Just One of the Guys(38)

At that moment, a shriek splits the air. “Omigod! Teddy Bear!” Lucia flings herself at Teddy Bear, who has just walked through the door. “Teddy and I have to interview caterers,” Lucia announces with the same triumph as if she’d just announced that she won the Pulitzer.

“Have fun,” I call amiably.

“The wedding is only sixteen months away! There’s so much to do! Omigod! You wouldn’t believe it, Chastity! It’s like a full-time job!”

“I can imagine,” I say dryly. “How long have you been engaged?”

“Four years and seven months,” Teddy answers instantly. “Let’s get going, sweetums.” He turns to Lucia, fixes her collar and gives me a fake smile. He has a sharp way of pronouncing the S sound that makes it sound like a hiss. “We can’t have the caterers waiting. And then I have to zip back to work for a meeting with our shareholders.”

“Teddy Bear’s the vice president of the company,” Lucia brags.

“I see,” I answer. “Congratulations.”

“Bye, all! Must run.” Lucia, head high, saunters out of the office, Teddy Bear on her heels.

“If that guy is straight, then I’m George Clooney,” Pete announces. Wincing, I can’t help but agree.

At the end of the day, I head for home to grab some dinner before the self-defense class. Taking a bite of the cold pizza from last night, I check my e.Commitment e-mail. My mother has had fifty-nine responses to her profile. Fifty-nine. I’ve had Matt.

Oh, hey, here’s something! Setting my pizza aside, I click on the message. Dear Girl Next Door, wondering if u want 2 get 2gether. Saw ur picture and thought u sounded cute. I decide to overlook the irritating abbreviations and check out his profile. Hm, not bad-looking. Favorite things to do: Baseball, rollerblading, eating out. So far, so good. Three most important things in his life: My cat, my mom, the Red Sox.

Sorry, pal. I suppose I could tolerate a Boston fan (as long as the Red Sox agreed never to beat the Yanks again), but combined with his cat and mother, there’s just no hope.

I reach for my pizza—at least there’s that—only to find that it’s gone. Buttercup is feigning sleep next to my desk. She burps softly. “Shame on you,” I tell her, petting her head with my bare foot. Her tail lashes the floor.

An hour later, Angela meets me at the YMCA, having accepted my invitation to tag along. Elaina couldn’t go, claiming that my nephew had worn down her last nerve and the only person she wanted to be with tonight was Robert Mondavi. I’d left a message for the teacher, telling him I’d be covering the story for the Gazette and hoped he’d be available to answer questions after the class.

“Hello, sweetheart!”

“Mom! What are you doing here?” I ask, eying my mother suspiciously.

“Your father made me come,” she announces. “He said if I’m going to be dating freaks, scumbags and perverts, then I’d better know how to defend myself. Hello, dear, I’m Chastity’s mother, Betty.”

“Hello,” Angela says in her gentle voice.

“Dad made you come?” I ask, taking off my Binghamton Crew sweatshirt to reveal another in my Lord of the Rings collection: Elf Wanted: Archery Skills & Leather Pants a Must.

“Well, yes. If something happens to me, after all, who will cook his dinner?”

“It’s not your cooking he wants to protect, Mom,” I say.

“Chastity’s father and I are divorced, dear,” Mom explains to Angela. “He’s very bitter. Chastity, sweetheart, I had a lovely date with a nice man named Harry the other night. We might be serious.”

Angela cocks an eyebrow at me and then busies herself retying her sneaker.

“Wow, that’s great, Mom,” I lie flatly.

The martial-arts room is packed with young women, all of whom, I note, are rather astonishingly attractive. I feel a little grotty in my aging sweats and ragged high-tops when everyone else seems to have these irritating track suits…cute little ensembles with cute little stripes down the side, hoodies cropped short to reveal cute little tummies. There’s a lot of lip gloss in this room, a lot of highlights.

The door opens, the teacher enters and my mouth falls open in shock.

It’s Mr. New York Times.

His presence erases all thought from my mind. He’s here. Mr. New York Times is here. The man I’ve been dying to meet for weeks is teaching this class!

My brain distantly registers a mass sigh of feminine appreciation that practically causes his hair to flutter. And such hair! Dirty-blond, long enough to curl at the ends, just enough to make him look careless and casual without drifting into unkempt. He’s wearing a black karate uniform that wraps in the front, showing a deep V of golden, glowing skin, and my hand twitches at my side, wanting to Touch. That. Chest.

“Wow,” Angela whispers. Her face is pink.

“Holy crap,” I breathe.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says, smiling, and I stop feeling my legs. His hands go to his belt, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to untie the knot and take off his shirt—Yes! Yes, please!—and a giddy roll of lust rushes through me. But no, no, of course not, he’s just tightening his belt. Just as well. I’d probably jump him. “My name is Ryan Darling, and I’m a fourth degree black belt in kempo karate. I’m also a trauma surgeon”—Good God!—“and I’m sorry to say that I’ve seen firsthand some of the injuries that occur when a woman is attacked.”