The Blind Date Landish, Lauren (read a book TXT) 📖

her wrong. Hmm, maybe that’s why I’m so worried about that . . . because she hasn’t stood her ground yet. But that’s a thought train for another trip because River’s glaring at me, expecting an answer.

I rub my jaw, nodding. “Understood.”

The incident never came up again, and that was my only visit to the Watsons’ house for a long time. River and I moved past it, our shared experiences with Friendzone and what he knew of my past allowing him to understand. But we stopped discussing our sisters. Or more specifically, other than in passing commentary, River stopped talking about Riley.

My sister also understood where I was coming from, and she forgave me. So most of the news I’ve gotten about Riley has come via Arielle as the two have remained best friends. She told me about Riley’s success, how she proved my predictions of doom wrong.

Truth be told, I’m glad I was wrong.

But I’ve never been able to talk to Riley. I never got a chance to apologize or explain. And now she’s stormed off . . . and I’m going to have to make this right.

I might have another punch to the face coming. From Riley or from River. Or hell, even from Arielle.

But I need to explain what happened back then so I can figure out what happened tonight.

I let that thought flip and flop around in my mind, examining it from every possible angle I can think of and playing out different outcomes. Finally, my run is over, and I step off the treadmill, going for my phone.

M: I’d like to talk. Please?

There’s no reply, and I sigh, setting my phone aside. I sit on the couch, head hanging low, wondering who’s going to call me first? Arielle to chew my head off, or River saying he’s coming over to kick my ass. But as the sun finishes setting and the moon grows in the sky, a worse feeling digs into me.

She’s just . . . ignoring me. I’m not worth the trouble.

Just as I decide to say fuck it and go to bed early, my phone buzzes again, and I see that it’s Rachel . . . or Riley.

R: You don’t seem like the type to say please.

She has no idea how correct she is, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And this is an apology years in the making.

M: What type do I seem like?

R: As Noah or your fake alter-ego?

I can feel the snark biting through the words. It surprises me even though I deserve it.

N: Or maybe they’re both me and you don’t know me well enough to know the difference. Like how Mark’s my middle name . . . Rachel.

R: Is this you apologizing? If so, you really suck at it. And Rachel’s my mother’s name.

Shit, I forgot about that. I always called her Mrs. Watson.

R: Did River put you up to this? I’ll kill him.

I can’t help but smile at her ire. Apparently, Riley and River are like Arielle and me, not always copacetic with each other. Still, I doubt he’d do something like that. Maybe when we were younger, but certainly not now.

M: River had nothing to do with it. He doesn’t know. And the thought of your killing even an ant is funny. You’re too kind.

R: All your own doing, then? You got me good. Bravo, I guess. Congrats on the success of whatever prank you’re pulling.

M: Let me explain. It’s not a prank.

M: Can we talk about this? Face to face.

R: Fine, you can come over, but the entry fee is tacos. We’ll eat and “talk”. But you might learn how unkind I am. I’ll squash you like a bug, Noah Daniels.

The threat is meant to be scary, to make me shake in my boots. Unfortunately, all it does is make me think of her thighs squeezing my head as she comes under my tongue.

Nope. Stop thinking like that. Apologize and move along. And fix the fucking AI because it’s obviously FUBARed.

M: Uhm . . . where do you live? I don’t have your address.

A minute later, an address pops up on screen, and I hurry to shower and change. I pull on some jeans and a casual T-shirt, hoping that I can get to my favorite taco stand before it closes.

Luckily, it doesn’t take me long to get tacos and drive to Riley’s apartment complex. It’s nice, near the downtown area, but not too close, well-lit, and has covered parking.

I park my SUV and grab the bag of tacos. When I get to Riley’s door, I nearly feel sick with the adrenaline in my body. I don’t know if it’s nervousness, fear, or both.

I knock on her door, hoping that clenching my hand will stop the trembling. I hear a frantic yapping sound and the distinctive sound of dog nails clicking on tile. “Raffy! Sit!” Riley calls from the other side of the door, and that foreign smile creeps across my lips again. Even her forceful command is a sweet-sounding request.

Through the fisheye of the peephole, I can see darkness, and I know Riley’s looking at me. “You got the tacos?” her voice calls through the door. “If not, you can turn right around.”

I hold up the bag, showing her the logo on the side, and there’s a click at the door. A hand reaches through, and suddenly, I’m being pulled through a small opening. “Get in here!”

Part of me wants to joke that normally when a woman grabs me by the shirt like that, it’s not for tacos. But I hold my tongue as I take two steps into the tidy apartment.

“Have a seat,” Riley says, pointing toward the sofa on the far side of the attached living room as she takes the bag from me. But I’m not so sure. Her dog, perhaps sensing a rival for her attention, bares his teeth, hunching down as he growls at me, fourteen pounds of furry fury.

“Whoa there, little fella,” I tell him, smiling as I hold my hands up and give him my friendliest look. “I promise, I’m a good guy. Or are