My Three Hot Neighbors and Our Fake Date

LAYLA

“I’d really want to be married by thirty,” I say thoughtfully, twirling my wine glass between my fingers.

“I think that would give me the best shot at having children.”

“Ch-children?” My date echoes on the other side of the restaurant table, his eyes wide.

I nod, smiling at him as seductively as I can.

My date tonight is a guy called Mike Stonem. I met him on an app last night. Six foot two, handsome, and he works in an animal rescue facility.

Right now, he’s sitting opposite me looking absolutely delicious in a fitted black suit, golden candlelight flickering all over his sculpted face.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “So, you’re thinking about kids already, Layla?”

I nod. “I think it’s important to have a life plan. I know it can become a lot more difficult to have kids after thirty-five, so I should probably start soon. I think three is a good number, although I’d be happy with two. What do you think about—”

I trail off as he pushes out his chair and stands. “I, um. Need to use the restroom,” he mutters, not meeting my eye.

“Oh. Okay. That’s fine.” I wave him off, and he turns on his heel, marching towards the bathrooms.

Weird.

Shrugging, I lean back in my chair, taking a deep sip of wine.

I’m in the middle of my 120th date, and I’m starting to think I’ve finally gotten the hang of it.

The night is going really well so far.

Mike suggested a really fancy restaurant; a Michelin-starred spot in central London. It’s very posh and expensive, all minimalist white walls covered in weird modern art, and oddly-shaped lampshades hanging from the ceiling.

He arrived early, kissed me on the cheek when we sat down at our table, and showed me pictures of a cute dog he operated on today. He didn’t even stare at my chest when I dropped my fork and bent to pick it up.

I have a good feeling about him.

Glancing back to the bathroom door to make sure it’s still closed, I reach for my handbag, unsnapping the clasp and pulling out my date notebook.

Licking my finger, I flip through the pages until I find my list of first-date instructions, scanning down the first few bullet points.

*Make good eye contact

*Ask him questions about himself

*Maintain open body language

*Touch his hand or arm

*Compliment him

I nod, trying to memorise them.

It might sound a bit over-the-top to carry directions on dates, but I’m notoriously terrible at dating. I’m twenty-eight and I’ve never had a boyfriend. And it’s not for lack of trying: I’ve spent the last two years on a mission to find a man who will put up with me.

Every Friday night after work, I come home, sit on my couch with a glass of wine, and go on a marathon swiping session on my current favourite dating app.

As soon as I find a guy I like, I invite him out on a date.

So far, it hasn’t been going so well. I think maybe I come on too strong.

Most of the guys who agree to meet up with me just look kind of scared. I haven’t ever gotten a second date.

But tonight, I think my luck is about to change.

A few minutes pass, and Mike doesn’t come back. Nerves start humming in my stomach. My work phone dings three times in a row — probably the shipping company updating me on my deliveries.

I’m due to have a bunch of new pieces shipped in today for my lingerie web store. My fingers itch to answer the messages, but I force myself not to check the screen.

Every WikiHow article I’ve read on What Not To Do On The First Date has been very clear that checking your phone is a big no-no.

Instead, I turn to my starter. We both ordered the House Special, which turned out to be a plate of miniature vegetables wrapped in gold leaf. I’m not completely sure it’s actually edible. I roll a tiny beetroot over with my fork.

“Ma’am?”

I look up and smile at the waiter hovering nervously over me. “Hi,” I tell him. “Everything’s fine, thanks.”

The waiter clears his throat. “I’m, ah, not sure how to tell you this, ma’am. But we just saw your date leave.”

“Leave?” I frown. “But he hasn’t even eaten yet. Maybe he just went outside to take a call, or something.”

The waiter grimaces. “We found him, um, climbing out of the window in the men’s bathroom. So I don’t think he plans on coming back.”

My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”

“He paid the bill!” He says brightly, offering me the receipt. I stare at it.

Somehow, that’s even worse. At least if he hadn’t paid, I could convince myself that he just came here for a free meal.

Now, I know that the problem is me.

I stare at his plate. His stupid gold-plated carrots sparkle back at me.

“Right,” I say softly. “Okay.”

The waiter winces. “Um, do you want me to pack up your meal? I’ll throw in a dessert in the house.”

“I…” Part of me wants to say no. I’m embarrassed as Hell, but I don’t want to leave. I came here to eat dinner. I’m not going to run away just because my date went bad, for God’s sake — I’ve got more backbone than that.

I think.

Maybe not.

Luckily, before I have to make a decision, I’m interrupted.

“There’s no need for that,” a thick Northern accent says over my head. I blink as the chair opposite me is dragged out with an ear-piercing squeak, and my neighbour Zack heaves his massive, muscled body into Mike’s empty seat.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says cheerfully, leaning over the table. I jump when he brushes his lips across my cheek, my lungs filling with his warm, honey- and-whiskey smell.

“Sorry I peed for so long.” He sits back in his chair and grins at me.

“Right. Back to the date. Where were we?”