The Dating Proposal Read online

  She quirks up her lips. “It’s because you’re personable and smart and good-looking. They want you to share all that wisdom so they can follow in your footsteps.”

  I arch a brow, latching on to one awesome adjective. “You think I’m good-looking?”

  She laughs and scans the coffee shop, affecting a female newscaster voice. “Bob, did you know ten out of ten patrons at the SassyAss coffee shop think Chris McCormick is good-looking?” She drops down to a male voice. “Well, Susan, I’m not surprised. All the ladies have been checking him out.”

  A smile sneaks across my face. “Thank you. You’re quite entertaining.”

  “Tell me stuff.” She leans in eagerly. “What do they ask you?”

  “How do I ask out this woman or that woman? What do I say in this situation? What would I do if this or that happened? How do I know if this girl really likes me?”

  She’s Susan again. “As I always say, Bob, you can tell if a girl likes you if she invites you home. If she touches your arm. If she laughs extra hard at your jokes, especially if you’re not funny at all. But if she does none of that, don’t assume she isn’t into you. Try, I don’t know, being direct and asking her. Women like that, and there’s no reason for you to have to wonder.”

  She says it like she’s delivering advice to a guy.

  On TV.

  On my show.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  I’ve found my gold, and I wasn’t even panning for it. All I have to do is convince Bruce.

  7

  McKenna

  He takes off, and I stay behind at the shop to answer work emails on my phone. When I finally pack up, I spot one of the tiny screwdrivers on the floor.

  Like when a lady leaves a glove.

  Don’t be silly.

  A screwdriver is just a screwdriver.

  I pick it up, tuck it safely in my purse, and smile like a fool because I have a reason to text him.

  McKenna: Missing a screwdriver? I’ll hold it hostage for you. For a king’s ransom, this tiny tool can be all yours again.

  He replies as I’m walking home.

  Chris: You drive a hard bargain. But I’ll liquidate all my assets to get it back. I always want to be prepared to repair hard drives.

  As I fashion a comeback, he sends a second note.

  Chris: I’m at the studio. I’ll text you later, and we’ll devise a drop-off plan. Some dark, undisclosed location. I assume you want a leather bag full of unmarked bills.

  McKenna: It’s like you know me so well already.

  * * *

  I’m in bed, reading an article on business-growth strategies when Hayden texts me.

  Hayden: I’d knock on the wall, but figured this could work.

  McKenna: Indeed it does. What’s up?

  Hayden: I have your next date for you, thanks to my daughter.

  McKenna: Are you kidding me?

  Hayden: Dead serious. When the FedEx guy dropped off some documents at the office earlier, I arranged a date for you, per Lena’s advice. Is that cool?

  McKenna: Sure! I suppose I was expecting an attorney, but a delivery guy will work.

  Hayden: You don’t care that he doesn't have a swank job?

  McKenna: Please! This is me! I’m not interested in men for their money. I want a guy who’s nice and fun, and who respects women.

  Hayden: Excellent. I’ll firm up the deets.

  I say good night to her and return to my article. A little later, Chris texts. Seeing his name on my phone lights me up in all those groovy parts.

  Chris: Just making sure the deal is still on. I have your ransom ready. I just need to know one thing . . . is the screwdriver unharmed?

  Smiling, I hop out of bed, scurry to my living room, and take the tool from my purse. I grab a box of ribbons from a cabinet, tie a tiny sliver of one around the tool, shoot a photo, and send it to him.

  McKenna: Unharmed, but still bound.

  Chris: Please don’t hurt it.

  McKenna: You know what to do. I’ll contact you tomorrow with a location.

  Chris: Until then, don’t get whacked by any shower doors.

  8

  McKenna

  I model a cute Gucci knockoff top for the camera.

  “And this is the official what-to-wear-on-your-first-date-in-a-decade look. How did I decide, you may ask? Well, naturally, it only took ten thousand wardrobe changes, but that’s totally normal. Just kidding. I don’t want you to suffer through all that indecision, and that’s why I recommend the simplicity of this top. It’s comfortable, simple, and shows off the teeniest bit of skin.”

  I lean into the camera, showing the slope of my shoulder. “Ooh la la. Let’s see if it works. Wish me luck. Don’t forget to leave all your what-to-wear questions below, and I will answer them, my fellow fashion hounds. There is never ever a need for a thousand wardrobe changes when you have a fashion hound to help you.”

  I hit end to turn off the video then raise my face and catch Andy’s attention. “What do you think?”

  He’s parked on my couch, working out of my home with me today. He gives me a thumbs-up, his standard web-dude response.

  “That’s why I like working with you. For the wordless thumbs-up,” I tease as my blonde half-horse-half-dog trundles on over and parks herself at my feet with a heavy sigh. She’s probably counting down the hours until it’s time for a walk, her internal doggy clock calibrated to the rhythms of our day. I scratch her ears then pet her head. “Did you like it, girl?”

  I do the dog’s squeaky voice. “I loved it. You were so awesome. What should I wear when I run into Roscoe down the street?”

  My jaw drops, and I admonish her. “You naughty girl. You do not have a crush on that beagle. You’re bigger than he is.”

  Andy laughs. “She’s a domme, I take it?”

  “Evidently. Who knew?” I ask in a hushed whisper.

  He clucks his tongue a few times but says nothing. Uh-oh. That’s what he does when something’s bugging him.

  “What is it? What’s bothering you?”

  “I dunno,” he says with a shrug, his curly hair flopping into his eyes as he taps away. “I guess I just don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “The Gucci knockoff? It’s perf. I even modeled it on FaceTime last night for the girls. Erin said it’s hot, Julia said it’s rocking, and Hayden said she’d do me if she were still experimenting, like back in college. So there. It’s a winner.”

  “Yeah, the shirt’s a winner.” He tilts his head to the side and meets my gaze. “I’m not talking about the shirt.”

  “Then what?”

  He heaves a sigh. “I worry about you meeting guys IRL. What if they’re stalkers, serial killers, or sadists?”

  “Um, the same could be said of guys online.”

  “Yeah, but that’s how everyone does it these days.”

  “But it’s just as likely you could find a creep online,” I point out. “Don’t you meet creeps online?”

  “Grindr is a whole different kettle of fish.”

  “I thought you were done with that. I thought you were looking for”—I clasp my heart and flutter my lids—“love and a tight bod.”

  He smirks. “I still want both. But sometimes, I settle for a tight bod.”

  I grab a pillow from the other end of the couch and toss it at him. He catches it and puts it behind his head. “Look, it’s different on Grindr. It’s different with guys. We know the score. I worry about you.”

  “Trust me, I know the score. The score is fun and only fun. This girl doesn't want anything serious.”

  “But please promise me you’re vetting these guys. If you don’t, I will.”

  I grab my laptop from the coffee table, click open my email, and show him the background check I ran on Steven Crane. “See? I’m no dummy. Everything will be fine.”

  He breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Good. And call me if anything feels off for any reason.”

  “I promise,
Daddy.”

  He wiggles an eyebrow. “That’s what I like the young ones to call me too.”

  “You’re so gross,” I say, smiling.

  “Fine, they call me Big Daddy.”

  “Stop, stop!” I shout as I head into the kitchen to grab an apple. My cries are echoed by the phone. It’s ringing from the table. “I bet it’s that supplier I’ve been waiting to hear from.”

  Andy’s nearest to my mobile so he grabs it then grins as if he’s caught me red-handed. The phone trills again. “Who’s Chris? And does this hottie bat for my team?”

  A sparkler ignites in me. I spin around and dive for it, hurtling over the back of the couch, landing on the cushions, and wrestling it from Andy.

  “Hey there.” I try to sound cool, casual, as if I haven’t just jostled for the phone.

  Chris sighs heavily, his tone dark and brooding. “Hey. I have everything ready. Just let me know when you can do the handoff.”

  I make my voice gravelly, like I'm a movie thug. “Everything? Don’t you be trying to cheat me out of my money.”

  “Look, lady. All I want is my screwdriver unharmed. No nicks, no dings, and no more choking. I have the dough. That’s what we discussed.”

  “Maybe I’m changing the terms,” I say, going full mafia heavy now as Andy regards me like I’ve changed personalities in front of him.

  “Fine. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  I laugh then drop the ruse. “So, I’m heading to Shakespeare Garden later. Are you anywhere near there?”

  “I started the day at seven so I’m taking off around four to surf, but I can meet up with you before or after. Shakespeare Garden is near the beach.”

  “Well, I have a date. But why don’t I meet you after?”

  He’s quiet at first. “Sure. That works. When will you be done?” His tone shifts, sounding stiff.

  I give him a time, and we pick a place on the beach then say goodbye.

  “Eager much?” Andy arches a brow.

  “Oh please. He’s just a . . .” What is Chris? A guy I met in the electronics shop? The wizard who fixed my hard drive?

  “Just a . . . ?” Andy prompts. “Just the guy you were waiting to hear from?”

  Yes, that’ll do.

  9

  Chris

  Shortly after I send the video to Bruce, I have an answer.

  Bruce: The answer is yes. And now. And get her.

  Chris: That was easy.

  Bruce: Some things in life are.

  Chris: Okay, so you like her shtick?

  Bruce: Like it? I love it. Is that not clear? Do I need to use a megaphone? Stage a parade? Play a trumpet?

  Chris: Do you play trumpet?

  Bruce: Every man needs a talent. One of mine is that I play trumpet. What’s yours?

  Chris: Make you money hand over fist with a top-rated show? That’s the correct answer, right?

  Bruce: Years of training are finally paying off. You got it, kid. Also, when you make me money hand over fist, you make it for yourself too.

  Chris: It’s a wonderful symbiotic relationship. Like anemone and clownfish.

  Bruce: Yeah, sure, whatever you say. Now, go. Or I’ll do it myself.

  Chris: I can handle it.

  Bruce: Then handle it as excellently as I would.

  Chris: I’ll handle it like I’m playing a trumpet.

  Bruce: I’m going to come to the studio and wring your neck. You can’t play trumpet for bupkes.

  Chris: Oops. Wrong analogy. Like I’m riding a killer wave. Gotta go. Camera is on, and I’m recording a segment.

  Bruce: You love to wind me up.

  Chris: Only because you are so easy to wind.

  10

  McKenna

  I’m camped out on a bench in front of Shakespeare Garden, surrounded by the ponds and hills and bike paths of Golden Gate Park. Though Shakespeare Garden has a big name, it’s a little spot, maybe the size of a large backyard or a private courtyard. Twin columns frame wrought-iron double gates, a brick walkway cuts across the garden, and a sundial stands in the middle.

  I like this spot for many reasons, but especially because Todd and I never went to Shakespeare Garden in all our time together. It’s untouched by the enemy.

  Steven walks toward me. He is as ridiculously handsome as he was the other day. He’s wearing jeans and a Henley, and I must tell him he dressed well.

  His body isn’t the only thing chiseled. As he nears me, I admire his well-designed face again, with carved cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and a subtle wave in his brown hair. I take out my earbuds and gently lay my phone on the bench. I smile, a little nervously, and stand. I am not sure what the proper protocol is. I wrack my brain, trying to remember how a first date usually starts, since it’s been eons. Entire evolutionary stages, it seems. I could say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, mess up the secret handshake that experienced daters know.

  I err on the side of friendliness, reaching out for a quick, short hug.

  “Hey there,” Steven says.

  “Hi. Good to see you again.”

  I sit on the bench. He follows suit. I reach for my phone, tucking it safely away in my favorite light-blue Kate Spade. It matches my Gucci-esque shirt and has a playful air. Perfect first-date accessory.

  “What were you listening to? Wait. Don’t tell.” He pretends to be a swami, reading the cards. “An audiobook. I bet you like Kristin Hannah.”

  “Everyone likes Kristen Hannah,” I say with a smile.

  “A podcast, then? Something political?”

  I cringe.

  “Completely agree on that. How about one of those cold-case podcasts? I love those.”

  I shake my head. “Just music.”

  He moves next to me. “There’s no such thing as just music. Music is everything. My ex and I used to love going to concerts.”

  Hold on.

  Did he just mention his ex? In the first minute of a date? I might be rusty, but I feel like that’s not how dating works.

  “Is that so?”

  He nods, a sad smile crossing his face. “Panic! at the Disco. Ed Sheeran. KT Tunstall. You name it.”

  “How about Adele?” I toss out, a little sarcastically.

  He shakes his head, forlorn. “I tried to get her tickets for her birthday. Sold out.”

  “Wow. She must have been bummed.” This is so not how dating works. I am so turned off. I don’t think I’ve ever been less turned on in my life.

  “Jenny loved Adele.” He shakes his head, seeming to snap out of it. “Crap. Sorry. My shrink says I need to stop focusing on my ex. I have to move forward.”

  Great, I’m his therapy homework. Go find a nice girl, ask her out, and take her on a date. Prove to yourself that you’re starting to get over Jenny.

  He gestures to my phone. “Let me try again. What were you listening to?”

  I vow to try again too, to wipe the slate clean. “Billie Holiday. I love her. ‘A Sailboat in the Moonlight’ is my jam.”

  “Yes! She’s great. ‘You Go To My Head,’ ‘Embraceable You,’ ‘These Foolish Things’ . . .”

  Holy smokes. He knows Billie Holiday. I’m so glad I gave him another shot. “Those are my favorites, especially ‘These Foolish Things.’ That’s the best.”

  He sings a line from the bluesy number, and I croon the next one, and soon we’re doing a duet.

  This is fun. This is what I missed. This is dating.

  When the song is over, I smile. “Look at us. We can totally form a duo.”

  He smiles, but his lips quiver. His eyes are wet, and he drops his head in his hands. “Jenny loved Billie Holiday so much.”

  I sigh, pat his back, and tell him it’s all going to be okay and that someday he’ll stop missing her so much.

  Date number one is officially a bust.

  11

  McKenna

  My timing is impeccable.

  I do not want to miss a chance to see Chris walk across the sand, so there’s
no reason for me to be on time when I can be early.

  Besides, considering how the therapy session—I mean, date—went, I see nothing wrong with enjoying a little eye candy. After all, I couldn’t enjoy the eye candy of Steven. He was unappetizingly soggy with tears.

  I park along Ocean Beach, get out of my car, and wait. I try my best to look busy, fiddling with my phone and checking compartments in my purse, but when Chris appears on the horizon, surfboard in hand, wet suit tucked under his arm, I freeze.

  I should pretend I’m not watching him. But it’s impossible not to. I didn’t look away during that scene in Casino Royale either, when Daniel Craig emerged from the water. Chris wears board shorts, low on his hips. I watch as he walks through the sand, closer, closer, and there, now I can say without a shadow of a doubt I would like to lick all those water droplets off his chest and his abs and then run a hand down his body to sear into my memory the feel of that firm kind of outline.