The Dating Proposal(15)

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.