Page 248 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“Yeah…fish…lobster…pretty much anything that swims in bodies of water… I’m not a fan.”

“C’mon,” he continued, and I had the urge to smack the fork away from my face. “No one can resist Daniel’s lobster.”

“Actually, I can.”

He stared at me and I stared at him; Mortal Kombat’s theme song played in my head.

For the love of God, move your fork away from my face.

Eventually, after what felt like an hour, he took the bite of lobster himself, moaning his delight out loud. “God, it’s good.”

If dinner was a preview for later, it was safe to assume I should just get the fuck out of here before the bill came. Fake some kind of emergency. Text one of my friends to save me from the inevitable disaster that would most likely occur before the evening was through.

Good plan, Harlow! Text Amanda.

Amanda was one of my oldest and closest friends from college, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d helped me get out of a similar situation.

While Barron stayed mesmerized by his wine and lobster, I discreetly slid my cell phone out of my purse and texted my best friend with the hopes that she’d have the perfect fake emergency. And then, I’d beg her to help me execute it.

Me: Help. Me. I need an emergency.

Amanda: Nope. Not this time, Frances.

Me: What??? I’m dying here! (And stop calling me Frances. You know I hate that.)

Frances Harlow Paige. My full name—almost as bad as Barron Alexander Conrad III—that I didn’t go by anymore and no one ever called me. Trust me, Harlow, as unconventional as it was, suited me much better.

But occasionally, my best friend liked to be a bit of a bitch and taunt me with the fact that I’d been named after my grandmother.

Fucking Frances. God, that name was the complete opposite of me.

Amanda: Considering it’s your actual first name *and* I think it’s adorable, I’m ignoring your request. And maybe you should give this one a shot, Harlow. He could be an amazing guy. He could be THE guy.

Me: Now is not the time to begin a career in motivational speaking! This guy keeps talking about his wine’s legs and shoving lobster in my face. I need help in the form of a fake emergency. Anything will do. Come pull the fire alarm. Call in an anonymous bomb threat.

I hit send and then thought better of it. Bomb threats and fake fire alarms sounded a little too dicey. I just wanted Amanda to help me out of the situation, not get arrested and questioned by the FBI. Though, maybe I should do it myself. It’d probably end in a cavity search…

No. NO. Thinking like that was a new all-time low for me.

Me: Wait…don’t do those! They could end badly… Oh! Call me and tell me someone has three hours to live, and I need to get there as soon as possible to say my last goodbyes. PLEASE. I’M BEGGING YOU.

Amanda: Nope. You start your dates, you finish them, missy.

Fucking hell.

Unless I could execute a fake emergency on my own, and obviously, with no thanks to Amanda, I was stuck. Which explained why I ended up staying through dinner. And the boring conversation. And the mundane cab ride to Barron’s place…

Fingers and toes crossed the sex is actually worth this hassle…

Barron’s bedroom was exactly what I’d expected. Everything had its place, perfectly angled to showcase its worth and opulence, and all of his paintings, sculptures, and furniture made it obvious he wasn’t shopping at Target. It was a lux, sophisticated apartment with a view of Central Park to boot. Too bad it felt completely devoid of personality.

Further surveying the surroundings, I spotted two armoires that I absolutely adored. Hmmm… I wonder if there’s any fucking chance he got those from IKEA?

I started to ask him, but when I glanced down at his face—which was currently between my thighs—I decided that now probably wasn’t the time to talk about his furniture.

Okay, yeah. I admit it.

I am currently in Barron’s bedroom, and he is, in fact, giving me oral right this very second.