Page 1 of The Great Dating Fake Off
Chapter One
Nora
My phone vibrates against the bookstore’s bistro table, flashing me an alert.
Feed Tairn.
I groan as I silence the reminder.
I’ve been a lot of girls in my life, courtesy of too many moves and forced reinventions—the new girl, the weird girl, the poor girl—but in these last three days of pet sitting for my manager-turned-best-friend Benji, I’ve reluctantly become the reptile girl.
I hop up from where I’ve been flipping through How to Build a House in the tiny cafe and dodge a few bookshelves to get to the checkout counter, mentally adding the word “joists” to my lexicon.
For years, I’ve promised myself that when I finally attained a permanent address—if ever I could—I’d volunteer with Habitat for Humanity to give other people the same. A place to call their forever home. Sure, I know next to nothing about how to do the work, and I once confused a jigsaw for a staple gun, but if books could teach me how to apply for colleges, poach an egg, and change my car’s oil, they can teach me how to build a house from scratch, right?
But first: duty calls.
Tairn’s glass enclosure looms large behind the counter. He tracks my every move as I scan the shelves beneath the counter for the tiny Rubbermaid labeled Critter Feed. I’m not afraid of the little guy, but I am terrified of what it eats.
Bugs. Live ones. Tairn’s diet is straight out of Fear Factor.
With a shudder, I grab the daisy-printed gardening gloves I bought for just such occasions, slide them on, and remove the container from its shelf.
When Benji said he was getting an animal to take to and from the bookstore every day, I imagined a cuddly kitten or fluffy rabbit—not a bearded dragon. But when the owner of your dream workplace becomes your best friend and his flight home is delayed, you glove-up and feed his pet no matter the species. Them’s the rules.
“All right,” I announce. “Let’s get this over with.”
Tairn stares back at me with thinly veiled scorn in his beady eyes as I open the stepladder. Benji literally puts this dude on a pedestal.
“You’ll make it up to me by rocking your Cheshire Cat costume tomorrow.” I climb enough steps to reach the sliding latch door on top, distracting myself with thoughts of tomorrow’s bookish tea party. Benji humors me by allowing these events, and I attempt to humor him back by making Tairn the cutest mascot there ever was. “It’s just a fuzzy tail wrapped around your real tail and some tiny cat ears. You can handle that, right? And next month, you’re getting a cravat in honor of the Regency Era theme.”
Talking mildly distracts me from the contents of the container and the double whammy of fear and nausea working through me, so I continue babbling about a Mr. Darcy costume as I insert my arm inside the glass. I tilt the container sideways and give it a little shake. “Gah, so gross, so gross, so gross—”
“Feeding time?”
I yank my arm out and wheel around at the unfamiliar voice. Or try to, anyway. The ladder I forgot I was standing on sways, and I lose my balance just enough that I fumble the container trying to steady myself. An unholy scream leaves my mouth as half the roaches go flying and land on the scuffed wooden floor.
“Oh no!” The words feel like they come out in slow motion as I clomp down the two steps. Meanwhile, the bugs scatter across the cedar floor. I flail around looking for the lid to the Rubbermaid to prevent another spill but swiftly remember I need this container open to put them all back. I drop to my hands and knees and grab the nearest bug.
“Shit,” the deep voice says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— Let me help.” The stranger moves to circle the counter but stops just shy of going behind it. “Wait, am I allowed behind the counter?”
My pulse thunders in my ears.“Please, yes, help me get these hell beasts off the floor! Do they lay eggs? Wait, don’t answer that! I’ll have nightmares.”
He kneels with a piece of paper in his hand.
“What’s that for?”I ask his shins.
“I grabbed it off the counter to scoop! Should I not scoop?”
“Yes, try it!”
He sets to work, but the hell beasts do not wish to be scooped and either scurry away every time he tries or fall right off before he can pour them into the container.
“Here, try this.” I pull off a glove and toss it at him. It hits his Mets cap and bounces off. “Put it on and use your hand as a broom and the paper as a dustpan.”
The daisy pattern stretches and morphs as he jams his big hand into the fabric. Once it’s in place, he rids the floor of bugs with sweeping motions of his hand, gathering them onto his paper and pouring them into the container.
Crisis contained.
