sixteen articles she’d sold to True Fantasies. She picked up her glass of chardonnay—according to the weight guide, 2 points—and gave him an “isn’t-that-nice?” smile.
“I was wondering if you’d be willing to help?” he asked, his eyes sharper now. The smoky-gray was metamorphing into granite. Solid granite, not that faux stuff you found on countertops.
“I actually don’t know what I could possibly do to help,” she began.
But he cut her off. “Internet dating. I want to follow a subject through the bits and bytes of finding a mate via computer. It’s fascinating and the public would love to read about it.”
The lightbulb flashed and her heart sank into her toes. So there was a crack in his facade, after all. This was one big research project for him. He was probably married. “You’re not even single, are you?” she asked sadly.
“Actually, I am. But I’m not interested in experiencing the process myself. I really just want to write about it. Ascertain if Internet dating is used because of the lack of free time to investigate more accepted means, or if it’s still the modus of last resort.”
“You just want to study us poor, pitiful schmiels who are forced into it?” she said, blinking her eyelashes innocently.
“Exactly.” Then he grimaced, with a foot-in-mouth expression. Beth was cheered by that bit of token humanness. He seemed so detached about everything else.
“No, not exactly,” he corrected, but then he leaned in, all conspiratorial-like. “But I want to be candid with you. I want to know if the schmiel-factor is still there.”
Beth started to gather her things, feeling the blush high on her cheeks. “I’m not the right candidate for you.”
He stopped her with a hand to her arm. “You’re the perfect candidate.”
That was soooo exactly the wrong thing to say. Camel straws, dam stoppage, end-of-the-ropeness. She was no longer going to be stepped on and smile prettily about it.
She was going to grow teeth. No, fangs. Fangs were even deadlier. Beth smiled at him and tossed her head. “What do I get out of this?” Oh, that was good.
“I could pay you.”
Not enough, buckaroo. Not for a zillion dollars. “No, thank you.” She swung her purse onto her shoulder, narrowly missing his eye. Beth had great purse aim. He was just lucky she wasn’t really ticked off.
“I could help you,” he said, a hint of charm in his voice.
Now that was more interesting. She stopped. Her eyes wandered over him as if he were a six-foot Hershey bar. “How?” she asked, quirking a brow. Actually, quirking two, because she couldn’t do one yet.
“You want to meet men, right?”
She narrowed her eyes and nodded.
“Your ad needs revising. I can do that.”
“What’s wrong with my ad?”
“It’s not vibrant enough. You need to add some punch, some color.”
Her newly installed gullibility meter started beeping. “How do you know about ads? I thought you were above computer dating?”
He shrugged, calling attention to his well-defined chest muscles. He probably didn’t even have to exercise. She was really starting to hate this guy. “I’ve done my research for the story. Words are my life,” he answered. “What do you say?”
“I want a guarantee.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, because obviously he didn’t live in her new, improved, tough-as-nails world.
“I want dates from this. Great dates. Or the deal’s off.” Then she leaned on the table, letting the candlelight reflect favorably on her cheekbones. All in all, it was a great moment. “Besides, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove that computer dating isn’t for losers?” Like me, she almost added. “That’s not interesting. You want to write something groundbreaking. An evolution in the courtship ritual. Maybe coin a new word for the dictionary.”
A less refined man would be drooling, but even Mr. Savoir Faire couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes. “I’ll get you great dates. If I can’t write a good singles ad, then I’m in the wrong business.”
Success. The night was looking up. Beth sat down, satisfied with her negotiation skills. Not bad for a beginner. Of course, you should never underestimate a Von Meeter when it came to negotiation.
“Where do you want to start?” she asked, sipping her wine with a little more gusto. Maybe even chocolate mousse later—eight points. She’d never ordered dessert on a date before, but he wanted honesty. Food honesty was the most basic of all, except for sexual honesty, which was pretty much nonexistent.
He placed his tape recorder on the table, a little digital thingamabob. “I’m going to tape the conversation, but I want to make some notes while we talk. We’ll start with the simple things. Tell me about yourself.”
“I work at Java4U,” she said defensively, just wanting to get that out in the open.
“Lack of education or motivation?”
“Neither,” she said, her hands starting to get nervous. She didn’t like these what-are-you-doing-with-your-life? conversations, for obvious reasons. “I like people,” she added, which was her standard answer.
“Very decent of you, but there are better opportunities out there for people who like people.”
“You don’t like people, do you?” she asked, neatly switching the subject from her career or lack thereof.
He cleared his throat and smiled with effort. “Why don’t we talk about something else? When did you decide to try computer dating? Do you have friends who have done this?”
At first it was difficult, but he coaxed her into more. His reporter voice was calm and soothing. Trust-inducing. Very smooth. And so over dinner, she found herself responding, relaxing, and she began to talk.
To vent, really. To explain in great, cathartic details about all the problems with the current singleton environment.
As the waiter cleared away the last of the dishes, she started in on the biggest problem.
“I never had trouble until my friends started getting married. Now we don’t hang out together, and I’m like this old piece of clothing that just doesn’t fit anymore. They look at me and don’t know what to do. I was the favorite shirt, but now I’ve got stains that won’t come out, and it’s not like anyone is going to wear me anymore. Instead I sit hidden away in the back of their closet. It sucks. Do you still have single friends?”
He paused in his writing and looked up. “No. They’re all married.”
“How do you go out, then? How do you meet women?”
His pen started tapping on the table. “I don’t.”
Then she noticed the black shirt,
