The Date Swap

By Lydia Westing

Vivacious and forthright, Lyla Taylor is honest, except when it comes to her family. It’s self-preservation, really; she doesn't want to give her judgmental mother any more ammunition than she already has. But there’s no lie that will cover up the fact that Lyla is attending her cousin’s Hawaiian destination wedding alone. Until she meets the recently single, straitlaced, and handsome stranger Daniel Dugray in the airport.

Since they both need a date to their Hawaiian wedding weekend, Lyla convinces Daniel they can be each other’s dates. Among all the secrets she keeps from her family, what’s one more? Tripping through bad weather, ex-lovers, and convincing their families they’ve known each other more than a few hours, Lyla and Daniel struggle to keep up the ruse. As their families pry into their fake love-life, Lyla and Daniel work to last out the weekend until they can part ways forever. At least that was the original plan. Of all the lies Lyla is keeping up, denying her growing feelings for Daniel is the one she needs to last.

Charming characters in a tropical getaway makes Lydia Westing’s The Date Swap a cozy read you can’t put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781094415581

Lydia Westing

Lydia Westing is usually a comedy and pop-culture writer for websites like Reductress, Bunny Ears, Cracked, and The Modern Rogue. She has a small dog and a large husband, and they all live together in Nashville, Tennessee. She played roller derby for several different teams on and off for over five years. She’s much better at writing than she ever was at roller derby.

Book preview

The Date Swap

I’m not usually a brunch person, but there’s some magical alchemy that turns vodka into a socially acceptable beverage at ten in the morning if you add tomato juice to it, and I needed vodka. I also needed champagne, Jack Daniel’s, gin, and anything else I could get my hands on at the Houston airport at ten in the morning on a Wednesday, which is why I was so ticked off when I saw that the gate was still down on the bistro that the internet was very clearly telling me was supposed to be open.

I’d been telling myself all morning, Just get dressed, and soon, there will be booze. Just get in the cab; it will take you to booze. Just let this stern-looking TSA lady feel you up, and then booze! (The TSA always thinks I’m hiding a bomb in my tits, but it just takes a lot of hardware to keep these girls where I want them.)

Now, here I was, ready to claim my intoxicating prize, and nothing! The indignity was too much. I slumped so much, my duffle bag slid from my shoulder to the ground and uttered a low, "Noooooo, whhhhy," like I’d just been kneecapped at the U.S. Figure Skating Championships.

Is everything okay? a hesitant voice asked from behind me.

I turned to see a cute guy. Tall, with floppy black hair and light brown eyes. I might have felt like flirting with him if I weren’t in my full basic bitch flying regalia: capri sweatpants; Ugg boots I’d owned since 2004; oversize, ultra-soft black T-shirt. I wasn’t in the attire or the mood to see a cute boy.

I need brunch, or I’ll die, I replied as I gathered my lost duffle back onto my shoulder.

You know, there’s another brunch place, like, 500 feet that way, the guy said, pointing down the terminal where a bright yellow sign for Patti’s Cafe sat at the end of a moving walkway.

Oh, wow. I guess the thought of another brunch place hadn’t occurred to me. I hooked my duffle onto the back of my rolling suitcase, pushed the whole contraption over to the moving sidewalk, and sat on it, letting the magic of technology transport me to brunch.

As I moved along, I propped my elbows onto the railing, rolling serenely to my destination. The terminal was pretty empty, so it was easy to notice that the guy who had ended my brunch fit was now walking beside me next to the moving sidewalk, just a few steps behind.

Hey, thanks for the info, I called.

I come here a lot. I know the layout, he replied. You should be glad the bistro is closed, by the way. It was one big health code violation. I’m pretty sure the owner kept a pet ferret in the kitchen. At least, I hope that was a ferret I saw.

I nodded politely and shifted positions, leaning my elbows onto the back railing and propping my feet onto the front one. So what brings you to the airport so much? I asked politely.

I travel a lot for work.

Ah. What do you do?

He shrugged. This and that.

That’s what hitmen say, I replied.

He snorted a little. I’m not a hitman. I’m allergic to peanut butter.

What does that have to do with being a hitman?

Well, I don’t think you qualify to be a hitman if a Reese’s Cup can kill you, he said with a shrug.

I don’t imagine there’s a very extensive interview process. You could probably hide that if you really wanted the job.

Finally, he relented. I’m a senior field systems administration supervisor.

Hmm. Interesting, I said, even though it probably wasn’t.

Not really. That’s why I usually don’t get into detail when people ask.

Have you ever noticed that the more words there are in someone’s job title, the less work they do? Like, if you’re a garbage man, you pick up the garbage, but if you’re a senior garbage man, you supervise other people picking up the garbage. More job title, less work.

I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Sometimes, having someone supervise is the most important thing.

Like when?

Like when you need someone to tell you the walkway is about to end and you’re going to get dumped on the floor if you don’t move.

I sputtered and rolled off of my suitcase, gathering myself just as I was deposited onto non-automated land. "Thanks. That was helpful."

We were almost right outside of the café. It was a quaint little place with cheery yellow paint and flowered vinyl flooring, meant to emulate a mom-and-pop shop while probably being owned by McDonald’s.

I paused and studied him for the first time. He really was handsome: full lips, great hair, and a face that was just a little round, which I like. I hate when guys have Fabio face. Those cheekbones that can cut glass and that Bruce Campbell chin, I always find it a bit much. His luggage looked expensive, but his clothes were cheap. I got the impression he could afford to dress better but didn’t care to because he didn’t think much about what other people thought of him.

Something in his eyes told me he was just a little bit sad, which was also something I kind of liked. Maybe because I was also a little sad. I was probably the saddest person on Earth who was on their way to Hawaii. I guess that’s why I decided he might be good company.

You’ve been helpful to me all over the place. Can I buy you a drink? Maybe you can distract me from my trouble, I said.

He pulled out his phone and checked the time, looking skeptical. I was on my way to grab something to eat anyway, so sure, why not?

Table for two? the hostess asked hopefully. The restaurant was empty, and I could tell she was bored, but taking a table with a stranger seemed too intimate, so I told her we’d just sit at the bar. That better reflected our actual relationship as two people who happened to be headed in the same direction at the same time.

We sat next to each other on a plushy pair of navy blue stools, and the bartender handed us both menus. Can I have a Bloody Mary with a double shot of vodka, please? And whatever he’s having, on me.

I’ll take a glass of whatever stout you have on draft, thanks, the man said with a nod.

Beer at ten a.m., very bold, I said.

He shrugged. There are no rules in an airport. No one knows where I’m going or what time zone I’m coming from. Maybe I just got in from England. It’s four o’clock there.

Are you getting in from England? I asked, a little impressed.

No. I live in Houston. I’m heading to… he sighed deeply. A destination wedding.

No way, I replied, Me, too! Mine’s in Hawaii. How about yours?

The same, actually. The Plumerian Breeze Resort. We’re not, like, cousins or something, are we?

No, mine’s at the Kauai Deluxe Villas. I’ve seen the Plumerian Breeze, though! It looks really cute. I wish I was going there. It’s right next door to where I’m staying.

Huh. What are the odds? he wondered aloud.

I’m Lyla, by the way. Lyla Taylor.

Daniel Dugray, he replied and extended his hand to shake, which I did, awkwardly.

The bartender slid him his beer and began to mix my drink, adding the healthy portion of vodka I’d ordered under my careful supervision. Would you like anything to eat? he asked as he poured the mixture into a tall glass.

Yes, please. I’ll have the lemon ricotta pancakes with a side of bacon, side of sausage, side of ham, two poached eggs, aaand some toast. You know what? Why don’t you go ahead and French that toast up for me. I handed my menu back to him, having ordered easily half of it.

I’ll take the Greek salad, Daniel said.

When the bartender left, I could feel Daniel staring at me in something like shock.

This is the last real meal I’m going to have for a while, I explained.

Are you going to one of those famous food-free weddings? he asked.

My family’s from LA, so yeah, pretty much. They’ll probably have a smoothie fountain instead of a chocolate fountain.

Well, my family is Southern, so this is my last chance to eat something that isn’t fried, he replied with a soft smile.

God, I’m jealous. Knowing I’m not going to smell an onion ring for four days is killing me. I took a long drink of my Bloody Mary as visions of the pain I was about to endure danced behind my eyes: My mother taking in every inch of my appearance, asking all kinds of prying questions about my job and my personal life, subtly hinting that I should have a boyfriend, outright saying that she can’t believe I don’t have a boyfriend after a few martinis.

My stomach will be begging me to visit a smoothie fountain after two days on my family’s diet. I don’t know how they do it. I think maybe it’s some kind of Southern gene that skipped me that allows my father to eat nothing but red meat and hush puppies and still be perfectly healthy at sixty-two, when I need to lie down for forty-five minutes after every meal I have with him.

So is your date meeting you there, or are you flying solo like me? I asked. He blinked and got a far-off look in his eyes. There was the source of that sadness I’d seen. I added, Sensitive topic? I’m sorry.

No, it’s fine. It’s just, no one wants to go to a wedding in Hawaii alone, you know?

Um, yeah. I know, I replied. There’s, unfortunately, no tall, blond gentleman who bears a striking resemblance to a lost Hemsworth brother waiting just out of sight to sweep me off my feet. My mother sent me two tickets. I’m sure she’s expecting me to walk in with someone, but….

My mother is expecting to meet my girlfriend for the first time. Boy, is she going to be…. He finished the sentence by taking a long drink.

Your girlfriend didn’t want to go to Hawaii?

Not with me. She dumped me three days ago.

Aw, that sucks. I’m sorry. How long were you together?

He took another long drink. Two years.

"Oh, my God, how are you up and out of bed, moving around? When my last boyfriend dumped me, I couldn’t do anything but bake and watch Gilmore Girls for, like, three weeks, and we only dated for six months."

Daniel shrugged, but I could see the concentration it took to be so nonchalant. He was obviously in pain. If it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be, he said.

Is that what she said to you?

No. She said there wasn’t a spark, whatever that means.

I knew what that meant, but I didn’t want to tell him that. He didn’t seem like a sparky guy. If his ex was the kind of girl who was into grand romantic gestures, I didn’t think she’d be prying many out of this dude.

The bartender returned and started sliding a series of small plates in front of me. I lined them up conveyor belt style and started by tucking into the eggs before they got cold. Poking them with my fork, I let a little of the gold and white mix together with a little bit of sausage before I shoveled the whole thing into my mouth.

We ate and drank heavily in silence for a while. When the bartender returned with his salad, Daniel ordered a second beer. The ensuing silence made it clear that small talk was necessary, so he cleared his throat and asked, So what do you do?

For a living? I’m an art teacher. For fun, I’m an artist.

Ah. You look like an artist, he said.

I took this to mean that he thought all artists were a mess. I knew I was a sloppy-airport-pajama person today, but I

Reviews for The Date Swap

[Kadir Wahab · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Fast paced, heartful characters that molds into each other's life. Perfect for a quick and light hearted read

[Sheena Gurbakhash · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very often novella feel rushed- or just lacking in character development. This is not one of those. Both Daniel and Lyla are delightful- and the development of their relationship and the changes they made to adapt to each other came across as really natural. This book makes me want to go to Hawaii.

[Marie Chavez · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It was a cute story but it was a little foreseeable.

[Jemina Linnama · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A fun, but kind of rushed story. There were so many opportunities to create conflict and chaos, but the couple never gets caught by anyone or anything. Revealing their scheme to their families was done in a sentence or two and nothing changed because of it.

[Dee cryer · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Hysterically funny not erotic just very good funny storyline excellent