CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kyle—

I pull up near the restaurant and park. Climbing out of my truck, I straighten the cuffs of my black button-down shirt. I've got on a pair of dark wash jeans and a thick silver chain bracelet peeking out of the cuff. I don't do loafers, so I've got biker boots under the jeans.

Hopefully, I'm dressed for this place.

Harley Jean told me it's a fancy steakhouse. I've never been here, but my reservation is for seven. This girl's name is Zora. She's supposed to meet me at the bar.

When I enter, I check in with the hostess, and she says my table should be ready in the next five to ten minutes, so I head to the bar called Sky. It's one of those places that looks turn-of-the-century but modernized. The floor is small black and white tile. A wooden barback takes up the entire wall, but it's all painted dark blue, and the bottles lining the glass shelves in front of the mirrored background are lit in neon. The barstools are sleek, black leather with gold trim. The crowd looks like a mix of men in suits and women in classy workwear.

Zora texted me she'd be in a black strapless top. I spot her immediately. She's at a seat at the bar, a fancy drink in a martini glass sitting in front of her; its yellow color and sugared rim makes me think it might be a Lemon Drop Martini.

She's breathtakingly beautiful—long dark hair down to her waist, piercing hazel eyes, and pale olive-toned skin.

As I approach, I realize she's taking selfies on her phone, and I hang back, waiting to see if she'll finish.

She takes them at every different angle in her seat. It's like watching someone trying out to be a supermodel, and it turns me off.

I step between her stool and the one next to her.

She doesn't notice me the slightest bit.

"Zora?" I finally say.

She breaks her concentration long enough to glance up. "Oh, hey. It's you."

"It is." I extend my hand. "Kyle. Nice to meet you."

The bartender approaches, and I order a drink, standing next to her stool.

Before we can even begin to chat, she lifts her phone and leans toward me to take a selfie of us both. One would be fine, but she tilts her head and makes fish lips, snapping off shot after shot.

Then she takes a video. "Hey, everyone. This is Kyle, the guy I was telling you all about. Isn't he gorgeous?" She turns and addresses me. "They all think you're gorgeous, by the way." Again, her attention turns to the camera. "He's even better in real life than in his pictures."

Hell, I don't know what pictures she's seen.

She squeezes next to me again, turning her body in ways where she can get me into the picture. "Don't we make a cute couple, peeps?"

I find it sort of rude and annoying. It seems like the only thing she cares about is taking selfies and communicating to her friends and followers that she's on a date. Her entire focus is to ensure that everybody in the world of social media knows she's out with me.

She starts talking about the bar and how the restaurant is ultra-chic.

My drink is delivered, and not long after that, they announce our table is ready.

I drag her from her phone long enough to move to the restaurant and follow the hostess to our table.

The place is fancy, with tablecloths and dim lighting.

Immediately, she pulls out the phone again and comments on the restaurant like she's doing a travel guide review of the place.

I don't say much while she drones on, although she gives me the impression she's used to guys lavishing her with constant attention. I'm trying not to cringe, and I'm in utter shock at how addicted she is to her phone. She's more into the idea of creating a fantasy world rather than being in the moment.

The server comes with menus and rattles off the specials, which she barely listens to, but is all too eager to get the man in her shot.

"This is Gary, our server."

Like the entire world cares . I guess some people live vicariously through these posts.

We order wine, and he fills two glasses while my date continues on her phone like I'm not even here.

I have to say something. "Zora, look, I'm not trying to be rude, but the phone has got to go."

She blinks, uncomprehendingly.

"Can you put it down, please?"

She sets it on the table but doesn't apologize.

There's an age difference between us, and I'm really feeling it now.

"Have you been on a blind date before?" she asks.

"This is the first. You?"

"I've been on two. One ended with the guy ditching me at the restaurant, and the other one told me his last fling gave him genital warts." She studies me over the rim of her drink. "You're not going to do either one of those, are you?"

"No, ma'am." Jesus Christ.

She straightens in her chair. "I have something important to ask you."

"What's that?"

"It would make me really happy if you came to church with me on Sunday so you can meet my family."

I choke on my wine and end up in a coughing fit.

The server returns to take our orders, saving me from having to answer. I get a steak, and she orders the salmon.

"Thank you, sir. Ma'am." Gary takes our menus and retreats.

Zora immediately leans forward. "You really shouldn't eat red meat. It's bad for you."

"Is it?" I ask, not that I care for or want her opinion. Judging by the way her chin lifts and her eyes narrow, I think she gets the message. "So, tell me about yourself." Even as I ask, I know I don't have any genuine interest in her answer. I'm already done with this girl, but I'm stuck for the next hour.

"I'm an influencer. West Coast Style with Zora. Ever heard of it?"

"Can't say I'm on social media much."

"Oh." She looks at me like I'm a freak. "Well, I just passed a million followers."

"Impressive," I say. "I own a food truck. It's called Kyle's."

"A food truck?" Her lip curls. "Like one of those gross taco trucks?"

"Well, I sell other food. Maybe you could give it a try—tell your followers if you like the food."

"Yeah, that's not really the kind of thing my followers care about. They're much more upscale." She tilts her head. "You are cute, though. I'm sure I could use you in some of my posts. You'd be a big hit."

"Doing what?"

She shrugs. "Whatever I decide we're going to do for the day. Whatever's trending."

"I see." I take a sip of wine and glance around the room.

"I guess we should get this out of the way. If we're going to date, there are a few things you need to do," she says.

She's lost her mind. I can't wait to hear what she has to say. "Is that so?"

"Yes." Then she ticks them off on her fingers. "One. From now on, you'll need to dress in the clothing I pick out for you. But don't worry. I have excellent taste."

I'm speechless. Never in my life has a woman been so upfront and demanding. Is this really how dating is done these days? You show up with a plan and negotiate a list of demands and must-haves?

"Two. Remove any piercings if you have any I can't see." She gives a shudder. "They gross me out."

"What else, darlin' ?" I play along.

"Three. I realize you have some tattoos. But I'm going to insist you don't get any more."

I nod. "No more tattoos. Check."

"Four. I'll need you to do several daily media posts with me for my business. You're really cute, and my followers will love you."

"Gee, that's one point for me, I suppose."

She finally picks up on my sarcasm. "If you can't do that, I'm afraid it's a deal-breaker."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. You're going to have to sell your food truck. They're tacky, and I can't be associated with someone who slings burgers and sells tacos out of a truck. Yuck."

"Tacky. Right." This is a joke—an elaborate joke the club set up. A tv host will jump out any minute and tell me I'm on a prank show. That doesn't seem to happen, though. People near us overhear our conversation and crane their necks, trying to get a look at me and see what's so awful that my date has just given me a list of things about myself I need to fix.

Once she completes her list, she sits back, sips her drink, and asks when I'll be able to get started. The server returns with our meals, and I have a lovely steak in front of me. So, now I'm contemplating dumping it on her and walking out.

"Would you like some more wine, sir?" the server asks.

"Definitely. Leave the bottle." I'll need enough to float a boat in order to get through this evening.

I struggle through the meal as she snaps photos of her plate and of herself moaning around each bite.

The food is fantastic, and I'm sitting at a table with a beautiful woman. From the outside, I suppose I must look like the luckiest man in the room.

And all I can think about is how much fun this would be if Sutton was here instead.

Finally, it comes time to pay the bill, I go to leave the tip, and Zora swipes it off the table in front of the server.

"People who serve aren't supposed to be tipped," she says with an elitist attitude that makes me cringe.

I take the money from her, hand it to the server, and stalk out of the restaurant without a goodbye, not even caring if she follows. Once outside, I get in my truck to leave.

Zora marches up to the window and taps on it. I power it down.

"Are we going to see each other again?"

"It amazes me you have the audacity to ask me that."

"Is that a yes?"

"Nope." I back out, leaving her with her mouth open.

As I drive home, I text Sutton.

ME: YOU WERE RIGHT.

SUTTON: ABOUT THE DATE? OH, NO.

ME: IT WAS A TRIP ON THE CRAZY TRAIN.

SUTTON: WHAT HAPPENED?

ME: SHE HAD A LIST FOR ME. THINGS SHE WANTED ME TO DO.

SUTTON: LIKE WHAT?

ME: GO TO CHURCH WITH HER, MEET HER FAMILY, LET HER DRESS ME FROM NOW ON. OH, AND GET THIS. SELL MY FOOD TRUCK BECAUSE THEY'RE—AND I QUOTE—"TACKY".

SUTTON: I TAKE IT YOU'RE NOT SEEING HER AGAIN.

ME: NOT A CHANCE

SUTTON: I SHOULDN'T ADMIT IT, BUT I'M GLAD.

I stare at her last text for a long time. I want to reply. I want to tell her how I wished it was her sitting across from me, but I don't feel safe putting it in writing where my brother might see.

ME: I'VE GOT THINGS TO DO WITH THE CLUB TOMORROW. I WON'T BE ABLE TO OPEN FOR BUSINESS

I wait for her reply, but it takes her a minute.

SUTTON: RAFE SAID THE SAME THING. SAID HE'LL BE OUT OF TOWN FOR MOST OF THE DAY.

I wonder if my brother has told her anything about where we're going or what we're doing. She never says more, and I don't reply. I drag a hand down my face, wishing I could call her, and we could talk. I even consider it for a moment, but instead, I drive home.