He’s cackling as I close the bathroom door.

By the time we arrive at Malone’s, my palms are sweaty and my heart is beating dangerously fast. Am I actually doing this? Suddenly I don’t feel so ready.

Hunter parks the Land Rover in the tiny lot behind the bar. He cuts the engine and turns to appraise me. “I do good work,” the jackass says with a pleased nod.

I’ll allow him the outfit—he picked a pair of dark blue skinny jeans, a soft gray sweater that hangs over one shoulder and shows some skin, and black suede boots with short heels. It’s a cute outfit and I look cute in it.

But the accessories? He doesn’t get any credit for those. “I hate these earrings,” I gripe, carefully arranging the big hoops so that they don’t catch in my hair. “You know this. And yet you still peer-pressured me into wearing them.”

“Because you look hot in them,” he protests. “Trust me, they up the outfit’s hotness factor from a nine to an eleven. Just quit complaining and wear them for tonight. One night.”

“Ugh. Fine.” As I slide out of the SUV, I’m surprised to see Hunter do the same. “You’re coming in with me?”

He gives a nod. “Don’t worry, I’ll sit at the bar. I’ll stick around until I’m sure he won’t murder you. Just pretend I’m not there.”

I’m genuinely touched. “Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

We round the side of the building toward the entrance. I can’t believe I’m going on a date. A Tinder date, to boot. That’s pretty much code for “maybe I’ll have sex with you tonight.”

Wait, tonight? I can’t have sex with anyone tonight. I just realized I forgot to shave my legs.

Dammit, why didn’t I shave my legs?

It’s fine, it’s only a drink, I reassure my panicky self.

We enter the bar and I conduct a quick scan of the main room. It’s busier than I expected for a Monday night, but college students go out drinking any night of the week, I guess. My pulse accelerates when I notice a tall, muscular guy pushing away from the bar.

His eyes widen appreciatively when he spots me. “Demi?” he calls out.

“Roy?”

“That’s me.” He smiles, flashing a pair of dimples. Oh no, he has dimples. I’m in trouble. “There’s a free table over there,” Roy says warmly. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” Ugh, that was so dorky. I’m bad at this.

A smattering of high, standing tables make up the main room. Two are empty, and we choose the more secluded of the pair. I glance over my shoulder. Hunter winks and nods in encouragement, then wanders toward the bar stools.

“Sorry for being so forward, but you are even hotter in person.” Roy openly checks me out, so I don’t feel bad doing the same.

His shirt is outrageously tight, probably tighter than any piece of clothing I own. I can clearly see the outline of every muscle, and his nipples. Hard little beads poking out for all to see. I’d always been indifferent to man nipples, but Roy’s body-hugging shirt brings so much attention to them that I can’t look away. I force myself to redirect my gaze to the TV screens above our heads. One is playing Monday night football, the other shows an NHL game.

“Do you like sports?” Roy asks.

“I’ll watch football if it’s on. I’m not too into hockey, although I have a friend who plays. And my ex-boyfriend played basketball, so I had no choice but to pay attention to the NBA.” Dammit, you’re not supposed to bring up another guy when you’re on a date. That feels like a major no-no.

Okay, I’m really bad at this.

But Roy doesn’t seem fazed. “I never played any sports.” He gestures to his huge, muscly body. “I know, I know, doesn’t look like it, but I got this physique from working out.”

“So you’re, like, a gym guy?”

He nods vigorously. “Seven days a week. How about you? Do you go to the gym?”

“I use the one in the student fitness center a couple times a week. But I don’t do more than use the treadmill, lift some weights, nothing fancy.”

A waiter comes up to take our order. Roy asks for a Bud Light. I’m not in love with beer, but I don’t feel comfortable drinking anything harder. My nerves are tickling my tummy and making my fingers tremble.

“I’ll have a Bud Light too,” I finally decide.

Once the server is gone, Roy picks up where we left off. “Have you used the pool in the fitness center? It’s great for swimming laps.”

“No, I haven’t. Like I said, my workouts are pretty mild.” I shrug. “I have a great metabolism.”

“Working out has nothing to do with metabolism. Fitness is about health. Healthy heart rate, healthy mental state, healthy bones.” He goes on about the benefits of exercise for several minutes, until my eyes start glazing over.

Finally, I interrupt him. “You kind of lost me there, bud.”

Roy offers a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’m really passionate about fitness.”

“I can tell.”

“Let’s talk about other stuff.” He rests his forearms on the table. A heavy silver watch adorns his left wrist, and it sparkles under the light fixtures. “So you’re looking for something casual, huh?”

Oh boy. This topic is even more awkward. I’d way rather talk about his biceps curls. “Um, yeah. I mean, I recently broke up with my long-term boyfriend, so…”

“So you’re on the rebound,” he supplies.

I nod.

“Me too,” Roy confesses.

“Really?” His profile bio didn’t mention that. “When was your break-up?”

“A couple days ago.”

A couple days ago? And he’s already on Tinder? At least my break-up can be measured in weeks.

“That’s very recent,” I say carefully. “Are you sure you should be, you know, doing this?” I gesture between us.

Roy’s right hand fiddles with his bulky watch. “Truthfully? I don’t know. But I need to get over her, and I figured this is the best way. Putting myself right back out there, you know?”

Uneasiness trickles up my throat.

“Can I ask why you and your ex broke up?”

I answer truthfully. “He cheated.”

“Oh man, that sucks. Were you together long?”

“We’ve known each other since we were eight. First kiss at twelve. Officially boyfriend and girlfriend at thirteen.” As I recite the details, I’m startled to notice the lack of accompanying emotions. My heart didn’t even clench when I listed each Nico milestone.

“Wow,” Roy marvels. “That’s a lot of history.”

The server returns with our beers, and I gratefully accept my bottle. I’m not entirely sure how this date is going, but I’m leaning toward not well.

We clink our bottles together. “Cheers,” I say.

“Cheers.” He takes a long swig.

I do too, and it requires all my willpower not to blanch. I hate the taste of beer. Why did I even order this? What a stupid decision. I wonder if I should flag down the waiter and ask for a glass of water.

“So we’re both unlucky in love.” Roy observes me over the rim of his bottle.