummoxed. “I’m sorry…” he trails off, looking behind him at the bathroom, then back at Zack. “Are you, um…?”
“I’m the same guy, yeah,” Zack says. “I just got really hot and buff all of a sudden. I would never abandon my gorgeous, stunning, slightly scary date.”
I kick his ankle under the table.
“No,” the waiter says hesitantly. “I mean… are you… Zack Harding?”
Zack beams. He loves being recognised in public. “Aye, the very same.”
“Like… that Zack Harding? Like, the rugby player? You were my favourite when you were playing for England!”
“Oh, aye.” Zack turns back to me. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a date with a lovely lady, and a tiny plate of….” he examines the meal in front of him, “mmm, delicious parsnips to eat.” When the waiter doesn’t make a move, he waves him off cheerfully. “See you later, mate!”
“Oh.” The man comes to his senses and turns, scurrying away. Zack settles down happily in his seat and picks up Mike’s glass of wine, as if he spends every weekend crashing his neighbours’ dates, and this is perfectly normal.
“You know,” I say slowly, “if you missed me this much, you could’ve just waited for me to get home.”
“I ain’t here for you. I asked a girl out for a drink.” He nods to the bar in the corner of the room. I glance over, spotting a crowd of modelesque women sitting on the barstools, sipping on drinks and chatting. Sure enough, one particularly beautiful girl in a very short dress is sitting alone, glaring daggers at me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you still be with her, then? I doubt you’re getting laid at this rate.”
“Didn’t work out.” He studies the pile of golden vegetables on his plate critically. “She invited me to her sister’s wedding this weekend.”
“And that’s a problem?” I ask, watching as he picks up his soup spoon and carefully piles everything onto it.
He gives me a flat look. “Meeting the family isn’t top on my priority list, lass. I don’t come out looking for a wife. I saw you got ditched, so I came over to save you.” He shoves the bite into his mouth and frowns down at my plate. “Babe, you’ve barely eaten any of this. Why aren’t you eating? You nervous?”
I shrug. “I just wanted to get everything right.” Clearly, I failed spectacularly.
His lips press together. “You eat at all today?”
I shake my head. “I spent all day filling orders. And I can’t bring food into the warehouse with me.”
He tuts. “You know food and sleep are more important than selling stockings, right?” He bends and lifts up the tablecloth, making a big show of checking out my legs. “Although they are real pretty stockings, sugar.”
I kick him in the knee. “Not to me,” I say honestly.
Her Treat, my lingerie company, is the most important thing in my life. It’s taken six years of constant work to build it to where it is now — a moderately successful web boutique with thousands of customers a month. Six years of all-nighters, and paying off debts, and working eighteen-hour days. It’s my baby. It comes before everything else.
Zack scoffs, pushing the plate towards me. “You’re hopeless. Eat. Don’t want you passing out on me again.” Sighing, I pick up my fork. He sits back, appeased, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on, then. What happened? I was watchin’ your date from the bar. Looked like it was going okay.”
“You’re such a creep,” I mutter, chewing a mouthful of gilded carrot and pulling a face.
“It’s my job,” he reminds me, jabbing a thumb into the centre of his chest. “Bona fide love expert, right here.”
I snort. “I don’t think having a relationship advice podcast makes you a love expert. I don’t see a degree on your wall.”
“Maybe not,” he says smugly. “But I assume you’ve seen all the awards. Best Adult Entertainment Podcast three years running, baby.”
I smile slightly, stabbing a tiny cube of parsnip. Zack hosts a relationship advice podcast with his flatmates, Josh and Luke. It’s called Three Single Guys, and it’s very successful. Thousands of listeners tune in every week to hear the boys talk about everything from STIs to breath play.
To be honest, he probably could teach me a thing or two about dating.
“I don’t know what happened,” I say eventually, setting my fork back down. “I thought it was going well.” A wave of exhaustion suddenly washes over me. I’m so tired.
It’s been a shitty month. Her Treat’s sales have been down, and I’ve barely been sleeping for worrying about it. I have an upcoming collection set to release in a few months, and I’m struggling to keep on top of everything. And I’ve been dating for so long. I’ve been on 120 dates in the last fourteen months. And not one of them was successful. I’m trying not to let it get to me, but it’s starting to hurt a bit too much.
I think of the ten-year plan lying crumpled in my bag. The last unchecked box burns in my mind. Get married.
I’m a failure. And I hate failing.
“Hey,” Zack says softly. I look up at him. His bright blue eyes are full of concern. “You okay?”
I nod. “Just… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
Zack studies me for a few more seconds, then nods to himself.
“Alright.” He reaches for the half-full bottle of wine sitting between us and picks up my glass, slopping in a generous amount. He pushes it across the tablecloth to me. “Down that, then get your coat on.”
I watch, bemused, as he throws back his own glass in one long gulp, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “What are we doing?”
“We’re gonna enjoy your dumbass date’s expensive wine, and then we’re getting some real food. None of this piped wasabi and foam shit.” He stands, pushing out the chair. The waiter reappears behind us, and Zack blasts him with his megawatt grin. “It was lovely, mate.”
The waiter nods, looking dazed. “I’ll pass on your comments to the chef,” he murmurs, then lifts his notepad and pen. “Um, could you—”
“Autograph?” Zack guesses, and the man nods frantically. I tip back my glass and gulp down my wine as Zack scrawls his name across the page. “No problem, mate. Thanks for letting my girl down gently.” He offers me his hand, helping me to my feet. “Come on, love. Your night’s about to get a whole lot better.”
Lol