“That’s cool.”
“Are you going to ask me what I’m working on?” I ask, expecting the question.
“Hell, no. That’s the worst thing you can ask a writer.”
I tilt my head. He speaks truth.
My eyes wander his face again. It’s pleasant. Very pleasant, actually. Stark eyes, high cheekbones, and a jaw built for eating pussy.
Not bad, leather jacket guy.
Not bad at all.
But...
“Do you want kids?” I ask.
“Nope,” he answers. “Got snipped last year.”
Jackpot.
“Really?” I ask.
“I framed the all-clear letter from the urologist. It’s hanging above my bed next to a picture of my childhood corgi.” He cocks his head. “Why? Is that a dealbreaker?”
“No, I love dogs.”
He smiles. Oh, fuck me. He’s got dimples, too.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Melanie,” I say.
He extends his hand across the booth. “It’s nice to meet you, Melanie. I’m Robbie.”
I untangle my arms from their protective wrap around my chest to shake his hand, admiring his long, strong fingers as I do.
“It’s nice to meet you, Robbie.”
The timer chimes again. The other men get up to move down, but Robbie rebels with his eyes still locked on mine.
“Hey, what are you doing after this?” I ask him.
“You,” he says.
I grin.
Good answer.
I sit down on my floor next to the puzzle. I pinch a card in the middle and pull it out, the one from today that completes the date, time, and location. I know what he’s doing. Robbie was always better at coming up with the cheesiest grand gestures. Taking me back to the night we met. Re-living our first date, our first kiss, our first fuck. It’s more than a little obvious.
Hell, it might even work.
Forty
Robbie
I scan the holding room, surrounded by two dozen eligible dudes in suits. I guess the average person sees Botsford Plaza on a flier and dresses to impress, but I wasn’t about to deny the magic of my leather jacket and tight, white t-shirt.
Especially when it comes to wooing Melanie Rose.
She’ll come.
She won’t be able to resist it.
Finally, a short brunette with a clipboard opens the golden double doors and announces that it’s time to start. She gives us the basic speed-dating spiel for anyone living in a hole for the last fifteen years. Each date is sixty seconds. When the timer goes off, we say goodbye, and move down to the next lady. We can mingle in the lobby afterward and treat ourselves and our dates to a discounted room for the night, courtesy of billionaire Nora Payne. How kind of her.
That said, it might be nice to curl up with Melanie after this with room service and fancy white bathrobes. Just leave the world behind.
Merry Christmas, baby.
I follow the crowd into the main ballroom. The cutesy brunette told us to pick a random chair — doesn’t matter which, as we’ll all hit each one eventually over the next twenty-five minutes, but I’m a little more impatient than that.
I scan the tables. A blonde. A brunette. A redhead. Another brunette. All beautiful and dressed to the nines.
But they’re not my Melanie.
No one is.
I shuffle down the tables, dodging suit jackets and shiny loafers, and desperately trying to maintain morale as I search for her.
There she is.
She’s here.
I catch sight of her at the far end of the table and, just like four years ago, my breath instantly leaves my body. Back then, she wore a little black dress that she was clearly uncomfortable in, but she wanted to take the research seriously. She got me out of it, a man who thinks she’s beautiful no matter what she wears.
I quicken my step as another man approaches her ahead of me. He reaches out to grab the chair, but I tap his shoulder and point away with my thumb.
“Piss off, dude,” I say, bumping him aside to take the chair.
He scoffs without making a fuss and instantly forgets all about it when he sees the skinny blonde two chairs down.
Melanie watches me lower into the chair. She tucks her lips downward to hide how badly she wants to chuckle, but she won’t let herself.
This time, she wears her gray coat with a striped black and blue sweater beneath it. Confident and comfortable. That’s my Melanie.
Her eyes bounce down the arms of my jacket.
Finally, she smiles.
“Let’s get started, everybody!” Clipboard Girl says. “Three-two-one! Go!”
The timer goes off. The room instantly erupts in pleasantries.
Melanie and I don’t say a word. We stare at each other, wasting precious seconds, but that’s how long it took for us to fall for each other before. We can do it again.
Melanie sits forward slightly, ready to break the silence. “Listen, Robbie, I—”
“Wait,” I say. “Let me talk first. I only have like fifty seconds left here and I really need to get this out.”
She goes quiet and nods.
I clear my throat. “Hi, there. I’m Robbie.”
“I’m Melanie,” she replies.
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you like romance novels, Melanie?”
“I’ve read a few,” she says, playing along.
“I love them,” I say. “That’s the first thing you should know about me. I love romance novels. People give me weird looks when I read them in public, but I’m secure enough to not care. They’re missing out, not me.”
Melanie’s lips twitch, but she says nothing.
“They’re full of hope,” I continue. “Story structure dictates that there needs to be a dark moment near the end when everything falls apart. In romance, that’s when the couple has to make a choice. They can go their separate ways and stop hurting each other, or they can fight for each other. They always fight. They always choose each other. They’re in love and nothing else matters. It doesn’t matter how hard it is or how illogical it is. They choose love. That’s why I read romance. It makes me think there’s someone out there who would look at me and see someone worth fighting for.”
Melanie swallows
