Page 75 of Experiments in Offline Dating

It wasn’t that I was embarrassed of what had happened, sex was sex, and that sex . . . well, that sex was incredible. It wasn’t even that I minded talking about sex, as I tended to be blunt in a way that Simone called “uncanny and unsettling.” No, none of that was a problem for me. The problem, the thing that nearly had me sprawled out across the café floor, was that Tadhg had mentioned it. And so casually. This man wasn’t flirty. He wasn’t playful. No, this comment was inescapable confirmation that the sex had thrown us off course into uncharted territory—a liminal postcoital land where nothing was certain and there was infinite potential for disaster lurking around every corner.

I hazarded a quick glance at Tadhg, but he looked perfectly normal. As if he hadn’t just thrown a grenade into our fragile peace.

Tadhg bought two cruffins and handed me one as we walked back out. I rushed to open the door for myself before he could open it for me in some sexy way that would mean I had to slide past the solid bulk of his body. I remembered it far too well without any need for reminders, thank you very much!

We both unwrapped our flaky hybrid cruffin things and took a bite. It was, of course, croissant dough that had been sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and stuffed into a muffin pan. Crispy, perfect flakes drifted to the sidewalk like snow. It was the butteriest thing I’d ever put into my mouth. My eyes fluttered closed and I had to stop walking. As I chewed slowly, I was transported to a higher plane of existence.

“So, are you ready for your dates today?”

I snapped back into my body and almost choked on my transcendental cruffin. I’d been so preoccupied with the Tadhg situation that I had forgotten today was a workday. And I didn’t have one date—I had an interminable stream of them.

Why is he asking that? What the hell am I supposed to say? What is a date with a stranger going to feel like only hours after this glorious sex god has been inside of me? I started walking, mostly so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Is he teasing me? Is he flirting? What if I’m misinterpreting? Should I test it? Should I flirt back? Should I ask him to stop? Do I want him to stop? Where do all of these multiverse choices lead? Is this what an existential crisis feels like? Uggggh.

I did not have an experiment for this. My observations were inconclusive! I had zero protocol. I’m going to throw up cruffin!

Chapter 18 A Brief Experiment in Celibacy

The first stop of the day was a short drive away to Muckross Abbey, where I met Donal the Devout.

The fifteenth-century abbey was in a picturesque state of crumble, with pointed Gothic arches, a square medieval tower, and a magnificent, twisted yew tree growing right in the very center of a cloistered courtyard.

“Wow. There’s a witch trapped in that tree, no doubt about it.” I had momentarily forgotten that I was on a date and had been myself for a fleeting moment. Big mistake.

Devout Donal looked at me, assessing, and I did a little squirm. “This is a place of God, Maya.”

I felt like I was being chastised. Because I was. “Yeah, whoops. Sorry.” Not sorry.

“Would you call yourself a God-fearing woman?”

I laughed. I fear plenty of other things: closed-door smut scenes, running out of queso when there are still chips in the basket, suddenly getting my period when I’m wearing my favorite unicorn undies, the question you just asked . . .

“Well, I’d call myself a lot of things, Donal . . .” I started to joke, but when his face pinched, I coughed and covered it up before I said the words “smut slut.” “But no. ‘God-fearing’ is not one of them. No.”

“Are you not? Jackie told me you were basically a nun.”

A bark startled out of me. “Me? A nun?” I laughed and then I laughed some more. Then I saw the look on his face. Oops! Be nice, Maya. “I’m really sorry. Jackie has a tendency to stretch the truth or, in this case, fabricate it entirely. My parents are Jewish, and I’m . . . I dunno, a . . . scientist? I tend to only believe things when there is irrefutable proof.” Which is exactly why, after three hundred and twenty-six unsuccessful first dates, I don’t believe this date will magically buck the trend.

He actually pouted but seemed to think about it for an awkward moment or two while we walked. “Well, I suppose I might consider being flexible on this, if you were willing to convert—”

“Wait, now . . . I don’t think—”

“And if you’ve saved yourself for marriage, of course.”

I choked on nothing more than my own spit. “I . . . I’m almost forty.”

He attempted to shrivel me with a censuring look, but unfortunately, it just made me giggle.

“Donal, I’m sorry. I’m going to pull this off like a Band-Aid. I have been doing a fairly thorough job of not ‘saving myself’ for marriage. I mean . . . when a girl reads as much smut as I do, it just sort of happens.”

And thus endeth date three hundred and twenty-seven.

Conclusion: date unsuccessful.

Uncontrollable variable: the causal link between reading spicy scenes and feeling sexually inspired.

The next date involved a horse-and-buggy ride to a waterfall, and I was excited! Even if the date went terribly, no one could dislike a horse-and-buggy ride and a waterfall, right?

Wrong.