Читать книгу Her Rebound Guy - Jennifer Lohmann - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

IT’S A BIT like shopping the J.Crew catalog back in high school, Beck Macgruder thought as she finished posting information about who she was and then took a look at the men on the online-dating site she’d picked to try first. Some of the men were, well, she hated to be uncharitable, but they weren’t attractive at all.

Or, at least, she corrected in her own head as she scrolled past picture after picture, they hadn’t posted a flattering picture of themselves. Perhaps they didn’t have a flattering picture. Maybe they hadn’t known better. Maybe they didn’t have a friend to look at the pictures they posted and suggest something nicer.

There. That was a more charitable version of the story that had resulted in such a terrible picture posted on a dating website. It wasn’t that they were unattractive; it was that they hadn’t known it was a bad picture.

Picking a photo for a dating website was hard. Hard, of course, because there wasn’t a soul on earth who could look at a picture of themselves with anything like an objective eye. At least Beck had been able to get the opinion of her friend Marsie, who had found a man through online dating. Or, not exactly through online dating. Marsie’s fellow is a coworker of hers. They’d challenged each other to see who could find a partner first through an online-dating site, and then ended up deciding they were perfect for each other.

Right, Beck thought as she scrolled past another guy. Online dating wasn’t a guarantee of finding the perfect guy. As Beck figured it, online dating opened your mind to the possibility that there was someone out there for you, so long as you were looking for them. It was like tempting fate, but in a good way.

And it’s not like she was looking for one guy; she was looking for a lot of them. As she figured it, online dating was also a way to sample the merchandise before even deciding if she wanted to buy. Again.

Marriages weren’t returnable and you never got back what you’d paid out.

She clicked on a guy with potential and scanned the information he’d included about himself. Ah, yes, just like catalog shopping. This one looked good, but he wasn’t for her. This one was the male equivalent of spaghetti straps. Bandeau tops. He’d probably make someone else’s arms look good, but not hers.

Dampness bumped against her knee and she absently reached down to scratch the head of the boxer-pit-hound-and-probably-something-else dog she’d picked up at the animal shelter several months before. Seamus was a good-looking dog. All the pictures she’d taken of him in the months since he’d joined her household included a big grin, ears that could flop or perk depending on mood and a tail that looked more like the handle of a delicate teacup than anything that should belong on an animal with a room-clearing fart.

Of course, he was adorable in all of those pictures, so she’d included one of him by himself and one of them together in the photos she’d posted to the online-dating site. Best for men to know that she had a “manly” dog. He didn’t even eat vegetables, for God’s sake. Especially since the other information she put on the site included that she was a coordinator of events, mostly weddings. And she had wicker furniture on her porch.

With her dog’s chin resting on her knee, she hit the back button and scanned over her options again.

There. That guy would fit her like the perfect shoe. At least from his picture. Dark, messy, romantic hair and light green eyes. A man who would sit in her wicker rocking chair and read Byron’s poetry to her. Romantic—at least that’s what she assumed Byron’s poetry would be like.

All swoony.

And, after a nasty divorce where she’d felt every last second of North Carolina’s required year-long separation, Beck needed swoony.

She clicked.

Her disappointment must have rippled through her body, because Seamus huffed a little on her leg. Mr. Swoony wasn’t an English professor. Or a poet. Or a playwright—a pale imitation of a poet, but it would match the curls in his hair.

Mr. Swoony did say he was a journalist, though. That was a type of writer and somewhat swoony. And he liked biking. That was interesting. Long bike rides down some of the trails in The Research Triangle area. Maybe they would plan a complete Rails-to-Trails ride from the mountains of North Carolina to the coast. She could picture his hair curling out from under the rim of his helmet along his neck. And, oh yes, there would be picnics.

Beck could make a mean picnic. After years of working events and in restaurants, she knew how to choose food that would be easy to eat no matter the circumstances. Bride wearing a dress with long bell sleeves that brush across the table? No problem. Bride with a healthy décolletage who doesn’t want to fish food out from between her breasts before the honeymoon starts? No problem. Food that packs nicely, is good at room temperature and easy to eat with your hands? No problem.

She put her hand on Seamus’s head while she considered her next move. Mr. Swoony looked like he would enjoy a nice picnic. And the kind of guy she would like to make a nice picnic for.

And Beck missed making a picnic for people. Neil hadn’t been interested in picnics. Of course, she hadn’t thought she’d be interested in picnics, either, until she’d clicked on Mr. Swoony’s picture. It didn’t matter what he called himself on his profile. She was going to think of him as Mr. Swoony. And she was going to click.

A wink, to start. Messages on the first night of exploration seemed a little forward. She still didn’t know the rules of the online-dating world. She didn’t even know if there were rules. Heavens, despite all this data and Marsie’s insistence that online dating could be hacked with the perfect algorithm, online dating still seemed like the Wild West of meeting men. Which was why she was starting small, with one site, even when there were newer, flashier dating sites available.

Though, Beck considered as she evaluated the next picture on the screen, online dating couldn’t be any more Wild West than going to a bar and trying to look pretty.

Not that she would admit doing either to anyone right now. Everyone from her mom to Marsie to the servers at Buono Come Il Pane said she should wait a little longer before dating again.

“Get that husband of yours out of your head.” That bit of advice she rejected out of hand. Neil had been her college boyfriend and the only man she’d ever seriously dated. How could she get him out of her head if she didn’t have an idea of the kind of man who could replace him? Or even if a man should replace him? Seamus might fit in that companion spot nicely. And then there was the option of empty—empty could be good.

“Find yourself.” Which was stupid, because Beck knew where she was and she had a dog who snored in her bedroom to ground her to the fact that she was here, in her house, and Neil—the dog hater—wasn’t.

“You’re young. Take your time.” She paused a little every time that objection came up. Not because it was one hundred percent valid, but because it wasn’t a hundred percent invalid. She was thirty-two. Not young, unless she was being compared to her parents, but not old, either.

Maybe the biological clock existed. Maybe it didn’t. But something in her head had been ticking nonstop since Neil moved out—and before then, if she was going to be honest with herself, here in the privacy of her own home. She wouldn’t let the annoying noise of others run her life, but she wouldn’t ignore it, either.

Enough.

Marsie’s single piece of advice had been not to let online dating be the way she measured anything about her life, and it was the one piece of advice Beck had listened to. Getting responses wouldn’t determine her self-esteem level. She wouldn’t only look for dates. And, while she generally rejected Marsie’s insistence on all things scheduled, she would at least set up a schedule for checking her profile responses. No reason to have online dating become another Facebook that she trolled because she was bored.

On the other hand, she thought while Seamus sighed for his dinner and a walk, winking at one guy felt like a tacit admission that the men online weren’t all that interesting. Or that she felt over her head. Or that all those people were right and it was too early for her to be here.

With only a quick glance at the pictures and a more cursory look at the profile information, Beck winked at a few other guys. Then she logged out, snapped her laptop shut and put the thing someplace inconvenient while it charged, just to lessen the incentive to obsessively check if any of the men had responded to her wink.

When she stood, Seamus hopped on his hind legs. He didn’t jump on her—they’d been working on that—but he bounced. When she reached for the leash, he bowed and barked once, sharply, before running to the door and trying his doggy-darnedest to sit at the door through his excitement and get his leash attached to his collar.

Once she and Seamus stepped into the fading winter sunlight, online dating was forgotten. Mr. Swoony included.

* * *

THE PROBLEM, CALEB Taggert thought, with scheduling dates anytime during when the General Assembly was in session was that you couldn’t control when the men—and it was mostly men talking—would shut up. In theory, everything and everyone had a time limit. In reality, the battles of the General Assembly waged on and on and on. And had for years now.

The guy talking now had been talking for hours. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t hours, but Caleb had stopped taking detailed notes and was letting his recorder do most of the work. The representative had stopped saying anything new or interesting at least ten minutes ago. The bill under discussion was this man’s pet project and he was going to say what he wanted to say. For reasons Caleb didn’t know, but probably had to do with some backend deal he wanted to know about, committee leadership wasn’t cutting this guy off. Of course, half of what he said was bullshit. Caleb’s copy for the Sunday paper would include a lot of fact-checking and reminding the people of North Carolina about the rules regarding voter registration, IDs and the history of poll taxes.

The Civil Rights Era had a long tail, with battles like gerrymandering and voting rights seeming to stick to his beloved home state like dog shit to a shoe. The only bright spot—if one could call it that—was that debates like this one reminded Caleb why he’d become a reporter and who he was responsible to. The representative blathering on would be an entertaining guy to have a beer with, but there wasn’t much else good Caleb could say about him. But the constituents whom the man shook hands with when he was home deserved to know what he did with the faith they put in him.

Caleb’s article would also include some nice details regarding the recent polling about gerrymandering and one-voter-one-vote done in his home district. Stark comparisons like that made good copy.

Finally, the guy stopped talking about voters counting twice, voting in districts where they weren’t registered and—the money shot of scare tactics—undocumented immigrants voting. The session was about to be wrapped up and then all the people crowded into the committee room would spill out onto the lawn for a rally in favor of election-map reform. He’d need to stay for that, too, and talk with some of the protestors. The paper was sending a photographer over—there were bound to be some good signs and probably an arrest or two.

Politics in North Carolina hadn’t been boring...well, they’d never been boring, but they’d certainly gotten more interesting in the past ten years. Power grabs tend to do that, no matter which party has its grasping hands out.

Caleb had a date in thirty minutes and a twenty-minute drive looming before he could hope to park. Of course, the representative who had driveled on about voter fraud had no knowledge of Caleb’s personal life and wouldn’t care if he did. The paper didn’t care about his personal life, either. He had other reps to interview, copy to write and deadlines to meet. None of which was conducive to his evening plans.

Caleb gave in and pulled out his phone.

Diatribe about made-up voter fraud or not, he tried to adhere to the current research about phones, distraction and meetings, and he usually kept his phone hidden when he should be paying attention to someone else. Especially on a day like today, when the rumor was that a bill limiting the people’s right to protest was going to be snuck onto the end of this bill—not quite in the dead of night, but they would certainly try to do it when no reporters were watching.

Besides, the research said loud and clear that “people can’t multitask.” It’s just that researchers never established whether boredom to the point of drool counted as multitasking.

Plus, he had his recorder going. If the guy slipped and mentioned that he had just bought a house outside of his district—well, Caleb would have that shit on tape. And the rumor about the rider with limits to protesting had come from an excellent source, one who would get Caleb the rider as soon as she saw it.

Power grabs also made for strange bedfellows.

Swiping down on his phone screen brought a list of notifications, most of which weren’t a surprise. Twenty work emails, three of which promised information in exchange for keeping the sender’s identity a secret. Ten personal emails. And a text from his dad.

Whoa-hoe... What was this? A notification from one of the dating apps he used. A wink—so a passive sign of interest from someone, rather than anything active.

Before he clicked to see who the wink was from, he texted his current date with information that he’d be late because of a work meeting and that he would bow to her wishes whether she wanted to wait, reschedule or call him an ass and kiss him goodbye.

After a quick glance up to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, Caleb flicked the notification open. Dogfan20895 was cute. Square jaw, but a big, toothy smile that more than made up for it. Dark brown eyes. A wicked way of lifting her eyebrows—wouldn’t that be fun to see her do in real life. Given that she had one photo of her with a brindle hound and one picture of the hound itself, she wasn’t kidding about being a dog fan.

But...she had a nice set of breasts and he couldn’t get over how arched those brows looked, so he winked back. Then he looked at her pictures again. Her smile was nice. The way she was laughing in that picture of her with her dog was even better. Caleb clicked the message button and typed out something quick.

Hey. Cute smile. Cute dog, too. What’s his name?

It wasn’t his best opening line, but he was working, supposed to be meeting another woman for a date and hadn’t read her profile yet. She’d either bite or she wouldn’t.

The world—especially the online-dating world—was full of women. If she didn’t at least nibble, well, there’d be another woman along with a smile that suggested she knew what he was up to.