Page 23 of The Quit List
It’s getting hard to look effortlessly and casually cute while I’m borderline sweating in the sunshine. Not to mention one of my butt cheeks is going numb.
At 4:15PM, I check in again to ask if everything’s okay. Still no response.
Oh, no. Maybe my phone has stopped receiving texts?
Just to be safe, I text Aubrey a smiley-face emoji. She responds almost immediately with an eggplant emoji.
Uncalled for.
But clearly, my texts are going through…
Finally, after an hour of waiting, I resign myself to the fact that he’s not coming. And now, I’m hungry, cranky, my butt is sore from sitting on this stupid wooden bench for an hour, and for some reason—probably a combination of being hungry, cranky, and sore, along with the humiliation of being stood up and a dash of PMS—I feel tears forming in my eyes.
Annoyed, I blink them away. Then, I get up, shake myself off, and march over to the popsicle-wielding vendor cart a few steps away from me.
As soon as the strawberry lemonade freeze pop is in my hand, I’m tearing the wrapping off in a mildly feral manner.
When in doubt, consume sugar.
I’ve shoved the freeze pop in my mouth when someone behind me calls my name. “Holly?”
It’s a man’s voice. Has to be Emmett.
About. Freaking. Time.
And also… What terrible timing.
I remove the freeze pop from my mouth, lick my lips to make them seem somewhat glossy and not covered in pure sugar, and plaster on what I hope is a blasé, easygoing, flirtatious expression before turning around to face him.
But when I whirl around, it’s not Emmett standing in front of me with an apology locked and loaded. Instead, I’m face to face with a familiar, teasing grin.
“Thought it was you.” Jax the Sexy Bartender smirks down at me. “Glad to see your Lyft driver didn’t chop you up into tiny pieces.”
I can’t help but smile. I forgot he was funny. “Well, she was going to, but I bribed her with cheesecake so she said she’d chop up her next passenger instead.”
“Thinking on your feet, I like it.”
I have to laugh at this, hardly believing that I’m seeing him here. In broad daylight. Something about the Sexy Bartender seemed very nocturnal in my mind. Like he’s a werewolf or something. But he’s just as tall and handsome as I remember, dressed in all black again, but this time, he’s accessorized with a baseball cap and a really cute dog that’s pulling on his leash as he tries to get close to me.
Or, more likely, the popsicle.
“Who’s your friend?” I ask, bending down to the little dog as he nuzzles my shins. “He’s cute.”
“This is Rick. He’s a real ladies’ man.”
“Dogs do take after their owners, I’ve heard,” I deadpan, now crouching with one hand stroking the dog, while I hold my popsicle out of his reach with the other. “Wait. You named your dog Rick?”
“Yup.”
I examine the pup, who looks like he’s a cross of about a hundred breeds. “Short for Richard?”
“Short for Rick Astley, actually.”
I stare at him. “Rick Astley… the singer.”
“That’s the one.”
“Like, one-hit-wonder, never going to give you up or let you down, Rick Astley.”