“Focus!” I snapped my fingers to regain his attention. “I have to be back on set and you need to get back to work.” Right, let’s call it work, so everyone feels better that he earns millions a year by staring out a damn window.

Sure helps me sleep at night.

“Fine.” Max cleared his throat. “Once you’ve secured said laughter or the date by using your crazy eyes . . .”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.” He examined a french fry, his eyebrows narrowing as if he was counting the salt crystals. “You need to actually secure that date, which is harder than you think. I mean, have you seen the type of crays that walk the streets out there?” Why, yes, I have. I’m looking at one and for some reason taking his advice. But I digress. “How can this feminine creature trust you if she doesn’t know you? I’ve always learned it helps to call home.”

“Call . . . home?”

“I call Mom.”

“What?” I yelled, startling the pigeons as they swarmed away from our table. “You call our mother?”

Max grinned shamelessly. “She vouches for my awesomeness.”

“Is she drunk every time you call?”

Frowning, Max checked his phone, then answered. “I may send Dad a text just to make sure she’s had her nightly wine. I find she’s much more agreeable when she’s liquored up.”

I chose to ignore the fact that he used my alcohol-induced mother to get girls. “Fine, so you call Mom and she says what?”

“Well, sometimes she goes off script—”

“There’s a freaking script?”

“Dude, let me finish.”

I held up my hands in defense.

“‘My Max is the sweetest gentleman.’” Max spoke in a high-pitched, feminine voice that had pigeons sweeping in and landing near our table. “‘Why, he saved four little ducklings when they were just hatched! He’s a beautiful soul. Did you know he’s wanted to be president since he was four?’”

I rolled my eyes.

“And usually this gets the girl to engage more . . .” His voice returned to normal.

“Really? Why?”

“‘Well.’” Oh, good, the voice was back. Pigeons continued gathering, and I kicked them away. “‘I’ll never forget the moment he watched the news and said, “Mom, I want to change the world someday. Who makes those changes?” I said the president, and the very next day he wrote “President Max” on his door.’”

“You weren’t even potty trained until five!” I yelled.

“Details.” Max waved me off. “At any rate, the advice I’m giving is this: third-party references seal the deal at least ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s marketing genius. Think of dating as a lesson in business marketing. Don’t take my word for it, but this guy over here? The one with the kind smile and ‘I Love Kitties’ T-shirt? He just LOVES me—you should too! Oh, what? What was that? You need someone trustworthy? Shucks, I just helped him save an old lady from a tree! And that police officer over there accepting an award? My cousin. I shit you not!”

Mouth open, I simply nodded. “So, they trust you by association.”

Max rolled his eyes. “It’s all on my website. Have you seriously never read my book?”

“I thought you were joking.”

“It was a New York Times bestseller.”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

“Publishers Weekly called me a literary genius.”

“Were they high?”

“Please, like I’d drug my own reviewers.” His lips curled into a smile that I chose to ignore, for obvious reasons. “Okay, so once you have the date, it’s important to spend more time listening than talking.”

“Right.”

“You’re not listening!” Max slammed his fist against the picnic table, tears filling his eyes. “Are all men this dense?”

“Uh.” What the hell? Why was I panicking? It was Max! Not some crazy girl!

“Boo.” Two giant thumbs pointed downward. “Wrong. The first date is crucial, you are never right on the first date, you are never smarter than her, better looking, or funnier. You are simply honored to be sitting at the same table as her. When you pick her up, you get down on one knee and bow your head in humble adoration. Whatever the hell it takes to get her to get in the car without having to hit her over the head and drag her, caveman style.”

“Because if that doesn’t land you in prison . . .”

“Look!” Max stood. “I’m just trying to help our friend Jason. On second thought, I’ll just call him. It’s so hard explaining romance to simpleminded fellas.”

I think I was the fella to which he was referring. “Jason changed his number.”

“Did he?” Max’s eyes narrowed. “Without telling his best friend?”

“Colt’s his best friend.”

Max pulled out his cell.

“Wait!” I grabbed Max. “It wasn’t for Jason, it was for me.”

“And now you’re covering for him!” Max shouted.

“No.” Oh, shit, Jason was going to kill me. “You know what? I should go, and remember, you have that desk delivery don’t want to miss, right?”

Max’s eyes clouded. “It’s made of steel. Do you even know what I can do to that desk?”