Читать книгу Dater's Handbook - Cara Lockwood - Страница 5

One

Early morning light crept over the snowcapped Rocky Mountains just as I hit mile three on my daily run down my favorite park trail, the crisp fall breeze cool across my face, my breath coming out in small, tiny puffs. Duke trotted beside me, his big pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, tail wagging as fast as his paws moved. He glanced up at me, loving this as much as I did. Duke was—hands down—the best golden retriever to ever live on this planet. Loyal, sweet, and he’d run longer than I did if I let him. I turned up REO Speedwagon on my ancient white iPod, a smile crossing my face as I mouthed the next line to “Can’t Fight This Feeling.”

Dated? Yep. Cheesy? Probably. But also the most amazing band ever? Truth. I challenge anyone to hear REO Speedwagon and not sing along. It’s just not possible. I grew up with REO blaring in my parents’ cars, and every time I heard them, it took me right back to that place, feet dangling in the backseat, the whole family singing as loudly as we could.

Peter—my, uh, boyfriend? He was odd with labels, so let’s just call him the guy I’d been hanging out with for the last two years—always said I needed to get with the times. Ditch my iPod and 80s rock ballads. I liked them, though. They were comfortable, worn-in, familiar. They made me happy, and I knew better than anyone that happiness could disappear in an instant. I read somewhere once that the most fulfilled people were the ones who stopped and smelled the roses, the ones who accepted that sometimes life wasn’t a bunch of breathtaking moments, but a whole bunch of little contented moments. Like running on my favorite trail, listening to my favorite band, with my favorite dog. My fitness watch beeped at me, announcing the fact that I’d hit 5K. I left the trail and climbed up on an outcropping of rocks, grinning. Duke hopped up with me, tongue out, panting. He knew the drill. We did this every time. I plucked the earbuds out of my ears because this show didn’t need a soundtrack. Then, as if on cue, the sun came up from behind the Boulder foothills, breaking free of the highest peak, bathing the snow in warm, pink light.

“Now, look,” I told Duke. “Isn’t that gorgeous? I mean, the mountains are pretty, sure, but even they need good lighting.”

Duke blinked at me, not caring that I’d quoted my dad, something I’d been doing a lot lately. Probably because his birthday would have been this month—except he’d died ten years ago. My father had been one of my favorite people in the world, and then…overnight, he just…disappeared. Gone. No more corny jokes. No more lip-syncing to awesomely bad 80s music. No more big bear hugs.

I shook myself. Sunrise, remember? Gorgeous view, straight ahead. The kind of thing most everybody else just got to see in postcards and Sierra Club calendars. I had a front row view. I took another deep breath, the thin, cold air filling my lungs, already burning from the exercise. Who needed anything more than this? Seriously, though. Just breathe. This was all I needed. Or…maybe…someone to share it with. Someone other than a dog. I could call Peter, but he never got out of bed before ten. Owning a bar and managing it was a night gig. Besides, I knew already he didn’t much care about nature, about this.

Duke whined, snapping me out of my nature-induced revelry. I glanced down at my golden retriever with his sad brown eyes, who sat still, patiently waiting. I knew what he wanted. The sunrise might be my favorite part of our daily ritual, but going off-leash was his. I stooped down and set him loose, letting him run the last twenty yards to the car, stopping to sniff every tree along the way.

As I opened the passenger side door, Duke leapt in, tag wagging. A good life that dog led, no question. I slid into the driver’s seat and took one last look at the mountains ahead of me. The view this morning reminded me of a photograph my sister, Nadia, kept of our parents. It was taken long before they had us, but in it, they were sitting on a ledge, Rocky Mountains in the background, decked out in early ’80s clothes. Mom wore acid-wash pleated jeans, with her hair frosted, and Dad sported a baseball shirt and bright white Nikes. Their faces told the story: so happy then, so in love.

I exhaled and instantly looked for something to do, a distraction from feeling. I didn’t like the feels. Not when it came to sad things like Dad. I focused on fixing my dark ponytail, which was beginning to slide out of its tie. Then I started up the car and backed out of the spot. In a blink, we were at my condo. I pulled into the garage and let Duke lead me up the stairs by his leash to my loft, a recently renovated, completely Pottery Barn-furnished, two-bedroom condo I was insanely proud of. Never mind that I’d been living here four years already; I loved the dazzling white kitchen, the granite countertops, the wrap-around island, the gleaming pine floors, and the wood-burning fireplace. I bought this loft with my own money, money earned from my company, CB Branding. Every time I walked through my front door, I felt a little swell of pride.

I slipped inside, dropped my keys on my foyer table in the gleaming bowl, and let Duke off his leash.

“Go,” I told him. “Go get your bone. Go get it!”

He trotted to his soft blue bed near the fireplace and grabbed an only slightly-chewed bone, wagging his tail.

“Good run today,” I said. “Was that a 5K? Must be 35K in dog.”

I poured myself a glass of water and filled Duke’s bowl. I sipped and opened my laptop to stream the morning news, hoping for a quick check of the weather before I showered. The perky hosts of Wake Up Denver were in full chatty mode this morning, sitting behind their silver half-circle desk, the orange show logo emblazoned on the front and a happy sun peeking over a blue mountaintop. Behind the hosts stretched the beautiful Rocky Mountains, bathed in sunlight.

“Welcome back to Wake Up Denver!” chirped the middle-aged host, Kyle, wearing another one of his basic bland suits that somehow managed to match his perfect salt-and-pepper, pre-Just-For-Men look. “If you’re not quite up yet, this next segment is sure to get your blood pumping.”

I raised an eyebrow at Duke. Kyle always said this or something like it, no matter what the segment. He was either running out of things to say in the morning or easily excitable.

Kyle’s co-host, Cissy Cho, smiled at the camera, her sleek black hair perfectly straight and gleaming. “Stopping by to visit with us today is none other than Dr. Susie,” she said. “The best-selling author of What’s Wrong with Mr. Right and Checklist for Love. Dr. Susie will talk to us about her current release, The Dater’s Handbook—a how-to guide for the modern single gal.”

Ugh. Modern single gal? What was this? 1945? Anytime I heard the word “gal,” I always thought of black-and-white, Humphrey Bogart movies with plucky sidekick heroines who wore pencil skirts with suit jackets and hats, and were always called “spunky.” So, obviously, Cissy had hooked me. Now I had to watch this next segment for entertainment value alone.

Though, technically, I wasn’t a single gal, spunky or no. I had…Peter. He owned his own bar, and worked out nearly every day—he could bench-press me in a pinch. He was all man. Nobody would ever accuse him of being too sensitive or in touch with his feelings. But who wanted that? Not me. Conversations about the L-word gave me the willies. My older sister, Nadia? She’d discuss relationships all day. I’d rather make a joke than get into anything serious.

Peter was perfect for that. He never dissected his emotions, and that meant I never had to delve into mine. It was, in many ways, a perfect relationship, though Peter would be the very first to tell me I shouldn’t call it that. “Relationship” was one of many labels he hated. Just like “girlfriend” and “boyfriend,” other labels he despised. But then he’d always say, “Why put love in box? Why put a label on it?” It was what it was.

During the commercial break, I went about trying to figure out what to have for breakfast. I should drink a healthy, yogurt-blueberry smoothie. But what I really wanted to do was head to the coffee shop a half block away and grab two chocolate croissants and a pumpkin spice scone. I sighed. No. Today, I’d have self-control. Today, I’d not cave in to the cravings and pretty much undo all the good I did running the trail this morning. I had a sweet tooth, courtesy of Mom, that acted more like a sweets monster. It demanded endless icing-crusted, gooey chocolate sacrifices all day long.

No. Blueberries. Yogurt. Blender. Nothing chocolatey or carb heavy. I nodded, determined, as I packed the blender and made a healthy, low-cal, low-carb, no-processed-sugar breakfast. I took a drink, trying hard to tell myself this was just as good as a gooey chocolate croissant right from the convection oven. The show came back as I sipped the smoothie, my inner sweets monster not the least bit satisfied. I tried to ignore its grumblings as I glanced at the screen and saw the camera pan out to Dr. Susie. She was blonde, well put together, mid-forties, not an eyelash out of place. She probably never fought cravings for a chocolate croissant. I bet she was a strict kale-lemon juice smoothie kind of woman. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.

Cissy, the host, held up a copy of The Dater’s Handbook.

“Dr. Susie, I’ve read your new book and I love it,” Cissy gushed. “But for our audience members who haven’t, why are so many women having issues finding the right men in today’s dating world?”

Dr. Susie smiled, as if she were a teacher about to impart wisdom on her young charges. “Well, like with most issues in life, the first step is admitting that you have a problem. In this case, it may be hard to admit but…” Dr. Susie turned her attention to the camera, and it felt like she was talking right to me. “Ladies, the problem is not the men in your life. It’s you.”

Me? What was she talking about? I was just fine.

But Dr. Susie wasn’t finished. “You’re picking the rebel guy, the fun guy, the deep brooding artist—”

I thought of Peter and nearly choked on my smoothie. There wasn’t really anything brooding or artistic about him. He was a jock, through and through, but I liked that about him. He was simple.

“When what you really need is someone reliable, dependable, responsible.”

“Reliable, dependable and responsible,” I mimicked, and then I glanced at Duke. “Sounds like they’re talking about you.” Duke cocked his head, as if to tell me I’d left something out. “But they forgot about loyal.” He seemed satisfied by that, and I bent down and scratched him behind the ears. I finished my smoothie and glanced at the clock. Time for a shower or I’d be late for work.

I arrived at my office with a little extra bounce in my step. I loved coming to work every day in the tchotchkes company I’d built from scratch. I might not be promoting world peace, but I sure as heck was plastering logos on foam stress balls, water bottles, and reusable tote bags. My phone rang before I was even to the elevator, and I recognized the number of a potential client I’d been trying to land for weeks. Bob Meister owned a national chain of grocery stores.

“Bob!” I clicked on my hands-free set as I swished by the security desk in the lobby and waved to the guard. “Thanks so much for calling me back. So, here’s the capsule pitch for your logo…” The elevator doors shut, but thankfully, my cell reception held. “Think about this: every day, millions of fans fill stadiums doling out their hard-earned money on their favorite beverage. And—”

The elevator doors opened on my office floor and I stepped out, heading to the two glass doors of my office where I employed about thirty people. I headed down the samples hallway, happy to see everything in place, all the shelving and cubicles immaculate, just the way I liked them, and of course, straight ahead, the wall of windows looking out at the Rockies. That view was why I’d picked this building for our headquarters. When I stared at that window, I thought about Dad, the man who’d told me when I was twelve that I should be my own boss one day.

“We advertise in ballparks already, Cass,” Bob said. I knew this, as he’d taken real estate right behind home plate at Coors Field, where the Denver Rockies play.

Dana, my perky and sweet-as-pie assistant, met me in the hallway to grab my workbag as she handed me a cup of piping hot coffee. What would I do without Dana? She was a bright-eyed, enthusiastic blonde who anticipated my needs before I even knew about them.

I focused on the phone and Bob as I headed to my office in the corner. I snagged a red Solo cup from the shelf nearby and glanced at it for inspiration.

“Yes, but, Bob, they look inside their cup, and they see nothing. Six inches of blank plastic.” I walked past a wall of our sample merchandise, logoed stadium foam fingers, cups, napkins, pens, notepads, footballs, and neatly folded T-shirts and sweatshirts. “But what they could be seeing is your company’s logo, Bob. This is prime advertising space, and you will be the first to claim it.”

“Hey… I never thought about that.” Bob considered this a moment. I could almost feel him imagining Robert’s Superstore in front of hundreds of thousands of new eyeballs. “That’s a good idea.”

Oh, I know it is. Almost got him…and…

“I’m in,” he said.

Got him.

“That’s terrific, Bob. We can print your logo on the cups and have them shipped out on…”

Dana, who had been hanging on my every word, tapped on her iPad. “Wednesday, the fifteenth,” she said.

“Friday, the seventeenth,” I told Bob.

“Invoice me, and we’ll get this started,” he said.

“We’ll send you a confirmation by email. Thank you so much for your business. We appreciate it.” I did a little celebration dance on the inside. That deal could be huge!

Dana quirked her head to one side, and I realized she didn’t know why I put off the delivery order by two days.

“We’ll ship them on Wednesday and he’ll love us,” I said. “Can you make sure first thing Monday morning, we email those graphics?”

“Okay.” Then Dana froze. “Oh…uh… No.” Dana frowned, uncharacteristic of her normally bubbly nature. “Uh, actually, Cass, Monday doesn’t work for me.” She waved her left hand at me, and the office light glinted on her giant diamond engagement ring.

Ugh! That’s right. Dana was getting married on Saturday and planned to jet off to her honeymoon next week.

“How could I forget? Yes! It’s your big weekend!”

Dana literally looked like she might burst with happiness—literally burst.

“Okay, fine, go abandon me and live happily ever after.” I took her hands and grinned. If anyone deserved a happily-ever-after, it was Dana.

Dana pointed at the deliciously happy smile on her face. “I can’t stop doing this. I’ve tried! I can’t. I’m getting married! I’m going to be Mrs. Dana Schmointz!” Dana stomped her feet in a little celebratory dance and then let out a high-pitched squeal so intense it hurt my ears.

“Mrs. Sch-moi-ntz,” I sounded out, trying to seem excited about the name but failing. I almost wanted to tell her she should consider keeping her maiden name, Abrams. It’s way less goofy than Schmointz, which, let’s be honest, sounds like Schmuck.

Dana missed my lack of enthusiasm, as she was wrapped up in her own. She let out another yelp of joy.

“Okay,” I said, and she grabbed my hands and bounced up and down, and we both did a little dance in the office before she calmed down a bit.

“I hate to even ask this.” Her face still beamed with uncontrollable happiness. “But did you decide on the…you know…” She appeared a little uncomfortable now. “The plus one?”

It was then that I remembered I hadn’t exactly, one hundred percent gotten Peter to agree to go with me…yet.

“I am so sorry. I am the worst wedding guest ever,” I said. “Peter’s just not…” I was about to say “that into weddings,” but looking at Dana’s beaming face, I couldn’t even get the words out. Why spoil her good mood? Besides, it would be like I was speaking another language. “It’s a busy season at the bar, and he’s not one hundred percent sure he’s got all shifts covered. Can I tell you…tomorrow?”

“Of course. Seriously, I hate to even ask. Really, it’s no trouble.” Dana bopped away, humming. I’d need to figure out if I did have a plus one or not, tonight, when I saw Peter at the bar. The last time we’d talked about it, he’d said “maybe,” and I needed to turn that maybe into a yes.