I can’t believe I let Charlie talk me into this.

Blind dates are like mystery grab bags—you think you might get something nice, but odds are, it’s just a bunch of disappointment wrapped in false hope. And yet, here I am, sitting in the back of a taxi, trying not to sweat through my blazer.

“She’s perfect for you, buddy,” Charlie had said, slapping me on the back like I’d just won the lottery. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Yeah, because that’s worked out well for me before.

I check my watch. Seven minutes early. Is that too eager? Should I wait outside the restaurant for a bit? Maybe walk around the block so I don’t look like I’ve been rehearsing what to say for the last three hours? Because I have been rehearsing, and no matter how many times I go over it, I know I’m going to say something weird.

I adjust my tie in the taxi’s side mirror. Then I immediately loosen it. Too tight. Too formal. I don’t want to look like I’m heading to a job interview—unless I’m applying for the position of “mildly acceptable boyfriend,” in which case, I’m probably underqualified.

The taxi pulls up in front of the restaurant, and my stomach lurches. I reach into my pocket for a tip, but my hands are clammy, and I drop the bill between the seats. Great, fantastic. Just a preview of tonight’s disaster.

I shove another bill into the driver’s hand and step out onto the sidewalk, trying to look like a man who totally has his life together.

I don’t.

Taking a deep breath, I straighten my blazer, wipe my palms on my pants, and stare at the glowing sign above the restaurant door. My feet feel like they’re glued to the pavement.

“Okay, Ipkiss. This is it. No awkward rambling, no nervous laughing, and for the love of all things good, do NOT spill anything on yourself.”

I step forward, heart pounding, praying to whatever cosmic force is listening that, just this once, I don’t make a complete fool of myself.