Forty-five minutes past when her date is supposed to have picked her up, Bobbi starts to wonder if the whole thing is a fluke. Maybe there was a miscommunication and Jemma gave one of them the wrong information, or she wrote down the wrong time- the date was for Friday night, right? Or maybe the mystery man was simply a no-show. She'd been warned that being late to everything was his M.O., but she's starting to feel a little silly waiting around for him. It's really not her style.

She's on edge; it's been a long time since she's been the girl on a first date with a stranger. Fresh out of a years-long relationship gone sour, Bobbi isn't quite sure what count as acceptable etiquite, but she's pretty sure this isn't it. He's closer to fifty minutes late than forty-five when she glances at the clock again. Leave it to Jemma The Matchmaker Simmons to be responsible for this.

Bobbi checks her makeup one last time and reaches for her phone. Jemma set her up with this aggressively late bum, maybe she could call him to see if he was hit by a bus or joined an Amish camp without clocks or suffered an early onset heart attack on his way over.

Before she can scroll to find the number in her contacts though, there's a knock on her apartment door. Her heartbeat picks up just that little bit because maybe she isn't ready to date again after all. She adjusts her dress for the umpteenth time- the little red number with the scooping neckline that had been collecting dust in the back of her closet for ages- and tries to mask her nervousness when she opens the door.

She's underwhelmed by what she finds, to put it lightly.

Her gentleman caller looks more like the delivery boy from the pizza place down the street than a grown man on a date. His shirt is wrinkled, offset only by a tattered brown leather jacket and he's sporting that scruffy look that Bobbi assumes works for other women, but it isn't doing anything for her.

"I'm late," He mutters, giving her a sheepish look and okay, maybe he does have pretty eyes. But that's beside the point.

Bobbi waves it off, hiding a wave of irritation underneath a practiced smile. "Jemma warned me that you like to make a habit of it."

He looks vaguely offended for about half a second, shooting her a puzzled look, but Bobbi doesn't miss a beat and holds her hand out to him.

"Bobbi Morse," she says as he reaches to shake her hand, bowing his head in a mock display of formality.

"Lance Hunter, but everyone calls me Hunter." Bobbi blinks, not expecting to hear a British accent. It's not like foreign accents are uncommon in Atlanta, but this is the first British one she's heard. For a few seconds she wonders if it's an act, his entire demeanor seems tailored to pick up women, but he doesn't seem to expect it to earn any reaction. She lets him lead her out to the parking lot anyways, and mentally notes that he's shorter than her. Maybe she should feel bad about wearing heels that only make the height difference even more substantial, but then Hunter has to look up at her when she speaks and Bobbi tries so hard to fight back a smirk that she forgets any pretense of remorse about it.

"So how do you know Fitz?" she asks to fill the air. She's a little rusty at this whole dating thing, sure, but she remembers how to small talk.

"Friends since high school," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging a little.

"Oh, Jemma and I were roommates in college," Bobbi lets her voice trail off as she scans the parking lot. "Where's your car?"

Hunter steps to the side, over to a motorcycle parked crookedly, and Bobbi holds back a cringe. He pats the seat either out of fondness or invitation and smirks at her. "Hold on tight, I promise I won't read into it."

Bobbi doesn't refrain from rolling her eyes. She makes a half hearted effort to cover it up with a smile, albeit an uncomfortable one, steps back and tugs on the skirt of her dress. It's not a loose skirt- it would probably rip if she even tried to get on that deathtrap. "How about we take my car?"

He gets that halfway offended look about him again, his eyebrows shoot up and he's gaping a little. "It's perfectly safe-"

"No, really. We can take my car. It rides a lot better than it looks like it does." She's already inched her way over to the pitiful looking vehicle and doesn't miss Hunter's wary expression. The car doesn't look like much- the paint is scratched in several places and there's a dent in the passenger side door- but it's not like it's falling apart in front of him.

He gives in after a few seconds and crosses the short distance between them, throwing an almost forlorn look over his shoulder at the bike. Bobbi opens her mouth and steels herself, already dreading the answer but asking him anyways where their reservations are.

"What reservations?" Hunter flusters, and she's about this close to giving up on the whole night when his phone rings- some obnoxiously noisy rap song that's amplified even further in her small car. He looks embarrassed for a moment, but quickling recovers and brushes it off to ask where she'd like to eat, rambling on awkwardly about a restaurant his old friend owns and how they can maybe get in if he pulls a few strings. She can barely hear him over the ringtone, and the accent is really getting old.

Bobbi holds up her hand to silence him, "Just answer your damn phone, it's clearly important." It comes out snappier than she intended, but she's too exasperated to correct it and he's more interested in the call anyways. He's leaned back in the seat with a dumb grin on his face when she looks at him again, lounging he's right at home in her old Hyundai.

"How about tonight? Make it 11:00," he says into the phone, then hangs up and turns back to her. She can feel the irritation flare up again and oh, is she going to kill Jemma. Hunter looks at her cluelessly and it only feeds the fire.

"Really? You're going to take a booty call right in front of me?" She doesn't hold back, wearing her annoyance plainly for him to see. The last time she was this worked up, she kicked out her roommate.

"You told me to answer it!" Is his excuse, and the worst part is that he genuinely seems to think that justifies it. Jemma is going to pay.

Yeah, this whole thing was definitely a bad, bad idea. Bobbi definitely wishes she'd opted to forgo the whole thing and hole up with a pint of ice cream like she had originally intended. Sue her, but overdressed and pissed off isn't exactly the ideal Friday night.

"You know, maybe we should just call this quits from here," Bobbi snaps, reaching for her door handle. It takes all her self control to keep an even tone. Something about this man just makes her want to yell until her throat is raw.

"Bloody hell, Fitz should've warned me-"

"He should've warned you not to make plans to hook up with someone later tonight while your date is two feet away."

"It wasn't like you and I were going to be doing anything later!" Hunter shouts with conviction, like that really makes it okay, and Bobbi has had just about enough.

"Get out of my car." She says through gritted teeth, staring at the dashboard and gripping the steering wheel for fear that she'd actually shove him out the door if she didn't hold onto something. This entire thing is a disaster.

"Bu-"

"Get out of my car."

Hunter huffs in a petulant way that somehow only infuriates her even more, but his hand hits the door handle loudly and Bobbi lets herself breathe. Suddenly the space is too small and she's reaching to open her door, too. It's brisk out and the air feels nice on her overheated skin.

They step out of the car in unison- both doors slamming at the same time, and stalk off in opposite directions. Bobbi throws an angry "have fun with your friend!" over her shoulder when she hears his bike start. A brief glance back and she's pretty sure he's flipping her off.

Her phone is out and Jemma's number dialed before she's even halfway to her doorstep.

"What in the hell were you thinking?!"