The Dating Proposal(4)
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.”
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?”