When Eric insisted on paying for our first date, I thought I had met a true gentleman. He arrived with a bouquet of roses, a sweet little gift, and charming conversation that seemed to flow effortlessly. Every romantic comedy cliché was unfolding before my eyes. I could already hear my best friend, Mia, smugly telling me, “I told you so.” She had set this up, after all.
Mia was undeterred. “Because I know you better than anyone! And besides, Chris vouches for him too. They’ve been friends for ages.”
That gave me pause. Chris, Mia’s boyfriend, was a great judge of character. He wasn’t the type to hype someone up unless he really meant it. If he thought Eric was decent, then maybe I should give this a chance.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Show me a picture at least.”
Seconds later, my phone pinged. I opened the message, scanning the image with curiosity. Eric was clean-cut, well-dressed, and had a warm smile. Not bad.
“Okay,” I admitted. “He’s cute.”
Mia squealed in triumph. “Text him! Set it up! You won’t regret it.”
So, after a few casual texts, I agreed to meet Eric for dinner at a new Italian restaurant by the river—fancy, but not intimidatingly so. The kind of place where first dates could go either way: romantic success or awkward disaster.
I arrived five minutes early, standing near the entrance while nervously checking my reflection in my phone camera. That’s when I spotted him. My pulse quickened a little. He looked just as he did in his picture—attractive in a polished, business-casual way. But what I hadn’t expected was the bouquet of roses in his hand.
