The Good Girls Guide to Bad Intentions

The restaurant hums with that perfect Friday night energy—not too loud, not too quiet, just expensive enough to make everyone speak in their indoor voices. I smooth my hands over my black dress for the third time since sitting down, watching Jules study the wine list like it's a particularly fascinating academic paper. His reading glasses catch the candlelight, and I have to admit, the professor look works for him.

"The Sancerre is excellent here," he says, glancing up at me with those warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "Unless you prefer red wine?"

"White's perfect." I tuck a curl behind my ear, the one that never stays put. "You come here often then?"

"Occupational hazard of being a foodie." He closes the menu with decisive satisfaction. "Plus, my sister insists I need to get out more. Stop living on Deliveroo delivery and grading biology papers."

"Biology papers, right?" I lean forward, letting my interest show. "That must be fascinating."

"Molecular biology, specifically. Though I promise not to bore you with the details of protein synthesis over dinner." His laugh is self-deprecating, genuine. "Your profile said you're in marketing?"

"Digital marketing." I pause while the sommelier pours our wine, using the moment to gather my thoughts. "Mostly for tech startups. Very glamorous—lots of spreadsheets and arguing about color psychology."

"Colour psychology?" He leans in, actually interested. "Like how fast-food chains use red and yellow?"

"Exactly! Red triggers appetite and urgency, yellow grabs attention—"

"And together they scream, 'eat here now and leave quickly.'" He grins. "See? Science and marketing aren't so different. We're both manipulating variables to get results."

The word 'manipulating' sits between us for a moment, and I take a sip of wine to wash down the irony.

"So," Jules continues, "third date. This is when we're supposed to stop pretending we don't Google each other, right?"

I nearly choke on my Sancerre. "You Googled me?"

"Come on, Iona. You're telling me you didn't look me up? Not even a little LinkedIn stalking?"

"Well..." I bite my lip, going sheepish. "Maybe I noticed you published quite a few papers. And that you won some teaching award."

"The teaching award was mostly because I bring therapy consultants to exam week." He waves it off, but there's pride there. "What about you? Should I be intimidated by your marketing prowess?"

"Hardly. Unless you're scared of someone who spent forty minutes this morning deciding between this dress and a jumpsuit."

"The dress was the right choice." His eyes sweep over me appreciatively, but respectfully, pausing to admire my C-cup bust. "Black suits you."

"Smooth talker." I raise my glass to him. "Your sister trained you well?"

"Three sisters, actually. I'm the baby." He clinks his glass against mine. "They've been trying to set me up for years. Thank God for dating apps—at least now I can make my own terrible decisions."

"Am I a terrible decision?" The question slips out, more honest than I intended.

"Jury's still out." But he's smiling, that slow, warm smile that made me swipe right in the first place. "Though you did laugh at my RNA jokes on our first date, so points for that."

"Or points off, depending on how you look at it."

The waiter arrives with our starters—burrata caprese for me and carpaccio for him. We fall into easy conversation about food, travel, and the usual third-date topics. He's been to conferences in Copenhagen and Tokyo. I lie about a yoga retreat in Bali that I've only seen on Instagram.

"You know what I keep wondering?" Jules says, twirling his fork thoughtfully. "Why someone like you is single."

"Someone like me?"

"Smart, funny, gorgeous, seems to have her life together..." He trails off. "There's got to be a catch, right? Are you a bone collector? Do you run an elaborate pyramid scheme?"

"Wow, straight to bone collector? That escalated quickly."

"I'm a scientist. We hypothesis-test everything." He's joking, but there's a real question underneath.

I should tell him about David. About the three-year relationship that ended eight months ago when I found out about his wife. About how I spent months feeling stupid and used and promised myself I'd never be that vulnerable again. About how I decided I'd be the one in control from now on.

Instead, I say, "Bad breakup. You know how it is."

"I do, actually." He sets down his fork. "Got engaged two years ago. Three months before the wedding, she decided she wasn't ready for 'forever.'"

"Ouch."

"Yeah. Though honestly? She did us both a favour. We wanted different things. I wanted Sunday mornings, farmer's markets, and kids eventually. She wanted..." He shrugs. "Not exactly what I wanted."

"And now you're looking for someone who wants Sunday mornings?"

"Something like that." He meets my eyes. "Is that terribly boring?"

"No," I say, and mean it. "It sounds nice."

It does sound nice. It sounds like everything I thought I wanted before David blew up my life. The thing is, nice doesn't protect you. Nice doesn't keep you safe. Nice doesn't stop someone from having a whole other family in Surrey while they're telling you they love you.

"What about you?" Jules asks. "What are you looking for?"

The correct answer is: someone genuine, someone ready for commitment, someone who wants to build something real. That's what I put on my profile, and that's what I've been selling for three dates now.

"I want..." I pause, the truth and the performance tangling in my throat. "I want to not get hurt again."

"That's honest." He reaches across the table, not quite touching my hand but close. "For what it's worth, hurting you is literally the last thing on my mind."

I look at his hand, almost touching mine. His fingers are long, elegant for someone who probably spends half his time with test tubes. There's no wedding ring, no tan line, no indication he's hiding anything. I've checked. Thoroughly.

"Tell me about your worst date," I say, deflecting. "Can't all be winners with three sisters coaching you."

He groans. "Promise you won't judge?"

"Absolutely judging. But quietly."

"Showed up forty minutes late because I got distracted by a journal article about gene expression in fruit flies."

"Jules!" I laugh despite myself. "That's terrible!"

"I know! I apologised profusely, bought her dinner and drinks, thought maybe I'd salvaged it—"

"But?"

"But I spent half the date talking about the bloody fruit flies." He covers his face with his hands. "She poured her drink on me. Honestly? I deserved it."

"Completely deserved it." I'm properly laughing now. "Though in your defense, gene expression does sound fascinating."

"See, this is why I like you." He drops his hands, grinning. "You're either genuinely interested or an excellent faker."

The words hit me like cold water. An excellent faker. That's exactly what I am, isn't it? I've fabricated his version of myself specifically for him—the interested, available, undamaged version. The one who wants Sunday mornings and farmer's markets, not the one who's been practicing emotional detachment like it's a martial art.

"Iona? You okay?"

I realize I've gone quiet. "Sorry, just thinking."

"Dangerous habit." He tops up my wine glass. "Want to share?"

"Just... do you ever feel like you're performing for someone? Like you're playing the role of who you're supposed to be?"

He considers this. "Sometimes. Especially after Rachel left. I kept trying to be the person who was fine, you know? Who could joke about it and move on. But I wasn't fine for a long time."

"How did you get through it?"

"Therapy. Boxing. An embarrassing amount of reality TV." He grins. "And eventually, I stopped trying to be fine and just... was what I was. Hurt and angry and then, eventually, everything was ok."

"That simple?"

"God, no. That complicated. But worth it." He pauses. "Is that what you're doing? Performing? Pretending to be ok?"

The question hangs between us as our main courses arrive. I've lost track of my plan, the carefully constructed narrative I'd built. Was I supposed to be vulnerable here? Was this where I let him comfort me, draw him in deeper?

"Maybe," I admit. "I'm not sure I know how to stop the performance."

"Well," he says, cutting into his salmon, "for what it's worth, I like the performance. But I'd probably like what's underneath too."

"You don't know that."

"No," he agrees. "But I'd like to find out."

This is the moment. This is where I should lean in, let my eyes go soft, and tell him I'd like that too. Build the connection, establish the trust, make him fall for me the way David made me fall for him. Make him vulnerable. Make him mine. Make him hurt the way I hurt. Except looking at him—this sweet, nerdy man who brings therapy consultants to stressed students and gets distracted by fruit flies and admits to watching reality TV—I feel something crack in my chest.

"I'm not who you think I am," I say quietly.

"Okay." He doesn't look alarmed. "Who are you then?"

"I'm someone who's been planning this. Who picked you specifically because you seemed nice and stable and like someone who could fall in love easily." The words tumble out. "I wanted to make someone feel what I felt. Wanted to be the one with the power this time."

Jules sets down his fork. Studies me. "And now?"

"Now I'm realizing that makes me a fairly terrible person."

"Or a hurt person." His voice is gentle. "There's a difference."

"Is there? Because I've been sitting here calculating how to make you fall for me. That's not hurt, that's—"

"Human?" He suggests. "Look, Iona. We all have our damage. You think I didn't overthink every message I sent you? Calculate the right balance of funny and serious? We're all performing, calculating our moves at least at first."

"This is different—"

"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're someone who got hurt and built armor. And now you're sitting here, telling me the truth when you could have kept playing the game." He takes a sip of wine. "That's not terrible. That's brave."

"Or stupid."

"That too." He smiles. "But in my experience, brave and stupid often look the same."

"You should run," I tell him. "Far and fast."

"Probably." He doesn't move. "But here's the thing—I like you. Not the performance, though she's lovely. I like the person who just told me she was planning to hurt me. Because that person stopped. That person chose honesty instead."

"That person is a mess."

"Welcome to the club. We meet on Thursdays. There's biscuits."

Despite everything, I laugh. "This is not how this was supposed to go."

"No? How was it supposed to go?"

"I was supposed to stay in control. Make you fall for me. Then... I don't know. I hadn't figured out the endgame."

"Maybe that's because you didn't really want one." He finally reaches over, covers my hand with his. "Maybe you just wanted to feel powerful again."

The tears come then, sudden and embarrassing. "Shit. Sorry. I'm ruining dinner."

"Nah. I've seen worse. Remember? Drink in the face?" He squeezes my hand. "Want to get out of here? We could walk. Or I could just put you in an Uber and we can pretend this never happened."

"What's the third option?"

"We get dessert, you tell me about the bastard who hurt you, and we figure out if there's something real under all this plotting and armor."

I look at him through watery eyes. "Why would you want that?"

"Because I've been the walking wounded, too. And someone gave me a chance to be more than that." He shrugs. "Plus, you did laugh at my RNA jokes. That's rare."

"They weren't that funny."

"They were terrible." He grins. "But you laughed anyway. That's either kindness or excellent faking, and either way, I'm intrigued."

I wipe my eyes with my napkin. "This is the weirdest third date ever."

“Look on the bright side. If we don’t get through dessert, then we'll have a great story about the worst third date ever."

I look at our joined hands. His thumb is rubbing the back of my wrist, and I realize this is the first genuine, unplanned moment I've had in months.

"Okay," I say. "Dessert. But I'm warning you—it's a long, ugly story."

"Good thing I like long stories." He signals the waiter. "And for what it's worth? I don't think you're terrible. I think you're just trying to figure out how to be human after someone broke you. We've all been there."

"Even you?"

"Especially me. Why do you think I spent six months after Rachel talking exclusively to fruit flies?"

The laugh that escapes me is real, unexpected. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"Right? Tragic. But I'm so happy to be here with you, Iona. So… Chocolate lava cake? And you can tell me how wrong I am about everything?"

I squeeze his hand. "Make it tiramisù and you've got a deal."