by Sofia Belle
“And if he’s interesting, then what?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know if he’s interesting until our first date, but I suppose a second date would follow.”
“Bingo. Show ladies how to get a second date.”
I cringed. “Everyone is so different. There are all sorts of guys out there in the world, and girls, too.”
“Then try all different types of guys.”
“Me?” I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a choked gurgle. “What?”
“You have to try all different sorts of guys so you have a bigger sample size. It’s science, Rosie. You’ll need lots of examples.”
“I don’t want to try all sorts of different men,” I argued. “I’m only a buffet type of girl when it comes to ice cream. I can handle one man if I’m lucky.”
“Stop it. You’re funny, smart, and cute as a button. You’ll have no problem getting a few dates lined up.”
“Not all of us have your confidence, girlfriend.” Layla was a true beauty, but most of it came from the inside. Sure, she was beautiful on the outside, with long wavy curls flowing down her back and curves in places that turned men’s heads from blocks away, but it was the confidence that kept them coming back. “Are you just trying to get me back into the dating world?”
“Admit it. You think it’s a good idea. Plus, I’m guessing you’re desperate for a story, otherwise you wouldn’t have called me.”
“I have two weeks to increase traffic or my job is axed,” I grumbled. “I’m beyond desperate, I’m begging you.”
“Then set up a few dates for the rest of this week and slowly build up momentum. People will share your story and your posts. They’ll talk about it at the office with friends. Everyone loves to watch love. Look at television—The Bachelor doesn’t have a billion seasons for no reason!”
“Yeah, but I’m nothing special. People don’t want to watch me.”
“I beg to disagree,” Layla said. “A lot of women can relate to you, and they’ll sympathize with your journey. Your struggles and your successes.”
I gave a noncommittal hmmm.
“Listen, Rosie. If you want this series of posts to go viral, you need to make these women feel. You need to make them cry, and you need to break their hearts. You need to get them so invested in your journey that they’ll root for you to succeed. They have to want love for you as much as you want it for yourself by the end of this, or else it will never work. You have to believe in yourself, as much as I believe in you.”
“I don’t know.” I paused, looking down at my lap. “I’m a little terrified. Overwhelmed, maybe.”
“I know,” Layla said, her voice gentle. “We all are. That’s why we need you, Rosie. We need someone to give us hope again.”
My hands twisted against one another in my lap. My fear built, manifesting itself in a fidgety leg and a twitchy eye as I debated all of the reasons this would never work. However, when Layla asked one more time, the hope in her words ringing loud and clear, I knew it had to be done.
“Tell me what to do.”
Chapter 3
After a long debate and hours spent browsing profiles, Layla and I had come to an agreement for my first prospect, as well as a title for the article.
Seven Dates in Seven Days: A girl’s guide to love.
My target’s name was Hank. Hank Sterner, handyman.
After surveying his profile, Layla and I had decided that he was about as average as a person could get here in the town of Fairyvale. I put his age somewhere in the mid-thirties.
With sandy brown hair and a pleasant smile, he appeared the jolly type of guy. Judging by a few quick searches on Facebook and Google, he seemed to be generally well-liked by others.
While painting my pinky nails with different brands of lavender nail polish for my current article, I pinged Hank, asking if he’d be interested in a date.
My message worked. He replied a few minutes later with a message explaining that it’d been awhile since his last date. In fact, he hadn’t even visited the site for a few weeks. He’d only checked in because my message had sent him a notification, and he thought my picture was cute.
Then, he apologized profusely in case that was too forward, and asked if he could make it up over dinner and drinks tonight at Bubbles & Broomsticks.
We made a date for seven p.m., and that was the end of that.
I couldn’t say that I wanted to go out on a date. In reality, I wanted to go home, find my microwavable burrito, and do some digging on the story about the gems that were missing from the Fairyvale Museum of Magic.
However, as Layla had pointed out, if I didn’t write up something that people wanted to read, my time would be spent wearing an apron and wiping grease from my forehead at the Haunted Hamburger.
I wrapped up my article, capped my nail polish, and sent the file to my editor just before the deadline. Gathering up all of my things, I realized I didn’t have time to go home before the date, which meant I’d need a quick stop in the ladies restroom to freshen up. I’d change there, slipping into the extra pair of heels and sweater I kept on hand for these very instances.
On the way out, I saw Anderson’s door halfway open, so I swung by and popped my head into the organized corner office. He was on a phone call that looked important, since he didn’t bother to wave back at my flailing arms.
Lowering my voice to an almost-whisper, I mouthed to him that I’d come up with a winning idea. Anderson raised one eyebrow at me. Then, he gestured for me to close his door and get on with it.
I slipped into the bathroom, doing my whole mascara and lipgloss routine with practiced ease. A few minutes later I finished up the process, trading my jeans and sneakers for jeans and high heels. I added a simple cardigan and voila. All done.
After a quick spin in the mirror, I decided that I looked close enough to the dating profile I’d created on the Internet. It probably helped that I’d taken the picture with my webcam an hour ago, and not much had changed in the past sixty minutes.
I headed down the hallway, ignoring Bruce the Secretary when he whistled as I walked passed.
“Hey, Bruce.”
“Doll. Where in the world did you find those shoes?” He looked up from his post near the front door and scanned my outfit with a practiced eye.
A blush crept onto my cheeks. Bruce the Secretary was a big man with a haircut fit for the army and muscles to match. He might’ve been a Marine at some point, or a Navy Seal, or even Special Forces. He was muscular, tough, and very, very flamboyant.
“Spin around.” He did a twirl with his finger.
Bruce’s badge said he was the secretary, though he’d initially joined The Witch Weekly five years ago as a security guard. Not long after, we’d gone through a huge round of layoffs, and our staff had shrunk significantly.
Bruce had been one of the people who’d received the dreaded pink slip. However, he’d surprised everyone by turning around and shoving that pink slip right back in Anderson’s face.
I want to be the secretary, he said, claiming that if they kept him on as secretary, they’d technically be filling two roles in one: security guard and front desk attendant. I’d thought it was brilliant, and I’d managed to convince Anderson that it was a great idea as well.
Now, after five years of his hybrid role, he was attempting a move onto the fashion team at the magazine. Unfortunately, his test subject was often me. He loved styling me, and I hated it. Yet somehow, we remained friends.
“I’m not trying to be fancy,” I said twirling a second time at Bruce’s request. “This isn’t a real date. It’s for an assignment.”
“You’re arguing all too much for this to not be a real date.” Bruce’s eyebrows were high. “Either way, I think you’re perfect. Can I tell you what I’d write in The Witch Weekly Wardrobe Write-Up?”
I sighed, waving my hand for him to go ahead.
He was angling for Joan’s job, a woman nearing retirement age. She was so old, she legitimat
ely believed that poodle skirts were in style, and that people still danced the electric slide on the weekend.
Bruce would probably do a better job than Joan on the column, but nobody dared to kick Joan out of her office; she was cranky and mean, and if someone got on her bad side she’d post their photo and rip their outfit to pieces in the weekly style section, which was somehow still one of the most widely read sections of the paper. Joan’s hot or not section was not the place you wanted your photo to appear.
“You’ve got a nice, streamlined look here, I’m going to call this a day-to-night outfit,” Bruce said. “Slip on a pair of flats for office wear. After the nine-to-five, you step into those gorgeous kitten heels to take on the town. Your little black tank top is perfect; conservative enough for work, but with a hint of mysterious that says: You want to find out what’s underneath here.”
I shook my head at Bruce. “No, nobody’s saying that. My shirt is staying on, and nobody’s finding out what’s underneath.”
Bruce was too busy doing a dance of happiness to listen. “You look good, Rosie.”
“Thanks, Bruce. I appreciate it.”
“Those jeans accentuate your stems, and I don’t know how you keep your weight down, inhaling all that fast food,” he said. “I’m jealous.”
I eyed his hulking, massive frame. “You’re jealous?”
“You’ve got those petite ankles and dainty wrists. Perfect for dancing. Anyway, good luck tonight.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Is this part of the Seven Dates, Seven Days series of blog posts you’re doing to save the company?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
His eyes fell to the front desk in he dodged the question. Bruce also couldn’t lie.
“Layla told you.”
He shrunk under the accusation, and then spilled his guts in true Bruce form.”She called and asked me to make sure you were dressed well enough for the night.”
“I can dress myself!”
Bruce narrowed his eyes at you. “Don’t be mad. She was just looking out for you. She really wants you to succeed.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
I gestured at my day-to-night outfit. “Do I pass?”
Bruce grinned. “With flying colors. Now, go have fun with Hank.”
“She told you everything?”
“You know Layla and I, we don’t keep secrets.”
“The two biggest gossips in town,” I grumbled. “I work with one of ‘em, and I live with the other.”
“Oh, you love it. And remember. Don’t chew with your mouth open. Order a salad, and not all that deep fried crap you usually eat.”
“I don’t want a salad!”
“It’s dainty.”
“Lucky for both you and Hank, this is an assignment, and not just any old date.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to be taking notes?”
“Nope! No notes. However, I do have a recorder if I need to run to the bathroom and give myself some notes while I’m out.” I pointed at my necklace—a thin silver chain with a tiny diamond stud in the center. Or what looked like a diamond. If I put one finger on the front and one on the back, then squeezed for three seconds, the fake gem would begin recording. It wasn’t magic, just good, solid technology.
“You shouldn’t record people without their knowledge.”
“I won’t! I just use it when I need to jot down notes and forget my notepad or computer,” I said. “It also auto-saves, so I never lose my notes. The recording transmits to a little box I keep in my purse, or in my car, or at home—wherever I need it.”
“That’s neat,” Bruce said, his interest waning. He leaned forward, pulling lip gloss from his person—where, I didn’t bother to ask—and began applying it to my mouth without permission. “Pucker up,” he instructed, swiping back and forth. “There. That’s good, doll. We’ve gotta make you delicious since the entire country’s gonna be watching you fall in love.”
My heart sped up. Wiping slightly sweaty palms against my skinny jeans, I tried to swallow, the taste of cherry gloss strong.
I knew that Bruce was just trying to plump up my confidence before the date tonight. It helped, a little. My palms had a sheen of nervous sweat on them, and as I pulled out the keys to my car, I wondered if blue-eyed Hank would be my ticket to success.
Chapter 4
“Hey Bel, how’s it going?” I answered the phone as I pulled into the parking lot for Bubbles & Broomsticks, the local town bar and grill. It leaned more towards upscale dining than fast food, and was a frequent choice of venue for my other best friend, the famous wedding planner Belinda Bright.
“Are you at Jo’s?” Belinda asked, her voice gentle across the phone line.
Where Layla was all outgoing fun, Bel was organized, thoughtful, and generally responsible. She ran the best wedding planning business in the whole town, possibly the whole country. Love was her specialty.
Jo owned Bubbles & Broomsticks, and she and Belinda were good friends. Jo’s restaurant sat midway into town, perched just across the street from the only wedding dress shoppe in Fairyvale. Usually after one of Bel’s brides chose her dress, the entire party would come here to celebrate. Since I often tagged along, I knew Jo, as well.
“I’m outside,” I said, shutting the car off and sitting back in the seat. I welcomed the phone call. Any legitimate excuse that delayed the date was fine by me. “I’m trying to avoid going inside. Anyway, how did you know I was coming here tonight? I haven’t told anyone except for…”
I sighed, and at the same time, both Bel and I said the same name: Layla.
“She has your best interests at heart,” Bel said. “She called me to see if I could get Jo to reserve the best table for you and Hank. The romantic one in the corner; you know where I’m talking about.”
“I don’t want the romantic corner,” I groaned. “I just want a normal first date experience.”
“I know that your job depends on this gig, so get on inside. I just wanted to wish you good luck.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
“Good.” Bel waited a beat, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “You know, Rosie, you probably don’t want my advice, but I’ll give it to you anyway. If you look at this date like it’s your job, it’ll never work.”
“What do you mean?” I paused with one hand on the door knob.
“Falling in love isn’t the same thing as crafting a perfect newspaper story,” Bel said. “Sometimes love is messy. Sometimes it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s flawed, or broken, or complicated, and often times that’s okay.”
“Love sounds really difficult.”
Bel blew out some air. “Just remember that Hank is a human. Don’t try to turn this into an interview, or interrogate him. Just enjoy yourself, and I’m sure he’ll like what he sees.”
I considered Bel’s words. “I suppose you are the expert.”
“Some might say that.” Bel gave a tinkling laugh.
She might be humble, but it was true. Hundreds of couples came to Bel every year asking for her to plan their weddings, and she had to decline the majority of them, since there simply wasn’t enough time in the day. Bel had weddings stacked two years in advance.
“I’ll do my best. Okay, I’ve gotta go, it’s seven o’clock now.”
“Fashionably late, hon. Go get him.”
Sliding out of the car, I made it to the door of the bar in a few short steps. I pulled the door open, surveying the seating arrangements before stepping foot inside the place.
“Hiya, Rosie,” Jo said, waving from behind the bar. She wore a cheeky grin and a knowing gleam in her eyes, which could only mean one thing: Layla had phoned her, too. “I saved you a special table. You know the one over in the corner? Very romantic. I have one fella named Hank waiting for you.”
I groaned, giving Jo a hug in greeting. “We’re keeping this quiet, right? The whole town does
n’t need to know my business.”
She winked. “Of course. Anyway, Bel called me after Layla and told me to keep an eye on you. I’m supposed to jump in if you start interrogating poor Hank.”
“I’m not going to interrogate Hank!”
“That’s the right attitude.” She grinned. “Go enjoy a nice dinner; don’t worry about the bill, I’ll send it over to Anderson myself. I’m catering lunch for your office next week, so I’ll add it to the tab.”
“I can’t argue about that.”
She leaned in and did a double wink. “Which is exactly why I took the liberty of starting you too off with the darkest, richest red wine I have in the house. Some call it the love potion.”
“Jo!”
“What?” She shrugged, and gave me an innocent stare, speaking with a joking lilt to her voice. “You don’t believe in magic and all those fairy tales, do you?”
I laughed. “Funny, Jo.”
“Go now, have a good time. He’s waiting for you.”
I peeked over her shoulder to the so-called “romantic corner” where, as promised, a man with brownish hair sat tucked against the wall. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell if it was Hank, since the man sat perfectly still, slumped over his empty plate in what looked like a deep, deep sleep.
“Is he okay?” I hesitated before taking a step forward. “That’s definitely not a good sign if I’ve bored him to death before I’ve even arrived.”
Jo frowned. “Maybe the wine I started him off with knocked him out a bit. They do say it’s an aphrodisiac.”
“Aphrodisiacs aren’t supposed to make you go to sleep.”
“No, no they’re not.” She pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Well, maybe wake Sleeping Beauty up with a kiss. That’d make a good story down the line if you two end up working out.”
I mumbled some sort of response, but I was already walking over towards my date. Something was off, I could feel it. That same feeling when I was on a story and about to stumble onto a critical piece of information.
“Hank?” I reached out and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Hi, Hank. I’m Rosie.”
One or two heads turned to stare as I stuck my hand out and waited, never getting a response back.