But then—then comes number four.
His voice is low, slightly rough. Warm. Like velvet and smoke and some kind of accent I can’t quite place.
He clears his throat before speaking. Doesn’t launch into a cheesy pickup line or ask me what my sign is. Just says, “You sound tired of this.”
I laugh, maybe too loudly. “What gave me away?”
“You sighed when I sat down.”
“Maybe you just sat down hard.”
“Maybe,” he says, and I canhearthe amusement in his voice. “Or maybe this whole thing feels a little ridiculous. And you’re smarter than most of the people in this room. And you’re trying to figure out if this was a mistake.”
I blink.
Ipause.
Because… okay. That’s not a terrible read.
“What makes you think I’m smarter than most of the people here?”
“You didn’t laugh at that guy who said he’d leave his girlfriend for the right stranger in a pod. You told him to go to therapy.”
“…you were listening?”
“I was waiting.” He pauses and I nearly throw my panties across this partition when he says, “For you.”
Ohdamn.
Danger.
I sit back, bottle in hand, smiling for the first time all night since I sat in the pod.
“Okay,” I say, leaning back with a smirk. “Now, you’ve got my attention.”
“Only now? What did it for you?”
I pause, the corners of my mouth curving despite myself. “I’m not sure. Something about you,” I say, softer. And for some absurd reason—I blush. “I can tell you’re different.”
“And I can tell you have a beautiful smile.”
“How do you know I’m smiling?”
“Your voice changes when you do. Gets warmer. Softer.” I hear the shift of his body on the other side of the curtain, the faint rustle of fabric. “I’d even bet the beautiful American girl is blushing right now.”
Geez, how does he know? Can he tell my panties are wet, too?
I’m no stranger to men. I’ve dated plenty. Had a very questionable semester during sophomore year in undergrad.Again, pleasedon’t tell Daddy.I’ve been around the block—hell, I’ve probably mapped half of it.
But this. What I’m feeling, experiencing, through a goddamn plastic divider?
This isn’t some guy.
This is a man.
And whether it’s the tequila talking or my libido making executive decisions without me, one thing is certain—I don’t want to date anyone else in this ridiculous excuse for a dating experiment.
I wantthisone.