Farrah wanted to poke her eyes out, and they hadn’t even made it to the main course.
Olivia’s co-worker was cute, she’d give him that. Ken had dark hair, green eyes, and a nice smile. No complaints on that front. Too bad he also had the personality and self-absorption of a wet sponge, not to mention the maturity of an eighteen-year-old rushing a fraternity.
“Anyway, I was on the phone with this guy, and he was all like, dude, you should totally come to the Hamptons this summer, the parties are sick. And I was like, dude, we go to the Hamptons every summer. Let’s go somewhere different, ya know? Let’s go to Martha’s Vineyard! So, he…”
Farrah’s eyes glazed over. While Ken droned on, she sipped her red wine and tried not to stare too hard at the cutlery, lest she pick up a knife and stab herself or Ken to put them out of their misery. She hated red wine—it gave her migraines and one sip made her skin flush redder than an angry lobster—but Ken had ordered the bottle without asking, and she was desperate.
Not even the restaurant could make up for the disastrous evening. They were at a cute little Italian place in NoMad that Farrah had always wanted to try. No doubt Olivia gave Ken a nudge when it came to choosing the date spot, but that wouldn’t save Olivia from the imminent pain coming her way.
I am going to kill her. How could she possibly think I’d like this guy?
“So.” Farrah tried to steer the subject away from Ken’s summer exploits. “You like to travel.”
“Yeah. My family has a NetJet membership,” he bragged, naming a private jet company that offered leases for the country club crowd.
“What’s the most interesting place you’ve visited?”
“Easy. Ibiza.”
Farrah’s brow furrowed. “Ibiza?”
“In Spain. Españaaaaa.” Ken dragged out the last “a.”
“I know where Ibiza is.” She fought the urge to “accidentally” spill her wine all over his precious Rolex, which glinted obnoxiously beneath the lights.
Farrah had gone home to shower and change after meeting Blake at Central Park and, thanks to subway delays, arrived late for her date. Ken had greeted her by telling her she was exactly seven minutes late, according to his “$7,500 state-of-the-art Rolex, which is never wrong” but that he forgave her because she had “nice legs.”
She should’ve walked away right then and there, but she gave him the benefit of the doubt for Olivia’s sake.
Liv, you’re a dead woman.
“Well, the nightlife there is wild.” Ken chuckled like he was thinking about things too naughty to say in public. “I had my first orgy there.”
Guess they weren’t too naughty to say in public.
“Great.” Farrah forced a smile. How the hell was she supposed to respond to that? “Have you been to, um, other places? Ones without orgies?”
“Eh.” Ken shrugged. “London, Paris, Rome. The usual.”
“Anywhere outside Europe?”
“Nah. Where else would I go?”
Jesus. How did this guy get into private equity? Farrah thought the industry was for smart people. “I don’t know, maybe one of the other continents,” she said, unable to hide her sarcasm. “Asia, Africa…”
“Yeah, right. I don’t want malaria, and Asia has weird food. If I wanted to eat crickets—ow!”
“I am so sorry.” Farrah wasn’t sorry at all. “Did I step on your foot?”
If only she’d worn her four-inch stilettos instead of her three-inch ones. That would’ve made her stomp more painful.
“Yes,” Ken groaned.
“My bad.”
Farrah gulped another mouthful of wine. This was what she got for caving to a blind date in an attempt to battle her attraction to Blake. It’d backfired. Immensely. Because Ken made Blake look like the Boy Scout love child of Mother Teresa and Gandhi.
The waiter arrived with their entrees: veal medallions sautéed in lemon and capers for Ken, pappardelle al ragu for Farrah. Her mouth watered at the smell, even as her stomach churned at the thought of sitting through another course with King Douche over there.
Ken poked at his veal. “Is this medium rare?” he demanded. “I only eat veal that’s medium rare.”
“Yes sir, it’s medium rare, as you requested.” The waiter wore a professional smile, but the flicker of annoyance in his eyes showed he was dying to spit in Ken’s food.
Farrah hoped he already had.
“Good. If it isn’t, I’ll be very upset. You can leave now.” Ken shooed him away. Actually shooed him away.
That was the last straw.
Farrah’s face burned with secondhand mortification. She’d never seen such atrocious behavior in real life. The way people treated service workers said a lot about them as a human being, and she’d seen all she needed to see tonight.
“You’re an asshole.”
The forkful of veal froze halfway to his mouth. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re an asshole. Not only that, but you’re also boring, insufferable, and kind of racist and I should’ve done this twenty minutes ago.”
Farrah didn’t like making scenes. As her mom always said, keep the dirty laundry indoors because it was none of your neighbors’ business. But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t revel in the way Ken sputtered when she threw her wine in his face. The deep red liquid dripped down his chin and soaked into his white Brooks Brothers shirt, ruining it beyond repair.
The entire restaurant gasped.
“You bitch!” Ken spluttered. Then he noticed the droplets on the face of his watch and forgot all about Farrah. “My Rolex!”
Farrah didn’t stick around to see what he’d do next. She did, however, slip their waiter a $20 bill on her way out. Lord knows Ken was the type who’d brag about dropping $7,500 on a watch while stiffing waiters on their tips.
“Sorry about the mess I made,” she whispered while Ken wailed about his watch in the background.
“No problem.” The waiter grinned ear from ear. “It was worth it.”
Farrah stepped into the cool evening air, glad to be away from Ken’s histrionics. She didn’t take a single bite of her pasta, which was a damn shame, because it’d smelled amazing. But there was no way she could look at Ken’s face for another second without throwing up.
Her head swam from the red wine, and her stomach growled in anger as she trudged toward the subway, debating where to go next. She could pick up food on her way home. There were plenty of decent restaurants in Chelsea. Farrah usually enjoyed her alone time, but Olivia also had a date tonight, and the thought of eating takeout alone in their empty apartment after a failed date seemed so sad.
She did have another option…one she hadn’t entertained until now.
If you change your mind about dinner or your date turns out to be a flop, I’ll be at The Egret on the Upper West Side. Best damn burgers in the city.
It was a bad idea, and Farrah didn’t need any more bad ideas tonight.
But a burger sounded amazing, and Blake had said The Egret’s drink specials ran until eleven. She needed a stiff drink—one stronger than wine—almost as much as she needed food and normal company after her date from hell.
Would it really hurt to meet up with Blake for one little burger? It wasn’t like she was planning to make out with the guy.
On the other hand, Farrah didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. She didn’t know what Blake was up to, but she doubted he invited all his freelancers out for drinks on a Friday night.
But he hadn’t made any unwanted advances toward her. He’d been friendly and professional this entire time—perhaps friendlier than he might have been with other people, but like he said, they had history.
Her brain ping-ponged between decisions. Meanwhile, her stomach growled again, sounding even more pissed off this time.
Farrah reached the subway station. She had two options—uptown or downtown. She took a step to her left, then changed her mind with a groan and walked to the right, toward the line that’d take her uptown.
