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Blind Date

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It’s a blind date. And all Oliver can think is how disappointed his date is going to be when he walks into this restaurant and sees him sitting there.

He’s wearing a suit and a tie. Who the hell goes on a date dressed like they’re ready for work?

He’s the worst at dating. He never should have agreed to this. But Michaela didn’t really ever take no for an answer.

"He’s a real piece of work," she told him. "But he’s hot. And occasionally… not terrible. Dress nice. Don’t take his crap."

A guy walks through the front door. He’s not just hot, he’s smoldering, armed with dark bedroom eyes and a smirk.

Oliver knows right away that’s his date, Connor Walsh. It’s just Oliver’s luck. His night wouldn’t be embarrassing enough unless the guy turning him down is sex on legs. Why couldn’t Michaela’s co-worker be just a normal guy?

Their eyes meet and Oliver glances away. He doesn’t want to watch Connor walk away.

He doesn’t have to.

Connor sits down. “Please tell me you’re my blind date.”

Oliver swallows down his nerves and dares another look up. His breath catches. Connor is even more blindingly attractive up close. That smirk’s so sharp it’s dangerous.

Oliver can’t speak so he nods instead.

"Jackpot," Connor says, and Oliver’s cheeks feel hot. Connor watches him. His smirk levels out into a much softer smile. Oliver likes it  better. Connor’s still hot, but now, at least, he’s almost human.

"I think that’s my line." Oliver bites his lip. He can’t believe he just said that.

Connor rests one elbow on the table and leans forward. “We should get out of here.”

Oliver’s tempted. Very tempted. But he’s here, he’s waited a while, he’s hungry, and he’s wearing a nice suit.

Don’t take his crap.

"How about dinner first?" Oliver says, not a rejection, but not an immediate fold either.

Something sparks in Connor’s eyes, interest maybe. He stares at Oliver, then shrugs. “I like you,” he says and leans back in his chair.

"See if you say that in an hour."

Smiling, eyes bright, Connor says, “Try and stop me.”

An hour later, Connor glances at his watch, holds up a finger to stop Oliver mid-conversation, and says, “I like you.”

A day later, he calls Oliver on the phone. “I like you.”

A month after that, he rolls over on the bed, kisses Oliver’s cheek and says, “I like you a lot.”

A year from then, wearing Oliver’s t-shirt, Connor sips a cup of coffee and casually says, “I love you.”

And two years later, in a tux that matches Oliver’s, Connor holds Oliver’s hand and says, “I do.”