Читать книгу Breakfast At Bethany's - Kathleen O'Reilly, Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 8

SWF looking to meet good man. Must like romantic walks, fine wine and old movies. Geeks need not apply.

BETH VON MEETER WAS THE last one to leave the chapel. Weddings did that to her. For some people it was sloppy puppies, for her it was the magic of the whole bridal extravaganza.

Wistfully, she trailed her fingers over the cute little nosegays that were tied to the pews. She would have chosen daisies rather than roses if it were her day.

But it wasn’t.

Beth would have opted for a storybook June wedding rather than a cold November day, but then Mickey had no patience for social obligations, and well, to be frank, she and Dominic were in a hurry.

Mickey’s wedding ceremony had been small—pitifully small. The reception at the church afterward had been almost nonexistent. Of course, that was the best you could do when the groom had to keep his name under wraps. Top secret, hush-hush. I Married a Mafia Don: My Love Affair with the Mob.

A gorgeous, sensitive, undercover cop wiseguy. It was enough to make a girl fall on her knees, rail and shake a fist at the sky. “As God is my witness, I’ll never be single again.” Unfortunately, imaginary drama wouldn’t do diddly to conjure up the perfect life.

Carefully she smoothed out the pale pink material of her bridesmaid dress. That made two bridesmaid dresses that were flying in her closet at half-mast. Oh, yeah, the Bachelorette Pact. Single forever! Long live the infinite torture of the dating ritual! Beth blew a raspberry, which she hoped wasn’t sacrilegious, but she figured God would understand. God wasn’t married, either.

Now Mickey was. And Jessica was. Beth wasn’t.

“Forget something?” asked Cassandra, gliding into the chapel. Amazing. The woman oozed sexuality even on holy ground.

Beth took in one last sniff of the roses. “Not a thing.” Then she bundled up in her coat and slung her bag over her shoulder in what she thought was a sassy move. “Are Jessica and Adam still here? We could get a drink,” she suggested, hoping no one would actually take her up on it. She felt like the worst sort of party squasher. Possibly it was her sinuses. She was grasping at straws, but tonight she just wasn’t feeling perky.

Cassandra picked up one of the nosegays and lightly traced a rose petal with her forefinger. “We could if you want. I thought you had a date.”

“I have one scheduled for 9:45 p.m.” Beth checked her watch. Two hours to liftoff. So far, she’d been on eleven dates with her Internet dating service. Yes, you heard that right folks, eleven. It was demoralizing, dehumanizing and downright depressing.

“Have you met your match?” asked Cassandra, sitting down on an old oak bench and looking as if she were actually interested.

That made Beth sit down, too. “I’ve been on eleven dates and I think I’ve found the dregs of the dating pool.”

“That bad?”

“I’ve met Viktor the eccentric—read ‘mad’—Russian. Kyle, who’s exploring his more feminine side. That man is going to need luck with cross-gender dating, because his feminine side is pretty pronounced.”

“Poor baby,” murmured Cassandra.

Beth waved her hand. “Oh, that’s not all. We have Bob, who likes to eat—a lot, not that there’s anything wrong with that. The painfully, and I do mean painfully, shy Ted. Bob II, whose favorite topic of conversation is himself. Blah, blah, blah, Bob this. Blah, blah, blah, Bob that.” She wrapped her head in her hands. “It’s a nightmare.”

“Maybe you’ll find more promising candidates.”

“Those are the most promising candidates.”

She was spared further depression when an elderly janitor opened the creaky door into the chapel, the cold wind cutting through the last of the heat. “I’m locking up for the night. You girls need to clear out of here.”

Beth stood and looked at the remaining flowers, then shot a what-the-hell? glance at Cassandra. “Are you going to throw these out?”

The janitor winked at Beth and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. For a moment she wished he were about fifty years younger, or even forty. “You’re welcome to take some home. I used to bring the leftovers to my wife when she was alive.”

Quickly Beth tucked a nosegay inside her purse. “Thank you. I’ll give them a good home.”

Cassandra was already walking out the door ahead of her, but just before the janitor shut them out, she whisked back in, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe just one.”

Beth just smiled. For all her big talk, Cassandra looked to be just as jealous as the rest of single America. Even a great sex life didn’t remove the lonely truth when you went home alone. Vindication was sweet.

SPENCER JAMES WASN’T USED to being kept waiting. He liked punctuality, he liked schedules, he liked organization. His ex-wife had called him anal. Thoughts of his ex sent his fingers tapping impatiently on the linen tablecloth. He preferred the term “driven,” which was more precise. A reporter lived and died by his adjectives.

The waiter came by, and Spencer shook his head. Annoying toady. Then he checked his watch, but it’d only been thirty seconds since the last time he’d looked.

Finally he took out his notebook and began to jot down some ideas for his piece. Humiliating. Soft news. As the result of a misguided bet—Spencer had said the Cubs would win the pennant—he was now working in Tempo, that is, the lifestyle section. Fashion, gossip and food. Fluff.

It wouldn’t earn him a Scripps-Howard Award like the article he’d done on corruption in the Chicago unions, but his editor seemed to think the feature profile on the age of Internet dating would be picked up by the AP.

The impersonality of the personal ad. Not just for the lovelorn, it was now part of the mainstream. Singles didn’t congregate in bars like packs of blathering hyenas, they sat alone in their bedrooms instead, with just the dim light of the computer screen to keep them warm. In short, it was a lot like his own life.

Lost in his thoughts, he found the words began to flow. When the hostess arrived at the table, he almost told her off—until he saw the ash blonde standing next to her.

Pretty, somewhat shy, but with an innocence in her blue eyes. Ingenue—not that he believed in them anymore. They’d gone the way of the dodo, but still there was an artlessness and honesty there that made her unique.

The perfect subject. Inspiration sent his pulse racing. How hard could it be to convince her to let him write about all the excruciatingly painful details of her love life?

Then he stood up and held out his hand in a businesslike manner. She smiled back at him, an open expression in the cerulean eyes.

Absolutely perfect.

SPENCER JAMES WASN’T QUITE the SWM she’d been expecting. Age? He looked to be thirtyish, not the fifty-two-year-old that seemed more likely. Hair substance? Not balding. His blond locks looked inviting and thick, the streaks of brown giving it just the right touch to spoil the pretty-boy image. Much dishevelment potential there.

When he’d stood up, she’d gotten an eyeful of the bod. Muscles. Height. No paunch or spare tire visible. Good clothes sense. Black open-necked shirt and slacks. Casual, elegant.

After the waiter brought their drinks, Spencer started on the pre-dinner conversation. Refreshingly enough, he didn’t waste time with small talk, he simply began asking her questions. At first it was jolting, the way he fired them like a sharpshooter, but then she relaxed and began to enjoy herself. He didn’t seem to worry about pretenses or social niceties, he merely seemed curious, asking her multitudes of things, most pertaining to the dating process.

A newbie, she thought to herself. And so she did her best to educate him.

When he took a sip of wine, she took advantage of the momentary lapse to ask him some questions of her own.

“Do you live with your family?” she asked, wondering what his issues were. Every man that she’d met so far had issues, and this man in front of her was just too, too perfect.

He shook his head, looking puzzled. “No. Patricide is frowned on in our family.”

What an odd sense of humor. Only the tiny crinkles in the corners of his eyes gave him away.

“So, Spencer James, what do you do with your daytime hours?” Mentally she rolled her eyes. She’d be asking his sign next. So far she was enjoying herself too much, and the lust factor was running off the charts.

There had to be a catch.

“I’m a journalist,” he said, his fingers twisting on the wineglass. “In fact, I’m working on a story right now.”

Beth nodded politely, and reminded herself to keep quiet about the sixteen articles she’d sold to True Fantasies. She picked up her glass of chardonnay—according to the weight guide, 2 points—and gave him an “isn’t-that-nice?” smile.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to help?” he asked, his eyes sharper now. The smoky-gray was metamorphing into granite. Solid granite, not that faux stuff you found on countertops.

“I actually don’t know what I could possibly do to help,” she began.

But he cut her off. “Internet dating. I want to follow a subject through the bits and bytes of finding a mate via computer. It’s fascinating and the public would love to read about it.”

The lightbulb flashed and her heart sank into her toes. So there was a crack in his facade, after all. This was one big research project for him. He was probably married. “You’re not even single, are you?” she asked sadly.

“Actually, I am. But I’m not interested in experiencing the process myself. I really just want to write about it. Ascertain if Internet dating is used because of the lack of free time to investigate more accepted means, or if it’s still the modus of last resort.”

“You just want to study us poor, pitiful schmiels who are forced into it?” she said, blinking her eyelashes innocently.

“Exactly.” Then he grimaced, with a foot-in-mouth expression. Beth was cheered by that bit of token humanness. He seemed so detached about everything else.

“No, not exactly,” he corrected, but then he leaned in, all conspiratorial-like. “But I want to be candid with you. I want to know if the schmiel-factor is still there.”

Beth started to gather her things, feeling the blush high on her cheeks. “I’m not the right candidate for you.”

He stopped her with a hand to her arm. “You’re the perfect candidate.”

That was soooo exactly the wrong thing to say. Camel straws, dam stoppage, end-of-the-ropeness. She was no longer going to be stepped on and smile prettily about it.

She was going to grow teeth. No, fangs. Fangs were even deadlier. Beth smiled at him and tossed her head. “What do I get out of this?” Oh, that was good.

“I could pay you.”

Not enough, buckaroo. Not for a zillion dollars. “No, thank you.” She swung her purse onto her shoulder, narrowly missing his eye. Beth had great purse aim. He was just lucky she wasn’t really ticked off.

“I could help you,” he said, a hint of charm in his voice.

Now that was more interesting. She stopped. Her eyes wandered over him as if he were a six-foot Hershey bar. “How?” she asked, quirking a brow. Actually, quirking two, because she couldn’t do one yet.

“You want to meet men, right?”

She narrowed her eyes and nodded.

“Your ad needs revising. I can do that.”

“What’s wrong with my ad?”

“It’s not vibrant enough. You need to add some punch, some color.”

Her newly installed gullibility meter started beeping. “How do you know about ads? I thought you were above computer dating?”

He shrugged, calling attention to his well-defined chest muscles. He probably didn’t even have to exercise. She was really starting to hate this guy. “I’ve done my research for the story. Words are my life,” he answered. “What do you say?”

“I want a guarantee.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, because obviously he didn’t live in her new, improved, tough-as-nails world.

“I want dates from this. Great dates. Or the deal’s off.” Then she leaned on the table, letting the candlelight reflect favorably on her cheekbones. All in all, it was a great moment. “Besides, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove that computer dating isn’t for losers?” Like me, she almost added. “That’s not interesting. You want to write something groundbreaking. An evolution in the courtship ritual. Maybe coin a new word for the dictionary.”

A less refined man would be drooling, but even Mr. Savoir Faire couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes. “I’ll get you great dates. If I can’t write a good singles ad, then I’m in the wrong business.”

Success. The night was looking up. Beth sat down, satisfied with her negotiation skills. Not bad for a beginner. Of course, you should never underestimate a Von Meeter when it came to negotiation.

“Where do you want to start?” she asked, sipping her wine with a little more gusto. Maybe even chocolate mousse later—eight points. She’d never ordered dessert on a date before, but he wanted honesty. Food honesty was the most basic of all, except for sexual honesty, which was pretty much nonexistent.

He placed his tape recorder on the table, a little digital thingamabob. “I’m going to tape the conversation, but I want to make some notes while we talk. We’ll start with the simple things. Tell me about yourself.”

“I work at Java4U,” she said defensively, just wanting to get that out in the open.

“Lack of education or motivation?”

“Neither,” she said, her hands starting to get nervous. She didn’t like these what-are-you-doing-with-your-life? conversations, for obvious reasons. “I like people,” she added, which was her standard answer.

“Very decent of you, but there are better opportunities out there for people who like people.”

“You don’t like people, do you?” she asked, neatly switching the subject from her career or lack thereof.

He cleared his throat and smiled with effort. “Why don’t we talk about something else? When did you decide to try computer dating? Do you have friends who have done this?”

At first it was difficult, but he coaxed her into more. His reporter voice was calm and soothing. Trust-inducing. Very smooth. And so over dinner, she found herself responding, relaxing, and she began to talk.

To vent, really. To explain in great, cathartic details about all the problems with the current singleton environment.

As the waiter cleared away the last of the dishes, she started in on the biggest problem.

“I never had trouble until my friends started getting married. Now we don’t hang out together, and I’m like this old piece of clothing that just doesn’t fit anymore. They look at me and don’t know what to do. I was the favorite shirt, but now I’ve got stains that won’t come out, and it’s not like anyone is going to wear me anymore. Instead I sit hidden away in the back of their closet. It sucks. Do you still have single friends?”

He paused in his writing and looked up. “No. They’re all married.”

“How do you go out, then? How do you meet women?”

His pen started tapping on the table. “I don’t.”

Then she noticed the black shirt, the innate sense of style, the perfect abs. God, all the signs were there. “Oh.”

The pen hit the table. “What does that mean?” he said, the smoothness gone from his voice.

She buried her fingers in her napkin. How embarrassing. “I’m not going to make judgments on anyone’s personal life.”

He smiled tightly, his hands clenched together in pre-strangulation mode. “I like women. I love women. I was married to a woman.”

He did have that been-there, done-that air about him. “Didn’t work out?” she pried, because she understood completely.

“It lasted eighteen months. Seventeen of which were hell.”

“Mine lasted two weeks,” she admitted. She had eloped with Kenny when she was a freshman in college. She had thought it was romantic to marry a musician. Quelle horreur.

“You were lucky,” he said, and she noticed his hands had stopped clenching.

“You sound bitter.”

“I have a right to be,” he said, picking up the pen once more. His own little shield.

“Want to talk about it?” Beth asked.

“No.” The pen was back to scribbling. “Tell me about the perfect man. Most important quality.”

And that was all for the personal life. Back to business. “He’s got to be smart. Brains are very important to me.”

Spencer looked up, laying the pen on the table. “What about looks? There are lots of smart, homely guys. In fact, you put that in your ad and you’ll be married in approximately three to seven days.”

She shook her finger at him. A man should never assume. “I said intelligence was important. You didn’t ask what the number two thing was.”

“So looks are number two?”

Those assumptions were really going to bite him in the butt. And he’d said he was a journalist. “No. A sense of humor is number two.”

He continued to scribble on the paper. She tried to peek, but his writing was illegible.

“Looks are number three?” he asked, without looking up.

“No. He needs to have depth. I can’t stand those shallow men that only tell you what you want to hear.”

The pen drooped. He met her eyes. “But don’t you think computer dating is in and of itself shallow?” He struggled for words. “The process sucks all the humanity out of that first spark of meeting. It’s premeditated.”

He was a closet romantic: How I Unearthed my Lover’s Secrets. Fascinated, she balanced her elbows on the table and studied him. “But you’re a journalist. You of all people should know that words can be more seductive than the visual.”

That made him laugh. “I’ve never gotten off from reading.”

“I have,” said Beth, suddenly quite pleased with herself. Now who was the schmiel?

Mr. Hotshot Journalist-Man was rendered speechless. His face turned primitive—eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, breathing shallow. All facts seemed to indicate that Mr. James was seeing her as a sexual being, not just a guinea pig.

She would have been lying if she didn’t admit to feeling a little squishy herself—okay, a lot.

There were many reasons why she wanted to shock him. Some of it was the simple biological response to the highly charged testosterone that was shooting from every solid inch of him.

But there was more to it than just chemistry. She’d always felt like a bystander in life, not the ambitious one, not the intelligent one, not the sexy one. She’d skirted along, moving from job to job, boyfriend to boyfriend, not ever needing to settle.

She’d never seen anything wrong with that until now. Now, as he stared at her with those cool gray eyes that made him just as much a bystander as she was, she got mad.

He thought her love life was great fodder for his article, and nothing else.

She met his eyes squarely, with a show of bravado she’d never attempted before. This time she wasn’t about to look away.

He glanced down at his paper, his cheeks flushed, but he wasn’t writing.

She’d made him stop writing.

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

SPENCER CLOSED HIS EYES and began to count. He was a professional. He just needed to concentrate on something other than the far too appealing fantasy of the woman across from him playing under her skirts while reading Cosmo.

Slowly, the fog lifted and he opened his eyes. Still she was watching him. Some part of him, the non-glandular part, wanted to forget the whole incident and concentrate on the issues at hand, namely his story. Spence had learned a long time ago how to turn off the female of the species. He’d turned into a first-class asshole. A drastic measure, but effective. Besides, the reputation had helped his career.

Tonight, though, the more ruling part of him, namely his erection, felt a response was in order. A physical response. Already he was anticipating that physical response. She wanted to play games?

He lifted his glass to her. “Salute. To the pursuit of pleasure.”

She lifted her glass to her lips, eyeing him over the crystal edge. There was some uncertainty in her face, but the blue eyes were dark with knowledge.

“I shouldn’t have strayed,” she murmured. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. After all, this is being recorded for posterity.”

“Not for posterity,” he corrected. “Just for my own personal review.”

“Still, I’m babbling.”

“No, my dear. You’re seducing me, and that’s an entirely different matter.”

BETH FELT HER blood pressure rising to near volcanic proportions. The pig. The arrogant swine. As if she’d like to bed him. Of course she would.

As if she’d like to see if he could kiss as well as he could talk. Mais certainement!

His gray eyes were daring her to continue. Go ahead, missy, do me.

Beth smiled grimly. “Let’s stick to business, shall we?”

“If you insist.”

She glared. “I insist. You’ve said you can get me great dates. However, I think we need to define the terminology we’ll be using. Great for me indicates a man who is handsome—”

“Aha! Looks are important.”

Her knife was calling to her. “Intelligent,” she grated out between clenched teeth. “Sensitive. And not a boor.”

“Then you’ll have to change things around.” He pulled a folder from his briefcase. “Instead of saying ‘Looking to meet good man’ say ‘Are you worthy?’ It implies you’re confident and above clichés.”

“‘Looking to meet good man’ is not a cliché.”

“It’s the most cliché of clichés.”

Beth threw her napkin over her knife, just to eliminate temptation. “Let’s move on.”

“Romantic walks.” He shook his head. “It means you’re fat.”

The napkin came off the knife. A knife that had cut through approximately twenty-seven Weight Watchers points’ worth of food. “I’m not fat.”

“No, but a man will read between the lines. It implies that you don’t want to do anything to break a sweat. Including having sex. No wonder you’re having problems here.”

“I understand,” she said, suddenly comprehending why his wife had divorced him.

“The ‘good wine’ bit isn’t bad.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

He continued on, ignoring her. “If you’d said martinis or cosmopolitans, you might get a livelier crowd. Just as long as you don’t mention beer.”

“Why?”

“Beer means you’re fat.”

“I hate beer.”

He looked her over. “And it shows.”

Quickly she changed the subject. “Old movies? I suppose I should say action movies, right?”

“No, the average single man will read ‘old movies’ and think that he can put up with it, and then get laid on the couch. Old movies are a great aphrodisiac.”

“Do you think old movies are a great aphrodisiac?” she asked, suddenly curious.

He frowned for a moment, as if he’d never considered the idea of aphrodisiacs. “No.”

She folded her hands together gracefully, the image of calm. “Ah, but you’re not the average single man.”

“God forbid.”

She polished off the last of her wine. No dessert tonight. It was getting late, and she was feeling fat. “So how would you rewrite my ad?”

He looked up in the air, his pen twirling idly. Then he focused on her and frowned. The pen twirled again. “Are you worthy? Sexy blonde who savors a great cabernet wants to wile away hours with a man. Life is hectic enough. I need someone who appreciates a classic movie and a lazy Saturday night. Dave Eggers fans need not apply.”

It was good. And he really thought she was sexy? Not that it mattered, of course. All she wanted was great dates with someone other than him.

And so it came to pass. Beth smiled and held out her hand. “Mr. James, I believe we have a deal.”