Page 66 of No More Bad Boys
There. I’m moving on. Very logical of me.
Then I turn out the light, climb under the covers, and have a very long, very illogical ugly cry.
FIFTEEN
Blind Date
“Cadence? Wow. You’re like… really pretty.”
A slight, dark-haired guy (who I swear I’veneverseen a photo of) rises from the bench in front of the pizza restaurant. He takes a step toward me.
He’s tentative and seems shy, reminding me of a kitten who’s suddenly been approached by a stranger.
I’m allergic to cats, by the way.
“Um… thank you? I guess you’re Jeff.”
“Yes. Yes, sorry. I should have introduced myself. I probably don’t look much like my picture. Jeff Slattery.”
He extends a hand. It’s small.
Really small.
It doesn’t matter, idiot. He’s a sensible choice. Yousawhis data.
I force myself to return his smile and shake his hand firmly.
“Cadence Carpenter. I know—it’s so hard to tell anything from those little photo files. I probably don’t look like mine, either.”
“No. You do—justbetter. Most people look worse, don’t you find?”
“Oh. I don’t really know. This is my first date through the site.”
“Really? Great. Great. Maybe it’ll be your last.” He emits an uncomfortable giggle.
I freeze in place. I think he’s trying to suggest that maybe we’ll click and be forever-lurve-soulmates, but he might also be hinting that he’s a serial killer and plans to roofie and kidnap me.
Theydoscreen for that sort of thing on those sites, don’t they?
“So yeah.” He giggles again. “I’m thrilled to meet you. Shall we go inside?”
“Sure,” I say, but I already know I’m not interested. First of all, I’m considering the possibility he’s a serial killer—usually not agoodsign.
Even if he’s not homicidally inclined, there should be some initial spark of interest, right?
You wanted logic, not sparks.
I nod, agreeing with my internal Vulcan, and step through the door Jeff holds open for me.
Okay, see, there we go—point for Jeff. I’ve read that polite men make better husbands.
As long as they are not also serial killers.
A hostess seats us and takes our drink orders. I order water. In a lidded cup. Which I will take with me if I happen to go to the bathroom at any time during the evening to prevent the aforementioned roofie-ing.
Jeff orders a bourbon and coke. I estimate he can handle about one of those with his body mass index.
Maybe half. I’m sure he’s nervous. Maybe he’s afraid I’m a serial killer, too. Whose wonderful idea was this again?
