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Forrest’s eyes widen. “Oh, yes. Of course, sir. No. I’m not. That isn’t…”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I touch his hand. “It’s okay.” I motion toward the nearest guest room on the main floor. “Three minutes. We’ll be done as quickly as ramen.”

His smile returns. “Exactly.” With an exaggerated bow, he says, “After you.”

◼

I’m not sure what I expected three minutes three feet apart to look like, but squished on the complete opposite side of the guest room, huddled in conspiracy wasn’t it.

Forrest, filled with urgency, wastes no time offering me his hand across the space between us.

Confused, I take it.

He shakes once—a brief greeting, I think.

Then he lets me go and says, “You’re lovely, but I’m, like, completely in love with someone else.”

Huh?

Is this what happens when a super rich guy decides he doesn’t actually like the girl he’s agreed to meet now that he’s seen her outside her profile picture? I won’t complain if that’s the case. Crisis averted, if you ask me.

So I say, “Me, too.”

His mouth falls open. “What, really?”

I nod. “He’s incredible, but he’s…not what my parents want for me.”

Forrest winces. “That sucks. I’m sorry. Your parents seem pretty great.”

Baffled, I let my lashes flutter. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. I mean. Clearly, I am what they want for you, but they didn’t say go in the closet with him upon his request, Devina, which seems. You know. Nice.”

“Seems like a low bar to me.”

“Well.” He clears his throat.

I deadpan. “Minutes before you got here, my mother told me to be careful about how much I ate tonight in case you didn’t like women who eat well.”

Disgust riots in his face. “You’re joking.”

I shake my head.

“Ew. But.” He glances at my body. “Pictures are mandatory on Eligible. It’s clear you eat well in them. What is she on about?”

I blurt a laugh, then clap my hand to my mouth. “Forrest, did you just call me fat?”

He cusses, and his attention snaps to my eyes. “Did I? Aren’t you? Wait. No. I’m not saying anything right. Do you have a gun? For protection or something? And—follow up question—can you shoot me with it?” He plants a finger gun to his temple and offers me an awkward smile. “This is going so poorly. I don’t actually know how to talk to people, which is why I usually try not to.”

Holding back laughter, I say, “This is going perfectly fine. I was about to throw up before you came. Now, I’m feeling much better.”

“Odd. Normally I am not the cure for queasiness.”

“Are we off topic?” I ask.

He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Yes. Yes, we are. Marvelously off topic. I do that. A lot.”

“Are you supposed to be on meds?”