The Dating Proposal Read online

  I want to kiss the sky.

  I am over him. Over him. Over him!

  He closes the menu and shoots me the smile that had been part of my life for the better part of a decade. That patented grin that won me over when I first met him. “And how is everything with you?”

  “Great,” I say, so brightly that it sounds fake, only it’s not, because what on the planet could be greater than knowing you’re over the weasel you almost married?

  The waitress brings me my food. She turns to Todd and Amber. They order as I set to work.

  As I eat and type, I beam inside.

  This is the start of the next phase in my life.

  Lucky bag, indeed.

  When I’m through, I pay the bill, pack up my laptop, and say goodbye to Todd, Amber, and the last year of my life.

  Hello, world. I’m back.

  With a spring in my step, I head to my car, where I see a white piece of paper tucked under the wiper, flapping in the wind.

  My step unsprings. A parking ticket? That’s not how parking karma works.

  I turn around to peer up at the sign. I haven’t gone past the two-hour limit. I glance at the curb. It’s not red. There’s no hydrant nearby. I survey the block, and down near the corner of Hayes Street, the meter man is writing a ticket for a Prius. I grab the slip from my windshield and march toward him. Today is my lucky day, and I’m going to make sure it keeps being awesome.

  In my best friendly, problem solver voice, I say, “Hey there! Can we chat about this?”

  He turns around to face me, and I point to my car. He looks from it to the paper I’m waving, back to me. “I didn’t give you a ticket, lady.”

  He walks the other way.

  “I put that there.”

  When I spin around, I’m face-to-face with the guy who shops at Barneys.

  2

  McKenna

  Up close, he’s even better looking. His face is chiseled, his light-blue eyes sparkle, and his brown hair looks amazingly soft. I can’t help but give him a quick up and down perusal. It’s clear he’s completely sculpted underneath those clothes.

  “Hey there. I saw you earlier when you parked.”

  Parked.

  Grr. Did I ding his car and not even realize it? I bet he protects that car’s paint job like a mama bear. I crane my neck to inspect, but the Lexus in front of my MINI Cooper seems dingless. “Did I hit your car?”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “No. Great parking job, by the way.” He flashes a million-dollar smile at me.

  Have I slipped into an alternate universe? Hot men don’t compliment me on my parking.

  I mean, I can park my ass off, but it’s not something that usually draws male attention.

  “Why, thank you,” I say, jutting out a hip, figuring nice is the way to play off whatever I did to warrant a windshield note. “I’ve been hoping someone would notice my parallel parking skills.”

  “Oh, I noticed. And I was duly impressed.”

  He tips his forehead to the white slip of paper in my hand. “So what do you think?”

  I furrow my brow. “Of this?” I hold it up.

  “Yeah.” His smile is magnetic.

  I open it. And it’s not a parking summons, nor is it a bitch, you hit my car-gram.

  It’s something odder.

  Something I never could have predicted.

  “You’re gorgeous. Give me a call sometime. I’d love to take you out. The name is Steven Crane. I own Madcap.” His number is scribbled at the bottom of the note.

  I stand there befuddled, maybe even as far as gobsmacked. “You’re asking me out?”

  “I’ve seen you here most weeks. Been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you. Today you seemed to have a spring in your step, and I thought maybe it was a sign to finally go for it. I’m recently divorced, so I’m a little out of practice in the dating world. Hope it’s okay I left a note.”

  “What do you know? I’m totally out of practice too.” I glance at his message and can’t help myself. I laugh with the incredulity of all this. I laugh again. A date. A stinking date. I don’t have dates. I have late-night sessions with Super Mario Odyssey and Fortnite. I have crying fests with my girlfriends over strawberry frosting–stuffed cupcakes. I share a king-size bed with a Lab-hound-husky.

  Correction: that’s what I had over the last year.

  A year ago, I’d have retreated. Hell, three months ago I’d have said, Sorry, I have a date with wine and chocolate buttercream delight. Even a few weeks ago, I’d have had my guard so far up, I’d have tossed this invitation.

  Today?

  Today I am over my ex.

  I fold it in quarters, tuck it into my purse pocket, and meet his gaze.

  But just to be sure, I add, “You’re serious?”

  He laughs but then assumes a very serious voice. “I never joke about being out of practice on dates.”

  I don’t know how dating works these days, but I’ve never hesitated to learn new things. “Sure, then. What’s good for you?”

  We agree on a time and a place—Shakespeare Garden, later this week. He waves goodbye and heads into his restaurant.

  Once he’s gone, I burst into peals of laughter. “I have a date.”

  And I didn’t even have to brave the online dating jungle.

  I get in the car, and read the note one more time when an idea strikes me.

  Grabbing my phone, I turn on the camera, and record an impromptu video. I do believe I’m ready to date again.

  3

  Chris

  Meetings with the boss man are never my favorite way to spend a morning.

  But it is Monday, so I suppose it’s fitting that I find myself in Bruce’s office for our weekly check-in.

  He downs a thirsty gulp of coffee then thumps the mug onto his desk, the brown liquid threatening to slosh over. “You sure you don’t want some?”

  “Nah, I’m doing a cleanse.”

  He sneers. “A cleanse? You’re doing a cleanse? What the hell are you cleansing? You’re already at zero body fat.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. I love to wind him up by pretending I’m 100 percent drinking the California Kool-Aid. To the born-and-bred New Yorker, there’s no greater offense than eating chia seeds and downing carrot smoothies for breakfast. “Well, maybe if it’s using organic, locally-grown, and hand-picked beans, I can have a cup.”

  He scoffs. “It’s coffee. You drink it. It’s good.”

  I study the mug skeptically. “I dunno. Was it grown within a fifty-mile farm-to-coffee-shop radius?”

  “Even better. There’s a five-foot radius, since I got it in the breakroom. Are you in or out?”

  “Bruce, man, I’m messing with you. When do I ever turn down coffee?”

  He shakes a finger at me. “You love to get inside my head.” He spins around in his chair, stalks off, and returns shortly with a steaming cup. “Drink it all. It’s good for you, no matter who picked or harvested it.”

  “I will.” I take a sip, and it’s fantastic.

  “All right, enough small talk.” Bruce clears his throat and stabs his finger on a stack of papers—the ratings reports from my show on geek culture that streams on WebFlix. Bruce is the new head of programming at the online giant. “This is good, Chris. Better than good. It’s almost great.”

  “Almost?” I arch a brow.

  He stares sharply at me. “Great is the gold standard. We’re almost there. You’re making huge strides after that little bit of turbulence last year.”

  I privately shudder, grateful that shaky time is behind us, which is precisely where I want to keep it. “Definitely. The rhythm just feels better, and I’m glad the ratings are reflecting that.”

  He raises the papers to his face and smacks a kiss on them. “I love good ratings. Love them like I love a good steak dinner. Like I love a coconut cream pie. Like I love a night out with the little lady.”

  “All the good things in life. Dessert, romance, and red meat.”
<
br />   He winks. “You know it. And I’m telling you, there’s gold in this show. And I know how to mine it.”

  “With pans?”

  He scoffs. “Please. More like with content.”

  “Oh. That,” I deadpan. “How are we going to mine for it?”

  “Don’t you want to know what the gold is?”

  “Sure. I love precious metals.”

  His gray eyes sparkle. He wiggles his eyebrows. He smacks his lips. He is getting ready to make a big pronouncement. “Women. What do you think you could do to attract more women?”

  I really love precious metals.

  I lean back in the sweet leather chair in his office and flash him a grin, unable to resist the opening. “I could take off my shirt on-air.”

  He mimes drumming a rimshot, bada bing. “You couldn't resist, could ya?”

  I shrug happily. “You give me low-hanging fruit, I’m going to pluck it.”

  “Yeah, well, you can pluck this, kid. You might be Mr. Handsome now, with California surfer charm and a twelve-pack, but it won’t last forever.”

  I glance down at my stomach, hidden beneath my T-shirt. I pull at the fabric. “Are you sure? I made a deal with the devil for these abs.”

  He shoots me a withering look.

  “I don’t have a twelve-pack anyway.” Softly, I add, “Six is more than enough.”

  He waves a hand from behind his big oak desk. “Looks fade. Abs fade. You know what remains?”

  “Brains?”

  He leans forward, narrowing his bushy brows. “Humor, kid. Humor.” Bruce calls everyone under fifty kid. I don’t try to stop him. There’s no point. “All right, enough funny business.” He rubs his palms together. “Women are the future of streaming. They binge, they game, and they jazz up their phones. All the things you cover in your show. Women are everything. That’s what I learned at my last job, and now I’m here to dispense my wisdom to you.”

  My geek culture show is one of the most watched already on WebFlix, which means it’s holy-hell popular.

  But the audience is still comprised mostly of dudes.

  Bruce points at me. “And I want to make your show soar to the moon.” He dives into a rendition of the Chairman of the Board crooning “Fly Me to the Moon,” and he’s not half bad.

  “Bruce, you holding out on me? I need to take you to karaoke night.”

  He scoffs. “Nah, I have a job. If I start singing, I’d never get a moment’s rest from all the groupies. I only have time for making your show the best it can be. That’s what I did with Finley Barker, and we’re going to take you to Emmy Town too.”

  I highly doubt my here’s how to beat the game and tips for making the most of your laptop show is going anywhere near a swanky awards ceremony, but it’s nice that he thinks that.

  I scrub a hand across my chin. “You want me to do more coverage for the games that skew female? Women do have a ton of spending power. They buy all the tech you just rattled off. So the more our female demos grow, the more we can open up ad opportunities here too.”

  “Ah, it’s like you’re talking my language. That’s music to my ears. So, how are we going to get there on air? Covering mobile games that women play is good. It’s a damn fine idea. But what else have you got in that thinking cap of yours?”

  “We could dive into workout apps. Those skew toward women but won’t turn off our core viewership, like if we started reviewing period apps.”

  He cringes. “They have period apps?”

  A laugh bursts from me. “Dude. Do you know nothing about young women? One of my good friends has a thirteen-year-old, and she tracks every day of the month with an app.”

  Bruce holds up his hands in surrender and closes his eyes, shuddering. “All I can say is thank the Lord my girls are all grown up and have given me grandkids.” He waves a hand, shooing this all away. “Period apps, no. Workout apps, yes. What else have you got?”

  “I could look for another gaming expert or tech guru to do some coverage too?”

  He nods several times. “That’s an option, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  He holds his hands out wide, like he’s drawing a marquee. “I want something out of the box.”

  Bruce is sharp. The man knows what he’s talking about. When he came to work at WebFlix, I knew my show was in the best possible hands. He’s proven that over decades with his ideas, his focus, and his relentless drive.

  If out-of-the-box is Bruce’s goal, that’s what I’ll need to find.

  4

  McKenna

  I scurry back to my place in Cow Hollow. Last year, as soon as I could, I’d gotten the hell out of the tiny apartment in the Mission that I shared with Todd. One week after he eloped with Amber, the girl child, I’d packed up the whole place with help from my sister, Julia, and my good friend Erin.

  I found a new home fairly quickly, thanks to the growth of The Fashion Hound. The site curates and sells trendy discount designer clothes and hosts a blog with tips on how to put outfits together. Fashion is my jam, and so is talking.

  I do regular video clips that focus on what to wear for different occasions: starting at a new job, a night out with the girls, meeting your man’s parents, and—a particularly popular topic—what to wear when you see your Tinder hookup for the first time.

  I’ve been building my business for several years, and an investor plunked in some extra cash last year, earmarked to grow the customer base, especially fashion hounds of the male persuasion. Not only am I a fashion hound, but I’m a working dog, always looking for ways to expand and reach new audiences, and I have a to-do list a mile long that needs to be tackled today.

  But first . . . the dog needs a walk.

  “So I met a guy this morning,” I tell Ms. Pac-Man as we stroll along a quiet block. “I know what you’re thinking. Does he carry biscuits in his pocket?”

  Ms. Pac-Man wags her tail, eager for an answer, or maybe just a biscuit.

  “I wish I knew. I don’t know anything about him, but it’ll be interesting to see how it goes.”

  Her tongue lolls out as she trots along.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t want anything serious. When you come out of hibernation, you just want to stretch your legs. You know how it goes.”

  As we turn the corner, a throng of joggers whips by, so I rein in the chatterbox in me. Yes, I talk to my dog, but it’s not as if the world needs to be privy to our conversations. Some things are just between a woman and her best friend.

  When we finish the walk and return to the house, I send a group text to the brain trust—my sister and my besties: Julia, Hayden, and Erin—letting them know that tomorrow’s scheduled Game of Thrones viewing includes a special request from the hostess.

  And I add one more text.

  Be prepared, as well, for a special screening.

  * * *

  With my regular appendage on my shoulder—a bag with a laptop and hard drive—I pop over to my friend Hayden’s house on Monday evening. She lives next door, which means we share a wall, an entryway, and a front stoop. Her husband, Greg, is out of town, and she’s holed up in her home office finishing a legal brief that’s due for a client tomorrow, so I help her daughter, Lena, get ready for bed.

  I adore Lena for many reasons, including the fact that she loves clothes and fashion and is pretty much the best shopping partner ever. Sometimes, when Hayden and Greg need a break, I happily take Lena out for a girl’s afternoon, and we try on everything on Union Street. And I mean everything. The girl has power-shopping genes twined deep in her DNA, and I love that kind of relentlessness when it comes to clothing racks.

  Lena waits for me at the end of the hall, pointing excitedly into her room. Her wavy brown hair is unkempt as usual, in desperate need of a brushing. But at twelve years old, she’s already learning some of the secret tricks of women. She has pushed it back with a red headband that has big white polka dots on it.

  “By the way, I totally approve of the look, bu
t your mom said we have to get you to bed. The girls are coming over soon.”

  “Look, look, look.” She grabs my hand, pulls me into her room, and shows me her find. Their Siamese cat, Chaucer, who’s part cat, part Satan, is curled around a teddy bear. “He’s cuddled up with my old stuffy. Isn’t he the cutest?” Lena hops onto the bed, tucks her feet gracefully under her legs, and pets the demon. She leans her face in to him, rubbing her cheek gently against his downy fur. He snuggles against her, clearly plotting misdeeds. “My mom says he’s a troublemaker, but I don’t believe her. He’s so sweet to me.”

  I clear my throat. “Yes, that’s exactly what she calls him.”

  Her mom actually calls the cat Captain Asshole, but that’s not for me to repeat. Chaucer is a master of knocking stuff off of other stuff—dressers, tables, shelves. Once, he whacked a vase off the cupboard above the stove, shattering it into a thousand shards. Hayden was real happy about that.

  Lena pats her bed. “Can you show me your old videos here?”

  I flip open the laptop and trawl through the archives of The Fashion Hound on the hard drive, accommodating her stroll-through-memory-lane request. “Here you go.”

  We watch several videos as Lena grabs potential outfit combos from her closet, displaying the tween-centric looks for my thumbs-up or -down.

  When she finds a yellow shirt with a unicorn leaping over a pot of gold, I jump up from the bed. “I want to be twelve, so I can wear this,” I say, grabbing the shirt and pressing my cheek near it. The style doesn't suit me anymore, but it would have fit with tween-me’s quirky, sassy, cute look.

  Lena giggles. “You can borrow it anytime.”

  “I wish I could wear this when I meet with investors. But I’ll probably have to wear pants and a starched shirt.”

  She pretends to barf.

  “Exactly.”

  Crash.

  A sharp smacking sound rends the air. I swivel around. My eyes bulge as I stare at the carnage.