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early to grab us the best table to watch the action,” Adam insists, pushing his luck. “The game starts at seven. Don’t be late,” he calls over his shoulder as he slips out the door.
Once we’re alone, Sullivan turns to me. “I can’t believe you agreed to this.”
I exhale, wanting to get back to our earlier discussion about cables and costs and haunted clock towers. “Don’t remind me.”
“I won’t have to.” Sullivan glances down at his computer. “If you lose this bet, Adam is never going to let you forget it.”
At seven-fifteen, I park my truck in the Midnight Brew parking lot. Here goes nothing.
The bar is bustling with cheers and groans mingling with the thump of music and the clink of glasses. As I push through the crowd, the scent of hot wings and beer fills the air. Fucking hell. Did everyone in town show up tonight for this goddamn game?
I spot Adam waving from a corner booth where he and Sullivan have already snagged a view of the large screen broadcasting the Knicks game.
"Sterling! Over here!" Adam shouts over the din, his hands cupped around his mouth. As I weave through the tables, I catch snippets of the game commentary amidst the buzz of conversations. The game just started, and the score is tight, neck and neck, and every basket is met with a surge of collective response from the patrons.
I slide into the booth beside Sullivan, who offers a quick nod and a tense smile. "It looks like it isn’t going to be the blowout we expected," he says, nodding toward the screen.
“I hope you know where to buy a pink tutu.” I glance over to smirk at my assistant.
“Who says I don’t already own one?” he lobbies back, and my brother snorts next to me.
“That is TMI,” he tells Adam before turning to me with an evil smile. “TMI stands for too much information. I know old people like you have a hard time grasping stuff like that.”
“I already fucking know what it means.” My little brother needles me every chance he gets. At twenty-eight, he’s ten years younger than me and loves to make sure I feel my age every day.
“Just making sure, old man. I didn’t want to leave you out of the conversation.” Sullivan shrugs innocently, and I rub my middle finger along the side of my head for his eyes only.
A harried waitress comes by and sets a frosty mug of beer in front of me, and I look up at her questionably. “Your friend ordered it earlier.” She nods toward Adam.
“Thank you,” I turn to tell her, but she’s already rushing off to take orders at another table.
The game is a goddamn nail-biter, and the scores are too close for comfort. My stomach drops with every dribble and free throw the Pacers make. The stakes are high tonight, not just for the Knicks but for me as well. If the Pacers win, the Knicks’ season comes to an end and I’ll have to go on the first goddamn date I’ve had since college.
As the final quarter ticks down, the air in the bar thickens with anticipation. We're on the edge of our seats, Sullivan sitting back smirking and Adam bouncing his knee rapidly under the table. I try to muster optimism, but every missed shot knots my stomach tighter.
As the buzzer sounds, the screen flashes the end score with the Knicks down by two. I’d say the bar’s patrons are divided also, based on the evenly split cheers and groans.
Adam lets out a dramatic whoop, throwing his arms up before turning to me with a devilish grin. "Well, Sterling, looks like you're going out on a blind date," he teases, the twinkle in his eye mischievously pleased.
Sullivan chuckles, giving me a consolatory pat on the back. "Better start practicing your charming small talk," he advises with a smirk.
I let out a resigned laugh, my anxiety about the bet mixing with a reluctant curiosity about what Adam has planned. "Alright, Adam, you win. But remember, this better be a good date. No setting me up with a disaster."
"Trust me," Adam replies with a wink. "This was too important to go in blind. I got professional help on this one."
Oh, hell no. What the fuck is he thinking? “I’m not going on a goddamn date with a hooker.”
“Not that kind of professional.” Adam rolls his eyes dramatically before starting to ramble. “I’m not sure if you keep up with the local gossip, but there’s a new matchmaker in Silver Spoon Falls. She’s very exclusive and extremely picky about her clients. In fact, she insists all her clients live in town so it’s a good thing you spend most of the time at your Silver Spoon Falls penthouse. I sent her your information, and voilà, she’s already found your perfect match.”
“You are so fucked,” Sullivan mutters under his breath. “Remind me to never wager with Adam.”
I'm staring down at the glowing cell phone screen, the directions app insisting that I've arrived at my destination.
I look up and scrutinize the quaint building in front of me with a large picture window glowing warmly against the dusk sky. The sign above reads "Palette and Vino," and through the glass, I can see easels and canvases neatly arranged in pairs all around the room with a small table with two glasses and a bottle of wine in between each. This is definitely not a conventional venue for a blind date.
Honestly, I expected something a bit more cliché from my assistant. Like maybe a coffee shop or an expensive restaurant. Adam did say he was setting me up on a blind date, but he left out the part about it being a paint and sip class
Taking a deep breath to quell the mixed flood of nerves and curiosity, I step forward and pull open the door. The warm scent of acrylic paint mixed with the subtle undertone of wine hits me immediately. The cozy interior is a buzz of laughter and conversation, a soothing playlist setting a relaxed vibe. A woman at a small front desk looks up and greets me with a friendly smile.
