Complicated Girl (Baker Street Romance #2)
Author: Mimi Strong

Chapter 1

I’m trying to focus on the menu, but I’m too giddy, which is weird for me. I don’t blush. I don’t get butterflies. Not over some guy.

But here I am, and my stomach feels fluttery. Maybe it’s indigestion, from the barbecue ribs I had for lunch. Sure, we’ll say it’s that, and not that I’ve gone soft and turned into a girlie girl.

The waitress comes by, and we tell her we need more time.

Well, he tells her we need more time. I just stare across the table in wonder. Something’s happening with me and a cute guy, and it’s happening right now. I feel so girlie, I may even bite my lower lip.

After the waitress walks away, the cute guy tilts his head to the side and really looks at me. I tilt my head to mirror him and do the same.

He’s got long hair, for a guy. It’s not long enough for a ponytail, which is good, because no self-respecting guy should wear a ponytail. When you’re wrestling, it’s too easy to grab the ponytail and crush his face into the mat.

This guy’s cute, though. Okay, so he’s a little on the short side, but other than that, he’s perfect.

Perfect… except for the goatee.

But besides the long hair, the shortness, and the goatee, he’s perfect.

My date and I are at Delilah’s Cafe, sharing a meal. I didn’t even know his name an hour ago, and now I’m having dinner with Duncan, the owner of Sweet Caroline Antiques.

Is he picking out my flaws, too? Is he noticing that one of my green eyes is a little higher than the other, and the tip of my nose isn’t quite straight? My mother had difficulty pushing me out, and it deviated my septum at birth. My sister was born by C-section, so her nose is perfect, plus she had a lovely round head that everyone admired—or so I’ve heard. Aunt Jane carries on about my perfect sister a lot.

Duncan’s eyes, which are nearly the same green as mine, make their way to the top of my head, then follow my wavy brown hair down to my shoulders. He stares at my chest just long enough for me to know that he’s noticed I have boobs, but not long enough to mentally undress them.

Now he’s looking at my chin. What’s so interesting about my chin? I wish he’d look at my boobs a little more. What do girlie girls do in a situation like this? Move their arms and squeeze the boobs together? I can’t do that. I’m surprised to even be here.

I sure wasn’t expecting this whole date thing when I stopped into the antiques store right after closing the flower shop for the day. I only went in to welcome them to the street, and see if they had any special vases, because sometimes customers turn their noses up at the inexpensive ones we carry.

Duncan showed me what he had in the way of vases—which wasn’t much—and then he asked me on a date.

Well, technically, he asked me if Delilah’s was any good for dinner, and then technically I asked him on a date, but when I tell my sister about all of this, I’ll leave that part out.

Then again, maybe I won’t tell my sister about this. She’ll give me that look of pity, and I don’t want her pity.

Tina has always been lucky with guys. They take one look at her, and fall deeply in love. It was just a few months ago, in the spring, when Luca Lowell first came to Baker Street with his garage. Little did he know he was going to suffer a love-lobotomy.

Luca took one look at my perfect, gorgeous sister, and then part of his brain just pulled away from the rest and walked right out his ear and down into his pants. Or maybe the missing brains went into his heart. I don’t know what happens to guys when they get that stupid look on their faces, because it never happens to me.

Luca had it bad, though. He even came into the flower shop and personally hand-sold a thousand dollars’ worth of flowers, just so Tina could take the next morning off and have brunch with him.

I have to give him credit: It was a pretty sweet trick. And I like the guy. We’re buds now.

Now I’m in the same restaurant where Tina and Luca had their first date. Is this a sign? A good omen? Is my losing streak over?

I stare across the table at Duncan’s green eyes, and I wonder… is he the one? I sure hope Duncan’s not one of those insecure guys who can’t take a joke. Those guys are the worst. My last sorta-boyfriend said I was always emasculating him. I told him to grow some balls, and then also grow some hair on the balls. He didn’t think that was funny.

After we broke up, I sent him a box of tampons by mail. He didn’t think was funny, either.

No sense of humor.

Most guys do not get me, but I have a feeling Duncan is different. Back in the antiques store, he made a crack about handjobs and stepmothers. His joke made me feel uncomfortable, and I liked it.

I’m all about personal growth, and getting out of my comfort zone. That’s why I’m going to a self-help group, and trying to take more risks in life. That’s why I asked Duncan out on a date, even though he’s short and has a goatee.

I’m looking forward to telling my self-help group about this date. Some of the people there would never be brave enough to ask someone out for dinner. My heart just aches for people who won’t take a risk.

One of the older guys in the group told me last week that my honesty has helped him a lot. He gave me a big hug, and in his wrinkly arms, I felt like maybe I’d found my reason for being on this planet. I felt like maybe all the loneliness and time with my thoughts was actually worth something.

The waitress comes back, and Duncan orders a pizza with onions and roasted garlic. So much for a makeout session later. I smile politely and order a plain cheese pizza.

After the waitress walks away, Duncan says, “All that time with the menu, and you order a plain cheese pizza?”

“You’re on a date with a girl and you order onions and garlic?”

His green eyes crinkle at the corners. “This is a date?”

His words feel like a slap across my face. He’s making fun of me. Suddenly, I feel disgusting and ugly. I never was the pretty girl that guys liked. I’m the late-night booty call. I’m the one they might settle for, just for now.

The butterflies inside me turn into a marching army of little green soldiers, stabbing me in the guts with bayonets.

What was I thinking? I must be wearing a cosmic Kick Me sign that everyone but me can see.

“No, it’s not a date,” I snap back. “It’s an interview to be my new g*y bestie, but I don’t think you’re g*y enough.” I mean to sound sarcastic and witty, like someone on an HBO comedy, but my words come out like they’re drenched in venom. “You own an antiques store, so you must be g*y, right? I thought g*ys had good fashion sense, so what’s up with the goatee?”