Dedication
To my amazing husband. You are my partner, my other half, the wind beneath my wings and all that cheesy crap. Thanks for being you. And thanks for loving me.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
AMD: Advanced Micro Devices, Inc.
Apple: Apple, Inc.
Barbie: Mattel, Inc.
Casablanca: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
Cruella de Vil: Dodie Smith
Disney: The Walt Disney Company
Facebook: Facebook, Inc.
Fatal Attraction: Paramount Pictures Corporation
Forrest Gump: Winston Groom
Google: Google, Inc
GQ: Condé Nast Inc.
Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me: Harry Nobel
Instagram: Facebook, Inc.
James Bond: Ian Fleming
Jason Bourne: Robert Ludlum
Lord of the Rings: J. R. R. Tolkien
Maxim: Biglari Holdings Inc.
Michelin: Compagnie Générale des Établissements Michelin SCA
Nvidia: Nvidia Corporation
Perrier: Nestlé S.A.
Photoshop: Adobe Inc.
Pop-Tarts: The Kellogg Company
Post-it: 3M Company
Pretty Woman: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Scarface: Universal Pictures
Sharpie: Newell Brands Inc.
Solo Cup: Dart Container Corporation
SportsCenter: ESPN Inc., The Walt Disney Company, Hearst Communications
Stand By Me: Ben E. King, Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller
Star Wars: The Walt Disney Company
The Exorcist: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
The Hobbit: J. R. R. Tolkien
The Silence of the Lambs:
Top Gun: Orion Releasing LLC
Trojan: Church & Dwight Co., Inc.
Uber: Uber Technologies, Inc.
When Harry Met Sally: Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.
Wired: Condé Nast Inc.
YouTube: YouTube, LLC
Chapter One
Elizabeth
Outside the restaurant after dinner, Jeremy seems as shy as I am, toeing the pavement with his hands in his pockets. Okay, maybe not as shy. He can make eye contact without blushing. He’s the ‘oh, isn’t he sweet’ kind of shy, while I’m more the ‘oh, she has trouble functioning in society’ kind. He seems my speed. Slow. Three-legged turtle on a glacier slow. He’s nice too. Non-threatening. Safe.
Dinner was only mildly awkward, a raging success in the relative terms of my dating life. But it’s the end of the night and this is the part I hate.
What do we do now?
Hug?
Kiss?
Shake hands? No, that’s weird.
“I had a good time tonight,” Jeremy chirps with an innocent smile on his lips. Meanwhile, my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. Calm down, Elizabeth.
He’s far from my dream guy, being barely taller than me at all of five foot nothing. He can only be considered ‘in shape’ if you mean round. He’s never going to grace the cover of GQ, or even Wired. I don’t care. I want him—anyone—to sweep me off my feet. I want to feel something—anything— other than this paralyzing fear.
My palms are sweaty. My heart’s beating faster than if I’d run a marathon. My brain has unfortunately kicked into hyperdrive.
What if I have something stuck in my teeth?
What if my breath smells like onions?
What if my deodorant stopped working?
What if I’m a bad kisser?
What if I think he’s going in for a kiss, but he’s actually just going in for a hug and we do that awkward back-and-forth dance, resulting in knocking our heads together?