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know. I just told you I remembered.”
    I sucked in a deep breath and tried to think of my happy place. Unfortunately, we were already standing in my happy place and it was less than joyful.
    “How are the photo shoots going? Any proofs?”
    Mr. Self-Satisfied snickered. “Don’t you worry about the photo shoots. Your job is clear—we just need you to stand around and look pretty for a while.”
    I was about to berate him when he stopped me.
    “Or at least fair-looking, if you think you can manage it.”
    It hurt. I knew he was only being mean because I was poking him about having to take beefcake photos—well, that and the fact that he was evil. But it still hurt.
    I stormed out, riding the waves of my righteous anger for the rest of the day.
     
    * * *

     
    Arriving at the Paint Pot ten minutes early still didn’t get me there before my date. I peered in the window and saw a very big linebacker sitting at a table already. I wonder if Foster didn’t tell the guys to be there at a different time than me just so I wouldn’t have a chance to get comfortable with my surroundings first.
    My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone but didn’t recognize the number.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey. It’s Micah.”
    My heart skipped a beat. “How did you get my number?”
    “I can’t give you my sources, Ms. Reporter. I heard you had another date tonight and just didn’t want you to forget about me.”
    Like that was going to happen. “You are breaking the rules,” I said sternly through a smile.
    “Maybe we should meet in person so you can chastise me properly.”
    “I’m on a date with another boy. That would be the ultimate etiquette breach.”
    Micah sighed. “I’m in Toronto anyway. Wish me luck?”
    “Oh.” Heart, meet pit of stomach. So far away? “Yeah, of course. Good luck shredding the pipe or whatever I’m supposed to say.”
    Somehow, I felt his smile through the phone. “Have a nice date, Layney.”
    Huh. Boys were more complicated than I thought.
    I turned my phone off, just in case, and pulled open the door to meet bachelor number three.
    BN3 actually stood up when I got to his table. All three hundred pounds of him. He was close to a foot taller and had about two hundred pounds on me—but he was the opposite of scary. Don’t laugh, but he had Santa Claus eyes. They twinkled.
    “Hi Layney. I’m Tyler.”
    I couldn’t stop smiling, and I had no idea why. Tyler put me at ease immediately. He was like…a cup of cocoa and a book on a snowy day.
    “Thanks for agreeing to the interview—I mean date.” We sat down and I inspected the plain mug in front of me. “Head’s up. I’m not going to impress you with my artistic ability tonight. I’m better with written words than pictures.”
    He laughed. From his belly—again, like Santa, if Santa were a Polynesian high school student. “It’ll be fun.”
    An employee came to our table and explained the process to us, and then left us to our own devices. While she talked, I took the room in, trying to come up with the words that could describe it. Kitschy? Perky? There was an abundance of blue and yellow gingham, and the employee sported some serious apron flair.
    “Do you play football, Tyler?” Because, duh.
    “I play church league, but they chose me for the calendar because I’m in the high school choir.”
    “The choir?”
    He nodded. “I know most people think I’d be better at football or sumo wrestling—but I really enjoy singing and playing the piano.”
    “I don’t sing.”
    “Ever?”
    “Not in front of anyone.” I shivered, pretending I was cold—but really, that was how much I hated singing in front of people. “What do you like to sing?”
    “I like the old stuff—Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin…”
    The image of Tyler singing songs my great-grandmother listened too struck me as odd, yet in a really refreshing way. And I doubt he had to put up with too much teasing. He may have a smooth voice, but he was still built