Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

“You’ll have house-bearing hips after five kids.”

  “Five?” He must be mistaken. Where did it say that?

  “He says here that he wants five or more children. At his age, you can bet he’ll want to get started quickly, which will please your mother.” Hmm, maybe not. “Come on. We’ve been looking for nearly two hours. Are you going to actually pick someone or not?”

  I chewed my lower lip and considered my options. “Not, I think. I’ve decided I’m old-fashioned. It’s a man’s job to do the asking.”

  He sighed heavily. “Well, you’ll need to put your own profile online before anyone else can invite an ‘old-fashioned’ girl like you on a date. You’ve already signed up, so just go to the my profile section and answer the questions.”

  I laboured over my profile, but really there wasn’t an awful lot to say: I liked reading – fiction, not fact; watching TV, especially talent shows; nights in and out with friends; eating; drinking; travelling… I stared at the screen. “I never realised how boring I am until I wrote it down.”

  “You’re not boring. You’re normal.”

  “Normal. Boring. What’s the difference? Maybe if I say I like adventure sports, or something exciting like–”

  “Don’t lie. You’ll only end up regretting it. Besides, do you want to end up with some X-sports junky who’s going to want you to go diving with sharks or cliff jumping?”

  “No. I guess I’ll just be boring.” I pouted and moved on to filling out my physical description.

  “Your hair is brown.”

  “I know that!” I snapped. I didn’t like it, but I knew it. I stalled, the arrow hovering over the body shape category. Everyone lied on these things, right? And I was slender compared to those women you saw on American shows like Obese: A Year to Save My Life.

  “You’re curvy.” He continued before my increased tension could transform into an elbow jab. “I like curvy. A lot of men do. And if you’re going to meet up with one of these guys, he’s going to need to recognise you, and from your last experience, I’m guessing you don’t want to go with the whole ‘wearing a carnation’ thing again.”

  “Fine,” I said through clenched teeth. The last thing I needed was another Stalker John. “What ssshhhould” – for some reason, S’s were fairly tricky tonight – “I write about myself?”

  “I thought you’d already done that section.”

  He was right. Talk about thorough. I’d provided less information on my passport application. How long did it take? They’d be asking for my bank account details and PIN soon.

  “No, I’ve done the what I like doing section, and the what I look like section. Are you sure I’m–”

  “Yes, KT. You’re definitely curvy. You should also write that you’re funny, intelligent…”

  “That’s nice. Speak slowly so I can type it up.”

  “You’ve got a couple of typos there.” Mark pointed out the errors and helped me correct my mistakes. Why was he being so nice? If it wasn’t Mark, I’d think he was interested in me… then again, if he was interested, he wouldn’t be correcting my typos and trying to foist me off on other men.

  “Oh, goody. The last section is the most important one: what am I looking for in my ideal man?”

  “I can give you some ideas, if you like?” He pulled back, tipping my chin up. My head fell back to rest against his shoulder, forcing me to look at him before he spoke. “Tall, let’s say… six foot three, medium build, muscled but not muscle-bound.” He flexed his bicep then ran a hand through his hair. “Straight, dark brown hair, blue eyes, sexy, intelligent yet creative…”

  Sighing, I rolled my eyes. He was describing himself. He could be such a pain sometimes. I turned back to my laptop, nearly knocking my wine off the arm of the sofa. “I want to be realistic, Mark. I don’t want to miss getting my Mr Perfect because I’ve been too specific and put him off. I’m looking for a man who’s employed, intelligent, single, and… breathing.” I chewed my lip for a second, contemplating what I’d written. “Between twenty-five and thirty-five years old who lives within ten miles of SW1. There. That ought to do it.”

  “If you’re not specific enough, you’ll end up with loads of weirdos.”

  “You’re right.” I added And not a weirdo to my ideal man description.

  “That ought to work.” Mark laughed and topped up our glasses. Not much left in the second bottle now.

  I checked my account for the third time in as many minutes. “Why hasn’t anyone winked or responded to me?”

  “Be patient. Your profile probably hasn’t uploaded yet.”

  “No one likes me.” I sniffed and downed some consolation wine, clicking on the refresh button repeatedly to try and speed things up.

  “Don’t be silly, KT. If anything – and by this, I mean anything other than the fact your profile has been online for less than five minutes – it’s because you haven’t put a photo on. You said yourself, you wouldn’t click on one that didn’t have a photo.”

  “You’re right.” I grabbed his arm in desperate excitement, bouncing on my knees on the sofa. “Take a picture of me.”

  “Ah.” He paused, considering how to phrase his response. I hated it when he did that. It never boded well. “Perhaps you should use the one Muriel used on the Underground adverts.”

  I reared back, shocked. “How can you say that? It’s horrid. I barely got any responses last time we used it, and the quality of respondents wasn’t exactly… quality.”

  “You deleted your telephone message account after your first date. You don’t know who has tried to call since then.”

  “You heard my messages and saw my first date. Why would I put myself through that more than once?”

  “Fair point, but you don’t want to make the same mistake again by using a dodgy photo. So, why don’t you wait, maybe get a professional photo shoot?” He watched me steadily, I stared back, chin quivering, eyes filling. “Fine.” The word escaped on a reluctant sigh. “How about we use one from your photo gallery? One where you’ve prepared and are dressed up and stuff.”

  “No. I want a new one. One that I’ve posed for. I don’t want to be one of those people who uses a picture from years ago because they don’t think they’re pretty anymore, or who cuts their ex or a friend out of their profile picture, leaving a stray arm or other body part in their photo.”

  “We could wait until tomorrow, when the… ah… light is better.”

  “I want to do it now.” I leant forward, hands braced on his thighs, squeezing. “Pleeeeeeeeeease. No one will click on me if I don’t have a photo. There are only a few weeks left until you send me viral and I spend the rest of my life being trolled by kids and shitty keyboard warriors. You promised you’d help me get dates. You promised my mum.” I pouted. I’d have rolled out the big guns – tears – but they made my face blotchy, and I was about to have my photo taken! “Just use your mobile phone. Then you can email it to my laptop and I can post it straight away.”

  “Fine.”

  “Great!” I sat back, sucked in my cheeks, pushed out my lips and chest, and looked out under my eyelashes. “Ready!”

  He hesitated, phone in hand, expression blank. “Do you want to do something first?”

  I frowned as he waved a hand in my general direction. “Like what?”

  “You know, girl stuff. Beautification.”

  “Are you saying I’m… ugly?” My voice trembled, along with my chin, and I blinked rapidly.

  “What? No. No. You’re gorgeous, honey. I just thought…” A tear streaked down my cheek. “Never mind. Let’s get this over and done with.”

  I fluffed my hair, ran my tongue over my pearly whites, moistened my lips, and turned to look sultrily at the phone Mark had fumbled out of his pocket.

  “Three, two, one.”

  I blinked away the flash blindness. “Thanks. Just email it to me and then I’ll attach it here.”

  “Are you sure? Don’t you want to check it first? Maybe pose for another one an
d pick the best?”

  “Shut up and shend it!”

  Chapter 11

  Is your name Google? Because you have everything I’ve been searching for.

  A hundred hours of watching the computer screen and drumming my fingers later…

  “Oh, oh! It’s beeping. Let me see. Let me see. Look! Seven men have winked at me already. This is so much better than those stupid posters.”

  “It could be the same person winking repeatedly.”

  “Shut up, Mark.” Okay, so it was the same guy winking seven times, but maybe he just really liked me. “This is exciting.” I opened up my page and followed the winker’s name to his profile. “He’s called himself Romeo.”

  “Romeo?” Mark said. “No wonder the guy has to go online to find a date.”

  “What are you saying?” I demanded. “I’m online too.”

  “Ah… shit. It’s not the most imaginative of names.”

  “He’s online now and likes curvy brunettes! Wow. Have you read his profile thingy? The guy’s incredible. I think he might be Mr Perfect.”

  “I don’t need to read it. I can just listen to you gush over it.”

  I frowned. He sounded like he didn’t like Romeo. How could you not like someone you’d never met (unless they were skinnier and prettier than you)? “He’s an author, with eight published plays.”

  “That’ll make him a playwright, then,” Mark said sarcastically.

  “It’s all the same. You write words and someone else reads them.”

  “I’m sure Romeo will appreciate your deep understanding of his life’s work.”

  “Maybe I can get some tips for your writing,” I offered sweetly. “Hey, do you think he’s famous and that’s why he doesn’t have his picture up?”

  “Yeah, either that or… I don’t know… he’s lying or ugly or married.”

  “Why do you have to be so negative about everything? You were the one who helped my mother blackmail me into this shit in the first place.”

  He stared at me for a second then nodded, lips pressed together tightly. “Sorry. Go on, tell me about Romeo.”

  “He describes himself as average to good-looking.”

  “All men think we’re good-looking, even the ugly ones.” He shrugged. “We can’t help it, it’s the way we’re programmed.”

  “Or maybe he really is gorgeous. He’s got two degrees and a PhD in English.” I glanced up at Mark. “You’ve only got one degree.”

  He scowled. “And a master’s from Harvard, but don’t worry about wounding my ego, KT.”

  Touchy. “He ran the London Marathon last year, volunteers at the children’s hospital, and enjoys travelling, especially to the Lake District. He has a cottage there and another one in Florida, for when he needs sunshine. I like sunshine and the Lake District, especially when it’s sh… sh… shunny. Why’s a guy who’s this perfect single?”

  “Now she asks the really important questions.”

  “Oh, he’s sent me an email. I wanna read hish email. He just shaw my profile pop-up… he likes my smile… Oooh. He’s invited me on a date.”

  “Already? You don’t want to respond straight away. You’ll come across as desperate.”

  “I am desperate. Everyone on a dating website is desperate. That’s why we’re on there. Anyway, didn’t you say earlier that I couldn’t conduct a whole relationship online?” He avoided eye contact. “He’ll appreciate my honesty. That’s what good relationships are built on, you know.”

  “Sex appeal helps.”

  “Romeo thinks I’m sexy.” I typed a quick acceptance and hit the send button before singing, “I’ve got a date! I’ve got a date. I knew this internet dating thing would work.”

  “It’s a bit fast,” Mark said.

  “No faster than speed dating. You only spoke to plastic fantastic for ten minutes before you went on a date with her.”

  “Barbie and I had met face to face, and I’m a man. It’s different.” He didn’t sway me with the me man comment. “Shouldn’t you swap numbers and talk first? There has to be some sort of etiquette to this internet dating thing. You know: email questions for a couple of weeks, gradually share a few more personal details, ask a few questions, get a friend to run a police check, and then decide if you have enough in common to swap telephone numbers. Build up to the whole meeting face-to-face thing. You don’t want to rush things, KT. He could be a paedophile.”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s seen my photo. It’s obvious I’m not a child.” I shifted against him again, settling more comfortably. I was all comfy and sleepy and nice and warm. We sat together in silence for a minute, both lost in our own thoughts.

  “Mark?” I said on a yawn.

  “Yes, honey?” He twisted, looking down at me tucked against him. I leant back against his shoulder, staring back at his slightly blurry face. His eyes were dark, sexy. His lips parted. His warm breath caressed my skin.

  I sent a deliberately slow swipe of my tongue over the curve of my bottom lip. “You know you said that you could tell me if I’m a good kisser?” He grunted, eyes still fixed on my mouth. “You said that people would write blogs saying I wasn’t a good kisser.” I rose from the couch, wobbling. “Legsh ashleep.” I frowned, concentrating on staying upright and taking a couple of awkward hop steps across the living room, to get the laptop onto the breakfast bar.

  Mark followed. He propped his hip against the kitchen counter beside me. “I want to kiss you,” I said. Heat radiated off him. His focus didn’t waver from my face. “You said I might not be good. You said that was why Rob did a runner and why Stalker John didn’t invite me for a second date. Not that I wanted him to. I didn’t even kiss him it was just a cheek peck, so it shouldn’t really count, because I didn’t get to show any real skill.”

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea, KT.” His mouth and his body were saying different things.

  Unless… “Oh my God. You think I’m so bad you don’t even want to test-kiss me.” He winced. My lips trembled. My breath caught. “How will I hang on to someone as cool as Romeo if I can’t kiss?” It was Mark’s fault. I’d thought I was a good kisser until he made me doubt my ability. “I’m going to end up a miserable, wrinkled, un-kissable spinster. I’ll never find my prince, all because you wouldn’t help me out.”

  “You’re drunk. I can’t kiss you. I don’t take advantage of drunk women.”

  “Rubbishhh!” How dare he say I couldn’t handle my drink? “I’m fine. I want to kiss you!”

  “Ask again tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s too late. I want you now. And I’m not drunk.”

  “KT?” He settled his backside against the kitchen counter.

  “I need you to give me an honest assessment. Pllleeeaaaseeee.”

  “Fine.”

  “Yeahy. Pucker up and prepare to for the best kiss of your life.” I turned to him, stretching up on my tiptoes. “Prepare to be ruined for all other women! For all other kisses.” His piney scent wrapped around me. I leant forward, quickly pressing my lips against his warm, firm mouth. “Well?”

  I stood back, tripped over… something… grabbing the back of a stool to keep my balance. I looked up, waiting for Mark’s assessment, stomach churning, heart pounding.

  A small frown puckered his brow. His eyes blinked open slowly. “Have you done it yet?”

  “Could you not tell?” I mean, how bad was it if he didn’t even know it had happened?

  “You can’t expect me to form an opinion based on that. My grandmother puts more punch into a peck on the cheek.”

  “The least said about your family relations, the better.”

  “Your loss.” He shrugged. “I’m not the sloppy kisser.”

  “Sloppy?” Oh my God. A chill of fear raced over me. I was a sloppy kisser? I hated sloppy kissers.

  “To be honest, it was too brief for me to sure. If you’re worried, you could” – he shrugged – “try again.”

  “Thank God!” I’d show him this tim
e. Mark caught me around the waist as I threw myself at him, settling me against his hot, hard chest.

  I surged up onto my toes, as he leant down to meet me. “Hmm.” I kissed him, mouths brushing then lifting away, tempting him in. My tongue stroked the seam of his lips, seeking entrance.

  Then I kissed him hard, and he kissed me back, long, deep, wet. My lips tingled. This was a kiss. Maybe not a ten out of ten – I was under pressure to perform, so I couldn’t get totally lost in it – but he’d have to give me extra points for enthusiasm.

  My head spun. I was getting breathless.

  Mark’s chest laboured against mine.

  I pulled back for air. His sweet, warm breath mixed with my exhale. I hooked a heavy arm around his neck, pulling his lips back down. His tongue flicked against mine. I sucked it into my mouth. He groaned, leaning into me. Taking control.

  My head spun.

  This kiss was a twenty out of ten.

  I felt like I was floating. I leant back, blinking rapidly to bring him back into focus. “What do you think?”

  “Hmm.” He licked his lips as he considered. “Maybe you’re just a little out of practice.”

  “Out of–” He dodged my gut punch. That was an excellent kiss… The best, I thought. Wasn’t it?

  “Don’t worry, honey. We can work on it.” His voice was rough with passion, belying his words. “Practice makes perfect, you know.”

  “Was it sloppy?” I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, just in case.

  He pressed his lips together, making a humming sound. “Not sloppy, exactly.”

  “So, it was good.”

  “I didn’t say–”

  I grabbed a fistful of t-shirt and chest hair, yanking his mouth back down to mine.

  “Ouch. Easy, hon.” He loosened my grip on his hair, raising my hands up behind his neck. His calloused palms stroked back down my arms, along the curve of my spine and down to cup my rear, lifting me against him. His thigh slipped between mine, electricity sparking from the hot friction of his hard thigh between legs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Our lips brushed, once, twice. His lips were firm but soft. I followed his retreat, kissing him long, deep, and hard. No worries, no barriers.