Awkward. Read online

  Awkward

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  AWKWARD.

  First edition. January 30, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Lily Kate.

  Written by Lily Kate.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

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  Further Reading: Hangry

  To my husband. Who is immune to my awkward. :)

  Synopsis

  LADIES,

  I know how things look from the outside. I’m rich. I’m a successful surgeon. I’m handsome. I should have women lining up from here to New Jersey clawing for space in my bed, but there’s one huge catch.

  I’m f*cking awkward.

  Every time I get a date, I spoil it. Asked if she’s pregnant? Check. Forgot her name? Check. Bought a meat lover’s pizza for my vegan girlfriend? Check, check, check.

  This is why my best friend, romance fanatic Allie Jenkins, has declared that she’s swooping in to save the day. She’s prepared a list of required reading straight from The Ripped Bodice, and I’m supposed to take notes, learn from the best, and put that shit into action. After all, practice makes perfect, right?

  Wrong.

  Chapter 1

  JACK DARCY

  “Relax, Jack. It could’ve gone worse.”

  “How could things possibly have gone worse?” I glance down at my shirt before gathering my napkin and half-heartedly dabbing at it. My button-down had once upon a time been white, but now it’s a shade of red alarmingly similar to the glass of wine I ordered with dinner. “Another shirt bites the dust.”

  The woman at the table behind me, Allie Jenkins, lets out a laugh that has a smile curving my lips upward at the first sound of it. Standing, she grabs her own napkin and reaches over to help me dab at the spill.

  “Hey, look at it this way—at least she missed your pants.” Allie cackles another laugh as she straightens, then slides around the table and sits in the seat recently evacuated by my date. “I’m so glad you asked me to swing by tonight. You put on quite a show, Jack Darcy.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Allie gestures for the waitress, which draws the attention of several patrons around us. The restaurant is Michelin starred, and probably one where wine-throwing is discouraged. Several women frown in my direction while more than one man watches with curiosity at the musical chairs game happening at my table.

  Less than two minutes ago, Allie’s seat had been occupied by a woman in her twenties. At least, that’s what she’d claimed online. She’d also claimed that she had long blonde hair, legs for days, and a PhD in fashion.

  When she showed up tonight, she had been middle-aged (if I’m feeling generous), short, and wearing a cat sweater. Not the cute kind, either. It’d been that fuzzy, pom-pom style that said my-grandma-knitted-this-for-Christmas. We hadn’t chatted long enough to find out if the degree in fashion had also been a lie, but I have my thoughts on the matter.

  All I know for a fact is that she made a sucker out of me.

  The waitress approaches, her eyebrow raising into a confused tilt as she scans my shirt, then glances with surprise at the new woman seated across from me. A look of reproach quickly pushes away the confusion.

  “Shall I grab a new glass of wine for this one?” she asks me, nodding toward Allie. “Or are you waiting for more?”

  “Nah,” Allie says with a wink. “I’m all he’s got for tonight. Why don’t you bring us the bottle? We’ll be here awhile.”

  “Forget it, Allie.” I wring out my shirt, as if that’ll help. A droplet of red pools onto my napkin. “I appreciate your attempt to help, but it’s probably best if we just call it a day.”

  “Hold your shorts on, Jack. You asked me here to critique your performance, and I haven’t even started.”

  “I’m unteachable.” I point to my clothes. “This is the third shirt I’ve ruined this year.”

  “Lucky for you, I make my living teaching kindergarten,” Allie says with a grin. “You’re a surgeon, Mr. Darcy. I promise my lesson plans will be idiot-proof for a man of your IQ.”

  “Idiot proof?”

  “Hush up, amigo. Just put this on.”

  Allie throws her purse open. The thing is bright blue and the size of a suitcase. I’ve warned her a million times that if she doesn’t downsize, she’ll have spinal problems by the time she’s forty. Then she’ll land on her back...on my operating table.

  “Here.” Allie thrusts a shirt in my direction. My shirt. “Go put this on in the bathroom. Then sit back down. Our first lesson starts tonight.”

  “Why do you have my spare clothes in your purse?”

  “I told you.” She leans forward with a giddy whisper that signals she’s a glass of wine in already. “I teach five-year-olds. I come prepared.”

  “I love the enthusiasm, but I’d hate for you to get your hopes up.” I frown, thinking about tonight’s mishap. I’d talked to Miranda-the-Cat-Woman for three months. Three months I’d been talking to a fifty-four-year-old woman claiming she was a twenty-year-old fashion model. My face warms with embarrassment, probably flushing red. “I thought she could be the one.”

  “Well, you didn’t talk long enough to get to know her tonight,” she points out. “What offended you about her? The sweatshirt or her age?”

  “Neither! I don’t mind dating an older woman. I don’t mind if she’s not a model. What I can’t stand is her lying about both.”

  Allie pauses on the verge of a lecture, then sits back in her seat and frowns. “Fine. I can’t argue with that. Did she really say she’d walked in New York Fashion Week?”

  I nod solemnly.

  “She’s not even five feet tall,” Allie says, mystified. “If she were going to pick a fake career, she could’ve gotten away with anything else. Astrophysics. Hair stylist. But a model?”

  I shake my head. “Three months. I wasted a quarter of a year talking to a woman who lied about everything she thinks, everything she does, everything she is.”

  To my surprise, Allie gives a light laugh. “Jack, relax. This isn’t the first time someone has stretched the truth about their online dating profile. Think of it as practice.”

  “I’ve had plenty of damn practice,” I growl. “I’m sick of practicing.”

  Another sympathetic laugh bubbles from Allie, and I’m surprised to find myself smiling at the sound. I’m a surgeon at one of the top hospitals in the country, and the job requires a lot from me: long hours, stressful days, life and death decisions. The only constant in my life, the only person who can make me smile no matter the day I’ve had, is Allie.

  Fortunately, she’s my best friend.

  Unfortunately, she sees me as her brother,
and nothing more. She’s been very clear on this, which is why I’ve shoved any feelings I might have for her into a closet marked with the words The Friend Zone in big fat permanent marker.

  Or at least, they had been behind lock and key until tonight when I’d laid eyes on her, and things had shifted into place. Dressed to kill and smiling in the way only Allie Jenkins can smile, I realized I wanted more than friendship with her. Her personality makes everyone else’s seem pale in comparison, and frankly, that sucks. Because she doesn’t want me in that way.

  “Earth to Romeo.” Allie startles me by flashing the spare shirt in my face again. “Go put this on, or I’m worried they won’t serve us the bottle of wine. I’m in need of wine, and you’re definitely in need of my wisdom.”

  “Allie, you don’t have to do this.” I lean over the table, the familiar scent of her perfume—like roses and sugar—wafting across in a comforting breeze. “Every time a woman sits across the table from me, it ends in a disaster. I’d hate for that to happen to us.”

  “Let’s be clear. Every woman you attempt to date turns into a disaster.” She waves a hand at herself. “Which means I’m safe.”

  I don’t have a response for this, since it’s the nine hundred and fifty seventh time she’s said something to this effect over the years.

  “You’re silent.” She raises an eyebrow as she sips her wine. “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? I just meant that we’ve known each other for so long I’m immune to your awkward.”

  She sits back, looking quite pretty in a white summery dress, the straps, no bigger than the width of a pencil, showing a tantalizing swatch of summer-tanned skin. I look away before a pile of drool forms on my bottom lip. I’m in desperate need of a girlfriend, let’s put it that way.

  “Jack, your last name is Darcy for crying out loud,” Allie says, oblivious to my ogling. “You’re required to have one romantic bone in your body. And no, I’m not talking about that bone.”

  I grip the spare button-down shirt tighter in my fist, sitting back in my chair so the scent of her doesn’t overwhelm me. “You severely overestimate me, Miss Jenkins.”

  “Argue all you want. You know it’s no use. I always get my way in this relationship.”

  The waitress appears holding a bottle of wine, and that’s my cue to retreat. I stand, mutter an apology to the waitress and busboy as the pair mop up the table.

  I think I mention something about leaving a nice tip, but I’m distracted by Allie’s hand snaking out and landing around my wrist. A chill runs through me at her touch, and I yank my hand away before it sets the rest of me on fire.

  “Bring a notepad to our first lesson,” Allie says, releasing her grip on my hand, frowning at my flinch. “Class is in session.”

  “I don’t need a notepad. I have a photographic memory.”

  Allie clears her throat. “Rule Number One. Don’t comment on your date’s age before she tells you her name.”

  “But—”

  “Write it down.” Allie pulls a pen from her magical purse and slides it across the table. “Romance Academy has begun. If you want to experience a date that doesn’t end in a shirt at the dry cleaner, you’ll listen to me.”

  “Allie—”

  “Change your shirt, drink a glass of wine, and use that pen.” Allie raps her knuckles against the table. “We are going to find you love, Mr. Darcy.”

  Chapter 2

  ALLIE

  “I’m telling you,” Aimee says. “Just give him a chance.”

  “I haven’t even seen him yet, let alone talked to him!” I argue, leaning against the bulletin board in my classroom. “I don’t even know his first name.”

  “Ugh! Just trust me on this.” Aimee, better known as Miss Miller at Kentwood Prep, perches on the edge of my desk and stares out the window. “Here he comes. Here he is. Just look at that body. Please, just do it for me. Or should I say do him for me?”

  “Stop, Aimee. We’re going to be co-workers!” I nudge her leg to the side as I make room to open my drawer. I ease a stack of papers inside just as Aimee spies an extra Tootsie Pop there. She swipes it, drops the wrapper in the trash, and pops it into her mouth while I retrieve a stack of colorful shapes.

  “Come on, just look at that swagger,” Aimee says, slurping around her sucker. “He defines swagger.”

  I make my way over toward the bulletin board and resume my stapling. “Not interested. Especially not interested in swagger. With swagger comes trouble.”

  “How long has it been? Has it been so long you’ve become immune to good-looking men?”

  “I don’t need to answer that.” I smash the stapler extra hard as I stick a balloon to the board. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  “When did Ben break up with you? I’ll bet he was the last time you had an orgasm without batteries. Am I right?”

  “I don’t remember.” Smash, smash, smash goes the stapler. “I forgot all about him.”

  “Right. But your arm muscles haven’t. It looks like you’re harboring some anger, judging by the strength you’re using to staple those poor construction paper shapes to the board.” Aimee slides off the desk and comes over, resting a hand on my arm. “Lay off the bulletin board for now. You’re going to behead this balloon.”

  Smash, smash, smash. “I am not.”

  “Come over here and look.” Aimee tries unsuccessfully to drag me toward the window. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about the new teacher on the block? You know it’s all everyone’s going to be talking about.”

  “Nope, not interested. I’m off men, and I’m definitely not going there with a co-worker.”

  Aimee gives up trying to hold me back. Releasing my arm, she leaves me to pound my stapler as she strolls to the window and pretends to casually peer outside. “You might change your mind when you see this guy. He’s smoking hot and smart.”

  “How do you know he’s smart? You’ve never talked to him.”

  “He teaches math. To the eighth graders. Of course he’s got a brain.”

  I sigh. “Aimee, please. Let it go.”

  “What if he’s too smart? I didn’t think of that. You know the type—the one who can’t carry on a regular conversation?” She mulls on this for a moment, then wrinkles her nose. “Meh, I wouldn’t even care. With those lips, I wouldn’t need him to talk—much.”

  I smash some cake-shaped cutouts decorated with my students’ names onto the board. The smashing is a little less violent this time around. “What’s his name again?”

  “Cooper.”

  “Mr. Cooper?”

  “Sure, whatever. You’ll be on a first name basis with him in no time.”

  “If you’re so into him, why don’t you date him?”

  “Look at me, and look at you.”

  I look between us. I’m extraordinarily average, while Aimee is tall and slender, dark-haired, green-eyed, and stunning. She’s funny and nice and smart to boot. Basically, she’s an amazing catch, and I’m...average.

  “I’m confused,” I tell her. “What’s there not to like about you?”

  “You’re all cute and cuddly, and I’m like...” She gestures wildly. “I’m all dark and dangerous and shit.”

  “Mmmm...okay, then.”

  I study my friend a second longer. She’s the music teacher at Kentwood Prep and plays in a band once a month at the local brewery. She thinks she’s tough. She’s also the only real friend I have besides Jack.

  It’s wonderful to have Aimee as my friend, mostly because she’s female. That’s helpful, especially when talking about things like sex. I tell Jack just about everything, but I draw the line when it comes to certain topics.

  See, sex and Jack Darcy are two topics that should go together without thinking, sort of like mustard and ketchup. If a woman’s looking for a smoking hot man who’s also got brains, well, Jack corners the market on both. Theoretically.

  We’re too close for me to think of him that way. To me, the idea of sex and Jack Darcy toget
her is more like... bratwurst and chocolate cake. Two equally delicious things that don’t quite go together. No matter how much I enjoy them both—separately.

  “You have got to stop doing this!” Aimee’s lips pull together into a pout. “No, not the stapler pounding, but yes, that’s also giving me a headache,” she says, rubbing her forehead as I pull my arm back. “I’m talking about men.”

  “I’m not talking about men.”

  “If you’re not interested in Mr. Cooper, what about Jack?”

  I shake my head. “We’re friends.”

  “He’s all you talk about. Plus, he’s gorgeous.”

  “I asked him out on a date, and he turned me down flat. I’m not begging him. Plus, whatever feelings I might’ve had for him faded a long time ago. We make better friends than we would anything else.”

  “That was years ago, and it was the day after your wisdom teeth were pulled out. You were doped up on pain meds and looked like a chipmunk. He probably thinks you don’t remember that. Plus, you probably drooled all over him.”

  “We are better as friends. He knows when I’m on my period. That’s not something you talk about with a potential love interest.”

  “Fine, then what’s wrong with Mr. Cooper?” Aimee leans closer to the window, sighing as she rests her fingertips against the glass. “If he were into my type, I’d be all over that. It’s too bad I’m such a badass; I’d probably scare him away. That poor, sweet, innocent math teacher.”

  “Aimee. You drive a pink VW beetle and eat sushi for lunch. I think he can handle that.”

  Finally, I’m done attaching every loose article of paper onto the bulletin board, so I set the stapler down and sidle over to the window. Leaning next to Aimee, I follow her line of sight until I land on the target of her gaze.

  Mr. Cooper. Math teacher. New guy on the block. Likely to be the object of every female teacher, student, and single parent.

  “He’s not really my type,” I say. “He’s more Paul Walker than I like.”

  “Paul Walker is everyone’s type.”