Page 7 of Single Mom's Guide to Love

I point to a couple sitting across the bar from us who are our next contestants in the game we’ve dubbed, “Hooker, Homewrecker, or Housewife.”

We tried to be politically correct first, but Sex Worker, Mistress, or Wife didn’t have the same ring.

And we’re quite drunk.

So far we’ve decided that we’ve spotted one woman working hard for her money, two housewives who look like they’d rather be anywhere but in a hotel bar, and three couples likely having an affair.

I know I am one, but men are truly horrible beings.

“Oh for sure home wrecker,” Maeve says, tilting her head to the side for better examination. “He didn’t even bother taking off his wedding ring. And no way she bought that dress herself.”

I look again, and damn if she isn’t right. “Good eye.”

She tips her drink to me, and she must be getting drunk, because she didn’t chastise me or call me an ass for using the nickname. “I’m undefeated in this game. I can spot a cheating man a mile away.”

“Is that what happened with your ex?”

I probably shouldn’t have asked it, but I’m dying to know what kind of man would let a woman like this go. Much to my surprise, she shakes her head.

“No. To my knowledge, he never cheated.” She pauses to take a sip of her martini, and at this point, I’ve lost count of how many drinks we’ve consumed. “My job unfortunately deals with men who have no qualms about cheating. And while I think they are scum and should never get hard again, their money is green, and I have a kid to feed.”

“And what is it you do?” I ask as I polish off my martini.

“I’m an interior designer, specializing in home design and decor for men.”

“Fascinating,” I say.

“It’s not, but thanks for the enthusiasm.”

I shake my head. If she only knew the battle I was having about decorating my new home with Kat, my publicist/fill-in assistant/best friend, she’d know how serious I am. “I’m not mocking. I’ve never had an eye for anything that includes colors, patterns, or furniture.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “You and most straight men in the world.”

“Are you calling me a cliché?”

She turns more toward me, crossing her long leg through the slit of her skirt. God, I bloody love a pencil skirt…

“Let’s see,” she says as she makes a show of eyeing me up. “Your Rolex isn’t fake. You don’t exactly have the frame of a guy who can buy a suit off the rack, so I’m going to guess this is custom made.”

She takes a second to gently feel the material of my suit, which she is right about—It most certainly is not off the rack.

I also can’t help but notice her fingers linger a little longer than they likely need to.

“Good quality material. Feels expensive, and I’d actually say it is. It goes well with the cologne, whichisa cliché scent for a man of your caliber, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

Maeve gives me one more long look—of course while taking another sip.

I also make note to buy the cologne in bulk. You know, just in case I ever see her again.

“You’re cliché in the fact that you’re likely a high six-figure businessman. Finance, of course. No. Correction. A vice president of something or other at a company that makes the parts for the parts of clock radios.”

“Clock radios?”

She shrugs. “Sure. Why not? Doesn’t matter. You’re so high up you couldn’t even tell me what your company produces. You probably just collect checks, send out meetings invitations for things that could be emails, because you need to seem like you’re working, and pretend you know what you’re doing while your assistant actually runs everything. Oh, and I need not forget about your likely standing tee time and auto-renew membership at some swanky man’s club where you sip disgusting scotch and talk about the stocks.”

I laugh. Little does she know how wrong she is. “Anything else to add to my apparent mediocre resumé? Or would you like to fast-forward to the part where I tell you how off base you are?”

Her eyes double in size. Apparently she wasn’t prepared for me to push back. And frankly, neither was I.

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