Lottie: No way. The dude is meeting me at Chipotle. He’s not going to murder me at a place where you have to pay extra for guac.

Kelsey: What does guac have to do with any of this?

Lottie: Nothing, but I want it to be known that I believe charging extra for guac is outrageous. Anyway, I have to get going. I’m walking there and I don’t want to show up as a sweaty mess, I want to take my time. I’ll text you when I’m done.

Kelsey: Lottie! I know you’re desperate, but this is not better than telling Mom and Jeff. Suck up your pride and just tell them. Meeting a random stranger for food isn’t the way to go.

Lottie: People meet up with strangers all the time to share food. That’s what dating is all about.

Kelsey: You’re not dating him!

Lottie: Not yet. Text you later, sis. Love you.

Yeah, this is stupid.

I’ll admit it.

Kelsey has every reason to fret, because this situation screams bad decisions, but I like to think I’m a good judge of character, and this guy wasn’t giving me murder vibes. Instead, his eyes reflected the same desperation as mine. He needs me, just like I need him. And that right there is exactly what one needs in order to follow through with such a farce—mutual neediness.

Now, my mother didn’t raise a fool, and of course I’ll play hard to get, because, yes, getting out of Jeff and Mom’s house is the end goal here, as well as finding a new job and bringing a hot piece of ass to the reunion, but I’m also going to see what this guy has to say. I’m going to feel him out, and if the offer or story isn’t good enough, see ya, buddy.

I’m all about saving face, but not in exchange for my soul.

I round the corner and find the Chipotle across the street. My stomach growls just from the sight of the crisp white building and burnt red pepper logo. If anything, this will be a free meal. Burrito bowl, here I come.

Once I got home, I quickly showered, tossed my hair into a tight bun, and then put on a pair of jean shorts and a simple Aerosmith T-shirt. I paired that with some bracelets and my favorite pair of comfortable Birkenstocks—found them at the Thrifty Shopper, which around here has rich people’s used clothing for super cheap—and I headed out.

I charged my phone just long enough to be able to make a phone call if I need a quick out or if I was abducted. Now that I’m crossing the street, almost here, a small bout of nerves is in the pit of my stomach.

For the most part, I have strong bravado, but there are times when that bravado falters and my vulnerability comes out. I’m experiencing flashes of that right now.

When I make it to the other side of the road, I take a deep breath and head into the restaurant, and I spot Huxley immediately. It’s hard not to.

I’ll admit, the man is extremely attractive. A tall man, he must be at least six foot two, his skin has a golden tan to it, his hair is a beautiful chestnut brown—yes, I said beautiful—and he has those dark, penetrating eyes that seem like they could cut any human in half, in the boardroom or on the streets. Currently, he’s staring down at his phone, one leg pressed up against the wall he’s leaning onto, and he’s wearing dark grey chino shorts and a light blue button-down shirt that hugs him in all the right places. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and—hello, man chest—the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off a little man cleavage. Not too much to be douchey, but just enough to pique my interest. Not that I’m here to actually see him as a potential date, but the hot factor needs to be considered for this . . . transaction. And . . .

He’s incredibly good-looking.

He would make Angela drool, for sure.

His eyes lift from his phone briefly, and when they spot me, I feel them dangerously rake over my frame, taking me in, every last inch of me. When they finally meet my eyes, he pushes away from the wall and walks up to me while stuffing his phone in his pocket.

“You’re here,” he says.

“Worried I was going to stand you up?”

“A little,” he admits, but that confidence he exudes doesn’t falter, as if he had a bout of worry, but knew I was going to come all along. He nods toward the counter. “Want to order and then get down to business?”

“That would be ideal for my stomach.”

We get in line, and he lets me go first—point for him being gentlemanly—and I order my typical burrito bowl with chicken, black beans, and fajita veggies. And since lover boy is paying, I have them pile the guac on. Huxley sweeps in behind me with a steak burrito, pinto beans, no rice and tons of lettuce and salsa. No guac. Does he not like guac or is he not willing to pay the extra money? A question for the ages.

When we get to the register, he grabs a beer for both of us, as well as chips and salsa, and then pays. When I see him pull out his Amex Black Card to swipe it, my anxiety over him claiming he’s rich no longer exists. Uh, yeah . . . the man wasn’t lying about being rich. Good to know.

With food and drinks in hand, Huxley finds a high-top table near the window that offers us enough privacy from the rest of the restaurant that I feel comfortable enough to have the type of conversation we’re about to have.

Once we’re seated, I say, “From the lack of guac on your burrito, I’m going to assume you don’t like it very much.”

He shakes his head. “Too slimy. Can’t handle the texture of it.”

“Are you a California native?”

He nods. “Yup, born in Santa Monica.”

“Fascinating,” I say, giving him a smooth once-over. “I don’t think I’ve ever found a native Californian who doesn’t like guacamole.”

“I’m an anomaly. My brothers think I’m weird, so you’re not alone in the opinion you probably have about me.”

“I don’t think you’re weird, just . . . interesting. You also didn’t get rice.”

“Not a big rice fan.” He glances at me while he unwraps his burrito. “Care to analyze anything else about my order?”

“You got beer instead of a soda. You’re either extremely nervous or you’re the type of person who has no shame in ordering an alcoholic beverage at a quick-serve restaurant.”

“I don’t know what it feels like to be nervous,” he says in such a straight, monotone voice that I actually believe him. I’m not sure he knows that emotion based on that quick and abrupt answer. “I also don’t carry around shame. It’s a waste of my mental energy.”

I pick up my fork and move it around my burrito bowl as he takes his first bite. “Ahh, I see how you are.”

He finishes chewing and swallows, following up with a swipe of his napkin across his mouth before he asks, “Oh, you do? Please, educate me on myself.”

“You’re one of those power men.”

“Power men?” he asks, brow raised.

“You know, the ones you read about, the successful ones that have a crazy regimen. They read a self-help book a week, work out every day, are brutal in the boardroom, and drink so much water that their bladder doesn’t know what yellow pee is.”

His burrito is halfway to his mouth as he says, “Takes me a week and a half to get through a self-help book when a new season of The Challenge comes out.”

Then he takes a bite of his burrito, and honestly, from the lack of facial expressions, I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. Might as well test his knowledge.

“You watch The Challenge?”

He nods slowly. “CT for life.”

Okay, okay, don’t freak out.

Gah . . . but CT!

“He’s my dream man,” I say before I can stop myself. “Heavy Boston accent, troubled past, buff—even in his dad-bod era—and just a fine piece of ass. Love him so much. Is that why you like him?”

He wipes his mouth, and in a dry tone, he says, “Yes. Can’t get enough of that tight ass of his.”