“For the love!” I threw up my hands. “What is it with you and roses? Is that all your father taught you?”

“Hey!” Reid pointed an accusing finger in my direction. “I’ll have you know my parents have been married for over thirty years!”

“Then I’m guessing roses are your mother’s favorite?”

He frowned. “Yeah, but—”

“Reid.” I checked my phone and turned the screen to him. “You have exactly sixteen hours to find your inner Romeo.”

He nodded, then crooked his finger. I leaned in. “So I can’t use the roses thing? Like at all?”

Did I really have to do everything? “Roses are dead to you,” I hissed. “Shit would be better than roses. You are above roses, and I swear if you say roses one more time I’m going to run you over with a golf cart.”

“You have a golf cart?”

“I was being sarcastic.” I folded my hands on the table to regain control of the situation. “Just Google your ass off, and you’ll be fine. But you have to be convincing—we need this to go viral. You giving normal guys advice on how to pick up a girl and . . . put your hand down, Reid, I’m not finished.” He put his hand down. “Proper advice does not include bringing roses, nor does it include flashing them with their eyes, because let’s be honest, that only works with you. If some dude with a lazy eye stares too hard at his crush, she’s going to call the cops and he’s going to end up in prison and you may be sued.” I took another deep breath. “Now . . . tell me one morsel of wisdom you can give to the average Joe. Make me believe it.”

Our dessert arrived at that moment.

The wine was poured.

And if Reid squinted any harder he was going to give himself an aneurysm.

“One thing, Reid. I’m not asking you to perform brain surgery on Fred or anything.”

I attacked the chocolate soufflé with my spoon while Reid thought.

“Okay.” He licked his lips. “To the average Joe, I’d say . . .” He folded his hands. “Bring a gift.”

“Bringing a gift means you’ve already solidified the date.” I shook my head. “Next.”

“Say she’s pretty.”

I rolled my eyes. “This tablecloth is pretty. You gonna date the tablecloth, Reid?”

“No?”

“Is that a question?” I snapped.

“Okay, fine.” He smacked my spoon with his, then dug into the chocolate. I tried not to appear as angry as I felt that he had freaking pushed my spoon away from sugar. My death grip on the spoon tightened. “Just be straight up. Will you go out with me?”

I dropped the spoon.

“That good?” He grinned.

“The last time I heard that line I was in eighth grade. Mind you, it wasn’t directed at me, but it still counts. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . you either need to Google or go talk to Max.”

“The hell I will!”

“He was a bachelor on Love Island. If anyone knows how to hit on a girl without getting castrated, it’s him.”

“I won’t do it.”

“You will.”

“I won’t!” He jerked the dessert away from the table just as I reached for it, causing my spoon to fly back at my face and chocolate to land on my dress and my cheek.

I glared.

“See . . .” He smiled and reached across the table, dipping his finger in the soufflé. “Getting stuff on your clothes is totally your thing.”

Just as he was bringing his finger back, I latched on to it and then sucked the chocolate off, twirling my tongue around it, sucking in and out. Reid let out a hoarse moan and gripped the table with his free hand. “You’ll talk to Max.”

I licked again. Just to be sure the chocolate was gone.

“I’ll talk to Max,” he said, breathless. “Well played.”

I dabbed the corners of my mouth. “Why, thank you.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

REID

If Jason and Milo’s grandma taught me anything—you know, besides the fact that you can’t always outrun the elderly—it was that panicking did nothing to help the situation. So when Jordan told me I needed to hash out some romance advice, yeah, sure, I got a little nervous, but I didn’t think it would be that hard.

By the time I went to bed that night, I decided that I’d think back on all my past relationships and figure out how they started.

The problem arose almost immediately when I realized: I’d never legitimately asked a woman out.

Ever.

Not even in first grade, when Sara Murf offered to share her carrot sticks and pronounced us married once I jammed one in my mouth.

It took me six months of bringing the woman ranch dip for her carrot sticks to get back into her good graces after I told her I didn’t want to be her boyfriend because girls had germs.

There was also that time in high school when the vice principal trapped me in a janitor’s closet and said, “Nobody has to know.”

I thought she meant that nobody had to know she showed me the janitor’s closet. That thought was extremely short-lived when she grabbed my hand and placed it on her ass. To be fair, she was just out of college, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded.

And I was eighteen.

But still.

I shivered at the memory.

At least she didn’t have a mustache, like Grandma. I shivered in bed and pounded my pillow with my fist.