27 Ways to Find a Boyfriend

by Tapscott, Shari L.

  And then I come to a dead stop.

  In slow motion, a six-foot-one, dark-haired Adonis looks over, a smile spreading across his gorgeous face when he sees me. His hair is long, just past his ears, and as he turns my way, he shakes it back like a model in an artsy black and white commercial. That’s right—if I’m a walking, talking cliché for Lonely Single Woman, he’s the cliché for Smokin’ Hot Male. You know, movie star hot. Cologne model hot. Underwear model, let’s-post-a-fifty-foot-picture-of-him-up-in-Times-Square hot.

  No freaking way. The list works. I’ll take two of him to go.

  Haha—just joking. One will be sufficient.

  “Hi,” I say, sounding all breathy.

  Jessa, you brilliant fool.

  “Hey,” he answers, and darn it, even his voice is sexy. He subtly runs his eyes over me and, if I’m not mistaken, likes what he sees. (Thank you, sweater and heels.) “You must be here for my class?”

  That’s what you’d assume, right? No, silly boy, I’m here for you.

  Wait.

  Wait, wait, wait.

  “You’re the instructor?” I ask, angling my head to the side.

  A slow smile lights his face. “That’s right.”

  It just keeps getting better and better. He’s the crème brûlée to my peanut butter and jelly. We’re a perfect fit. (Meaning opposites attract, naturally. I’m obviously not going around smearing PB&J on a fifteen-dollar dessert.)

  “Great, come on in.” He motions me forward and then turns to the rest of the class—a whole six people. All of them over seventy. “Take a seat.”

  I give my elderly peers a wave and pull out a stool at the counter. Then I drop my purse on the floor and cross my hands, waiting for him to begin.

  Teach me everything you know, professor.

  Yeah, that was creepy. Pretend I didn’t go there.

  “I’m Giovanni,” he says, “but everyone calls me Gio.”

  I press a hand to my chest. “Addison.”

  “We’re expecting one more.” His friendly smile grows a tiny bit crooked. “But if he’s a no-show, you can partner with me.”

  Um, yes please.

  The clock in the corner tick, tick, ticks as the second hand makes its way around the face. Am I an awful person for hoping this mystery man breaks a hip on the way here?

  At five minutes after seven, Gio says, “Okay, well it looks like we should just go ahead and begi—"

  The door swings open, and my blood goes cold.

  What is he doing here?

  Carter pauses as soon as he steps through the door, and our eyes meet. “Addison? Since when do you cook?”

  4

  I’m going to murder Carter slowly. Then maybe I’ll bake him into a pie for extra credit.

  “You’re Carter, correct?” Gio asks.

  Is it just me or does he look a tiny bit disappointed?

  Carter eyes the instructor with a weird expression, one I can’t quite place. “That’s right.”

  “You’re going to be partnering with Addison today.”

  Carter crosses the kitchen and then pulls out a stool next to me, acting all nonchalant.

  “What are you doing here?” I hiss under my breath when Gio begins teaching the class how to make bruschetta.

  “I’m taking a cooking class.” Carter looks me up and down, scrutinizing my outfit with a frown. “What are you doing here?”

  I cross my arms, refusing to answer.

  After a few silent seconds, he rolls his eyes. “Please tell me this isn’t for your dumb list.”

  Leaning a tiny bit closer, I whisper, “You shouldn’t taunt me when I have access to knives.”

  He snorts, giving me the standard “aw, you’re cute when you’re mad” look—which irks me like no other. Apparently, I need to work on my intimidation techniques.

  With a start, I realize the people around us have already begun.

  “What are we supposed to be doing?” I ask Carter. Other people are chopping tomatoes. I’ll chop them too. I pull several from the bowl on our station, choose a knife, and get to work.

  “What are you doing?” Carter asks as the massive knife squishes the tomato, squirting out juice and seeds instead of cutting through it. I smack it again, trying to remember how my grandma chopped vegetables—she kind of whacked at them. It always worked for her.

  But I suck at it.

  Looking around, I quickly realize everyone is using a different knife. Before I can correct my mistake, Gio comes up and begins to chuckle. “Are you chopping it or committing a murder?”

  Carter snorts, but his laugh dies quickly when Gio steps right behind me—be still my heart—and asks, “May I?”

  “Sure…”

  Then his chest is pressed to my back, and he sets his hand on mine, directing me to pick a different knife from the block.

  When I’m armed with the correct blade, he says in this low, seductive voice, “You must be gentle with tomatoes.” Then, with his hand on mine, we make the first slice. “Yes—good. Isn’t that better?”

  So much better.

  Together, we cut the tomato in quarters, and then he shows me how to remove the seeds. Before I know it, I have a pile of diced tomatoes. They don’t look too bad—maybe a little uneven, but totally edible.

  “Fabulous it worked better much,” I gush and then wince when I realize I made zero sense. Who thought it was a good idea to arm me with a knife? I can’t even form complete sentences.

  Carter stands next to me, shaking his head. He uses a long, serrated blade to cut a loaf of Italian bread into the thick slices that will be the base of our bruschetta. He’s doing a fine job of it, too, which is obnoxious.

  Gio smiles like I’m adorable, but Carter’s not under the same such delusions.

  “If you need any more assistance, just let me know,” Gio says before he leaves my side to check on the elderly ladies beside us. They flirt with him—creepy—but he doesn’t hold them gently in his arms while teaching them knife skills.

  Clearly, I’m ahead of them in the game.

  An hour and a half later, after we all sit down to enjoy the fruits of our labor, the class wraps up. I clean my station, taking my dear sweet time, waiting for Carter to leave so I can casually corner Gio and implement Number Nineteen: Show a genuine interest in his career. And I am interested. How did Gio end up running a community center cooking class for the geriatric crowd?

  But Carter does not leave.

  Our classmates filter out, waving to us, inviting Carter and me to play Scrabble with them on Sunday afternoon. Stella promises to bring Carter peanut butter cookies next Friday because it came up that they’re his favorite, and the ladies can’t decide who they’re more enamored with—Carter or Gio.

  A rational part of my brain wisely thinks that the more attention they give Carter, the more I get Gio to myself during class. The other part doesn’t want anyone lavishing attention on Carter because it will go to his head, and it’s fat enough already.

  Finally, I can stall no longer. Carter is obviously waiting for me.

  “See you next week,” I say to Gio.

  He meets my eyes, seeing right into my soul. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  After that, Carter scoots me out the door. When we’re halfway through the lobby, he shoots me a look. “You have got to be kidding.”

  I shoulder my purse, looking straight ahead. “What?”

  “That man has player written all over him.”

  “Do you think maybe, just maybe, you’re projecting a bit?” I give him a sideways look. “Just because a man is handsome, doesn’t mean he’s you.”

  Carter gives me a weird look as he opens one of the glass entry doors. Together, we step into the warm spring air. It’s just after eight-thirty and dark. The community center spared no expense on their landscaping, and lights shine into bushes and dot flower beds.

  Arizona is blissful this time of year, warm and dry and pleasant. Main Street is lit with tree after tr
ee wrapped in twinkle lights, and old-fashioned streetlights line the road. Gone are the ornamental cabbages and pansies of early spring, and huge planters in the median and walkway are filled with baby petunias and lemony green potato vines. Soon, they’ll fill the pots and trail over the sides.

  We’re close to Sedona, surrounded by red rock. We’re about four thousand feet above sea level, and it’s not as hot here as you might think. Only two hours away, Phoenix’s summer temperatures regularly dance above a hundred and five, but our summers usually top in the high nineties. And if it gets too hot, we’re only a short drive from cooler, mountainous Flagstaff.

  I like it here, always have. After high school, I went to school in Phoenix, mostly seeing it as a chance to spread my wings. I got a two-year business degree and then came home and settled into a bookkeeping position in Dad’s shop. Soon after, I bought a little two-bedroom house in a well-maintained, older neighborhood even though Dad begged me to stay at home. I needed space, and I’m sure he did too—even if he’ll never admit it.

  It’s always been the two of us. My mom skipped out when I was just a baby, leaving Dad to figure out how to raise me on his own. It’s made us crazy close—and him over-the-top protective. I thought moving out might help him see that I’m really, truly all grown up and capable of surviving on my own.

  It didn’t.

  Carter and I walk in silence the whole time, stopping once we reached my car. I dig in my purse for my keys. Carter stands with me, jabbing his hands in his front pockets. He cleaned up after work—went home and showered off the paint and body filler dust, dirt, and sweat that come with his job. He looks good in his jeans and soft cotton T-shirt. Casual, yummy.

  What’s going on?

  He’s always been Jessa’s older brother more than my friend, though I certainly know him well enough. But this almost feels like hanging out, and I don’t know what to do with it.

  “Why did you sign up for the cooking class, anyway?” I ask him, stalling. I’m not quite ready to head back to my evening of home decor reruns, though it’s never bothered me before.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Women like guys who can cook, right?”

  “I’ve heard that rumor,” I say slowly, trying to figure out what he’s up to. “But it’s not like you need help finding women.”

  Again, Carter shrugs. It only takes a few moments for the casual conversation to get awkward. We stand here, not quite facing each other. I should get in my car, drive away. He’s waiting for me to do just that.

  I think I’ve puzzled out what’s going on, but I don’t much care for it. Carter and I basically grew up together. Because of that, he’s feeling this weird duty to protect me, probably because I don’t have a brother of my own to fill the position. I’m not sure how he learned about the cooking class, but I would bet good money he came tonight to act as a chaperone.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I’d like to pretend it’s because he’s harboring a teenage-style crush on yours truly, but I’ve seen the women he dates, and frankly, I’m not up to snuff. The women he goes for…well, they’re the long-legged model types. I know I’m cute enough—I’m happy with myself for the most part. But I can’t compete at that level.

  He did kiss you.

  It was a pity kiss.

  You liked it.

  That’s not the point.

  “See you Monday,” I finally say, unlocking the door to my boring sedan. When I turned sixteen, I wanted a 1970 GTO. I even offered to buy one myself, but Dad refused to fix it up for me. He said it would attract the wrong sort of guy—I kid you not. The next day, this brand-new beauty, in all her soccer mom glory, was waiting for me in our drive.

  And what teenage girl is going to turn down a free car? I squealed in appreciation, hugged him, and pushed thoughts of a GTO out of my head. Unfortunately, this car pretty much sums up my life. Sturdy, reliable, as boring as a PTA meeting.

  I get in, start the car, and am about to drive away when Carter knocks on the window.

  Feigning indifference, I roll it down and raise my eyebrow.

  He leans forward, resting his arm on the door, smirking ever so slightly. “So you think I’m handsome?”

  “What?”

  He jerks his head toward the building. “You said I was handsome back there.”

  Rolling my eyes, I roll up the window, forcing him to move. “Goodnight, Carter.”

  Chuckling, he steps back and calls just before the window closes, “Like on a scale of one to ten? How hot are we talking?”

  The flippant exchange makes my pulse skitter like a squirrel on caffeine, and I try not to think of Carter as I drive away. When I reach my house, I realize I’ve relived the brief exchange the whole way home, but I haven’t thought of Gio once until now.

  That’s probably not a good sign.

  5

  It took all of five seconds to get my sister talking about the list. I invited Jessa and Franklin to dinner, made her favorite grilled shrimp scampi, stocked the fridge with Franklin’s beloved foo-foo raspberry lemonade made with stevia and some crap called monk fruit extract, and whipped up a batch of my late grandmother’s famous fudge.

  Needless to say, my darling baby sister and her new husband were putty in my hands. That’s how I figured out about the cooking class—that’s how I ended up with my very own copy of the list. Some of the ideas are hilarious; some aren’t terrible. Most are sad—case in point Number Twenty-two: Accidentally-on-purpose stumble into his arms. He’ll feel like a knight in shining armor when he catches you!

  Mrs. Baxter from high school slipped on a puddle of orange juice in the cafeteria during my sophomore year, and I caught her arm before she fell on her rear in front of a room full of spiteful teens. Pretty sure I didn’t fall in love with her that day.

  Back to the point—I’ve memorized them all. You might be wondering why. Well, let me tell you: know thy enemy. And, no, Addison is not my enemy, and neither is my sister. But the list is for two reasons. One, it’s stupid. Two, it might work.

  And ever since Jessa’s wedding, Addison is all I can think about. She’s in my head, and no matter what I do, I can’t get her out. If I were honest with myself, I might admit this has been a growing problem for a lot longer than a week. And because of that, this list thing just doesn’t sit right with me.

  I’m not sure what Jessa is going to do when she finds out I crashed Addison’s lesson with Gio—I certainly didn’t tell her. I don’t even know why I showed up at Addison’s cooking class.

  I walk down Main Street, feeling edgy. I’m not hungry; I don’t want a drink. I should call it a night and go home, even if it’s not nine yet. I could watch some Overhaulin’ reruns, maybe work a little on the project in my back garage.

  Thinking of the torn apart GTO just keeps my mind on Addison. I traded for the car about five years ago, got a crazy deal for a Nova I’d been holding on to. Addison’s always wanted a GTO, and I don’t know what I was thinking.

  No, that’s not true. I know exactly what went through my mind the day I brought it home. I was going to be a nice guy, fix it up for her—somehow deluded myself into thinking I was doing it because she’s a sweet girl, and, not unlike my sister, I like a good project. I also factored in that I get good deals on parts through the shop, and most of the labor I could do myself.

  Only about five percent of my motivation was because I wanted to see the look on her face when I gave it to her. I might have imagined the way her eyes would go wide and her lips would part in surprise. Maybe in my head, I figured she’d turn to me, overwhelmed with gratitude, and thank me by exclaiming what a great guy I am, giving me a nice ego boost.

  But at some point in the last few years, that imagined verbal thanks turned into a hug…which escalated into us making out in the backseat of the newly restored classic. And now the image is even more vivid because I know Addison’s hair smells like fruit and flowers, and I am all too aware of how her lips feel against mine.

  I blink a few times,
realizing I’ve come to a stop and am staring down the street like a complete idiot. A couple passes me, both shooting me questioning looks, probably wondering if I’m on something.

  I shake my head to clear it and offer them a smile, trying to assure them I’m not going to start talking to street lights anytime soon.

  After a few more minutes of aimless wandering, I end up driving home.

  Ditching the television idea, I change into work clothes and head out back. My parents bought the house when I was about ten and then sold it to me a few years ago when they moved to Scottsdale. Jessa lived here until the wedding, but now that she’s married, it’s just me. The original owners added the extra detached, single-level shop—supposedly the guy was a woodworker—but I’ve transformed it into a second garage, and that’s where Addison’s car lives.

  Jessa knows about the GTO, though she’s never mentioned it. Maybe she doesn’t know how badly Addison has always wanted one. Maybe she never connected the dots. Maybe she just doesn’t have a clue what it is—that’s the likely option. While Addison can talk shop with the best of us, Jessa gets this blank look on her face when I go too far. Don’t get me wrong, my sister is happy to let me ramble, but she doesn’t love the subject like I do. To prove that, she married Franklin. The man drives a foreign hybrid. We try not to hold that against him.

  Much.

  I flick on the lights, pull a soda from the mini fridge, and lean against the wall, studying the car. The body was decent enough when I got it, but it had a few dings and scratches. Now the lines flow smoothly from the front to the back. It still needs paint and new wheels, but it’s close.

  After a few minutes of quiet thought, carefully plotting out my next step, I crush the empty can with my boot and get to work.

  I call it a night at three in the morning and stumble off to bed, wondering what kind of trouble Addison is going to get herself into this weekend.

  It seems like Monday is a long way away.

  * * *

  “You know,” Jessa says over the phone at just after ten in the morning. “I didn’t expect to hear so much from my older brother after I got married. Tell me the truth. You miss me, don’t you?”