Dating Mr. Right: Four Standalone Romantic Comedies

by Blakely, Lauren

  By the fifth hole, I’ve caught Piper up on all my online dating escapades.

  “This is fabulous news,” Piper declares as she swings her golf club. She’s a whiz at miniature golf, and I wish I could become one by osmosis.

  “And why is this such a fabulous development?” I position my purple golf ball on the tee, the bright lights illuminating the course even at this late hour.

  “So many of my clients these days are meeting online.” Piper is something of a wedding planner, so she knows the intricacies of how couples meet and bind in holy matrimony. “Many of the online matches get engaged and married sooner, and often they seem to get along better. That’s what those of us in the wedding biz call a hole in one.”

  I look up from the ball, club in hand. “What percentage of your clients have met online?”

  She screws up the corner of her lips and glances toward the sky. Piper lives in New York, but she’s in town prepping for a wedding she’s working on. “Well, since you are sort of obsessed with numbers and statistics, I’ll say seventy-six percent. But it’s also entirely possible I might have pulled that number out of thin air.”

  “Well, why don’t you pull it out of un-thin air? Why don’t you tell me how many people really meet online?”

  She pats my shoulder then gestures to the tee. “Take your turn first.”

  I whack the ball, watching as it rolls underneath a swinging pirate ship, landing miserably far from the hole. “You’re trying to get me to mess up.”

  “You do an excellent job of that on your own, which is why I love playing with you.”

  “Someday you’ll meet someone who’s amazing at mini golf, and it will be unbearably difficult for you to actually have to compete,” I tease.

  “But that day hasn’t come yet.”

  We walk along the green to the balls and Piper taps hers lightly, sending it to the hole, then answers my question. “Easily more than half of the weddings I do are for couples who met online. It’s the most popular way people meet these days.”

  I hit the purple ball, and it mocks me by zipping close to the hole then doglegging away. Evil orb. “My grams thinks online dating will lead me to Jack the Ripper’s door.”

  “Maybe it’ll lead to Jack Rip-off-your-clothes-and-bang-you-against-a-door.”

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “A girl can dream.”

  With the club in her hand, she presses her palms together. “A girl can pray.”

  For a second, I wonder if LuckySuit is a bang-you-against-the-door kind of guy. Then I wonder where that thought came from.

  Oh yeah, chatting with him.

  With the guy who lives in New York, so it’s pointless.

  Piper flicks her chestnut hair off her shoulder. “So, tell me about these guys that you’ve been meeting online. I’m dying to hear.”

  As I tap, tap, tap to five strokes on a par two, I tell her about LuckySuit and what went down tonight. “His real name is Cameron.”

  “What’s his last name, so we can online stalk him and see if he’s Hemsworthy.”

  My shoulders sag. “I didn’t get it.”

  “Ask your grams.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “It’d be like admitting she was right.”

  “Oh, well, you can’t do that.”

  “But there’s this other guy . . .”

  Her eyes pop wide in avid interest, and I update her on my conversation with ThinkingMan.

  “When are you going to meet him?” she asks as we stroll to the next hole.

  The possibility makes my skin spark with both nerves and excitement. “Should I meet him?”

  “You should meet him and you should meet Cameron.”

  “But Cameron doesn’t even live here.”

  She shrugs happily. “It can’t hurt. Just tell your grams you want to meet her friend. It’s not admitting defeat. It’s opening yourself up to possibility.”

  Funny, how earlier I was juggling one possibility. Now there are two. And both are appealing.

  Especially when I find a message from one the next morning.

  8

  Cameron

  My phone rings while I’m jogging along the beach as the pink light of dawn stretches across the sky.

  “Hey, Jeanne,” I say. “What’s shaking?”

  “Not the earth, thank heavens.”

  “Indeed, that’s a good thing. By the way, did you hear about last night? And how I chatted with your granddaughter?”

  “Only a little. Seems my Kristen deleted the conversation the two of you had, but I’m not a spy. I’m simply a little old lady who wants her granddaughter to have a nice date with a nice man.”

  I slow my pace, a little surprised she went for it. But then, I shouldn’t be, given how she mentioned her at the auction. “You know you’re not a little old lady. You’re a wise, clever woman, and I bet you have some plan for me.”

  I can hear her smile. “You figured me out. Let’s cut to the chase. She liked you. I think you liked her. Would you like to meet her today at four p.m.? She has a shortened workday.”

  She names a popular spot in the Wynwood neighborhood.

  I stop in my tracks, and before I can think too deeply on all the reasons to say no, I say yes.

  9

  Kristen

  Before I leave for work, a message blinks at me.

  My stomach flip-flops when I see the name.

  My mind is a swirl of possibilities, switching back and forth between two men—LuckySuit and ThinkingMan.

  But only one of them is asking me out.

  ThinkingMan: Would you want to meet today at four p.m.?

  I say yes, and I hope it doesn’t come out breathlessly online. Then I ask for his name.

  ThinkingMan: Mac.

  Telescoper: I’m Kristen.

  ThinkingMan: See you this afternoon.

  I can’t wait.

  10

  Cameron

  “Look at you. All decked out for a blind date.” Joe whistles at me as we chat in the lobby bar. “And you finally look like you belong here.”

  I arch a brow. “I beg to differ. There is not a white jacket or an ounce of pink or pastel on me.” I gesture to my outfit—jeans and a navy-blue polo. Simple, casual. Fitting for a blind date.

  At least, I think so. I haven’t been on one since my first year out of college when my friend Mariana set me up with a preschool teacher who, it turned out, liked to snort glue.

  I’ll just say I’m glad I don’t have kids in her school.

  And Mariana is too.

  Joe waves a hand dismissively. “Just kidding. You’re so New York in your clothes, you’re a lost cause.”

  “And you practically match the art deco theme here,” I say, since the man looks like he can only exist in the tropics—he’s gone all in on the pink shirt, for crying out loud. Yet, he’s a stylish dude.

  We talk some more, and I finish off my iced tea and check my watch. “I need to jet. But what about you? Are you going to get some cojones and finally let Jeanne know you’ve got it bad for her? I saw the way the two of you were making googly eyes at each other at the auction the other day.”

  “Maybe I already have . . .”

  “You sly dog. Such a fast worker.” I toss a twenty on the sleek silver counter of the bar. “Wait. Are you pulling my leg again?”

  “Maybe I already asked her to marry me.”

  I clap his shoulder. “I can see I’m getting no straight answers from you.”

  “Have fun on your date, young turk. I’ll have fun on mine with Jeanne.”

  I grin. “Excellent. And soon I’ll be saying have fun on your honeymoon, Silver Fox.”

  He raises his glass in a toast. “You never know. I do have it bad for her.”

  “You never do know,” I echo, and I take off to meet Kristen.

  * * *

  A happy blue alien tries to devour a yellow flower. Next to the peppy creature, a green bug chases a
pink caterpillar.

  I snap photo after photo of the street art, capturing the graffiti on the walls in the Wynwood neighborhood, a mecca for outdoor art with more than forty murals. I arrived early, since it’s always better to be early.

  Plus, taking pictures gives me something to do as I wait. Keeps me busy. That way I don’t have to focus on nerves.

  Wait.

  I don’t feel any.

  Of course I don’t feel any.

  Why would I? Just because I haven’t been on a blind date since the glue-snorter.

  I snap another shot, telling myself it’ll be fine, it’ll be good, and the date will simply pass the time. Nothing more can come of it, so I’ll just have fun. That’s all it can ever be.

  “I see we both like to peer through lenses.”

  I lower my camera when I hear the pretty voice, turning around to see a woman in red glasses, those jeans that end at the calves, and a silky light-blue tank top. She’s prettier than any blind date has ever been in the history of the universe, with chestnut locks that curl in waves over her shoulders, freckles, and a nose that’s nothing short of adorable.

  Hell, I stand no chance of not liking her. “Telescopes for you, I presume, with all your stargazing?”

  For a second, her brow knits, as if I’ve said something odd. “Yes, I’m the Telescoper.”

  The designation makes me smile, so I point to myself. “The Camera-er.”

  She laughs. “Each gives a different perspective on the world.”

  “I’m a big fan of different perspectives,” I add, enjoying the view of her so very much, and the conversational potential seems promising too.

  “Ditto.” She licks her lips, tucks a strand of hair over her ear.

  I extend a hand. “I presume you’re Kristen?”

  She laughs lightly, like maybe she’s a touch nervous too. “Last time I checked I was.” She takes my hand, and we shake. “Good to meet you, Mac.”

  I furrow my brow. Did she just call me Mac? But the woman is nervous, and I don’t need to correct her this second. I’ll remind her of my name when she’s not so nervous. I gesture to the blue alien overlord. “Glad we could do this. I’ve been wanting to check out these murals. Did you see the one with Yoda painted every color of the rainbow?”

  Her green eyes widen. They twinkle with specks of gold. “No, but I think we should see what kind of points we deserve for creative selfies. Since, you know, we gave out points for wordplay.”

  I rack my brain a moment, trying to remember when we assigned points for wordplay. I don’t recall, but it sounds like something we’d have done, so I go with it. “Most creative selfie wins . . .” I stroke my chin as we walk. “Hmm. What’s a good prize?”

  She snaps her fingers. “I know. Whoever wins gets to ask five questions in a row.”

  “You and your questions,” I say, laughing,

  She shoots me a quizzical look, as if I’ve thrown her off.

  But maybe we’re both still in the nervous zone. Best to act like a comedian does when he or she is terrified of the crowd—never let them see you sweat.

  I segue into another topic, hoping it eases any remaining awkwardness. “Tell me more about your interest in astronomy. Were you one of those kids who got a telescope for Christmas and it ignited a lifelong love?”

  “Exactly! It was like Santa knew my true soul.”

  “He is one smart dude.” I wink. “Sounds like your parents knew you well.”

  “They did.” She taps her chin as we wander past a geometric painting of pink-and-blue prisms. “Actually, if memory serves, they gave me my first scope. They didn’t want Santa getting credit for something so good.”

  “Now those are some seriously smart parents. What did Santa get you that year? Socks?”

  “Coal,” she deadpans.

  “I see you’ve spent some time on the naughty list.”

  Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Sometimes I still wind up on it.”

  And I’m officially a goner. This woman—I like her. I like her a hell of a lot already. This is what I’m talking about—chemistry, zip, zing. It’s all about the in-person connection.

  “What do you know? I’ve found myself on top of that list a few times.” I flash her a smile, and when she grins back, I’m done for. Her smile is magical and sexy at the same time—gleaming white teeth and glossy lips that beg to be kissed.

  She nudges my arm. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping your naughty adventures from me.”

  “Well, I had to save something to discuss on our date.”

  She laughs again. “Fess up. How did you end up on the naughty list when you were a kid?”

  “Ah, you want the kid-naughty list stuff?”

  “We can save the adult-naughty list conversation for a second date,” she stage-whispers.

  I tap my temple, as if I’m filing that away then making a note to myself. “Makes plans for second date.” I sigh happily. “Okay, kid stuff. Let’s see. When I was ten, I told my sister her birthday was wrong. I made her a fake birth certificate in Photoshop. I was always into taking pictures and doing cool things with them. Or cruel things. So I showed it to her, and for a few days, she believed she was a year older and kept asking why she was held back in school.”

  Her jaw goes slack, and her eyes widen. “You were masterfully naughty.”

  “That’s nothing compared to her revenge.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She knew my sweet tooth was off the charts. So she made me a pie spiked with hot sauce. Brownies with salt instead of sugar. But that’s not the worst of it: she then made a batch of real chocolate cookies and put raisins in them.” I pretend to sniffle and then rub fake tears off my face. “That was the worst.”

  Kristen’s nose crinkles. “She wins the prank wars. That is fantastic.” We turn the corner. “My grandma and I like to prank each other. One time she set the autocorrect options on my phone to eggplant, Uranus, and dik-dik, which is actually a tiny antelope.”

  I chuckle. “That does not surprise me in the least. She’s a character. Also, tiny antelopes are adorable.”

  She stops in front of a giant pink mushroom. “I’ve told you about her?”

  I narrow my eyes. Is she crazy? Then I remind myself—never let them see you sweat. And never let on you know she’s sweating. “Of course you did. And nothing about her surprises me.”

  She shakes her head, as if she’s shaking off a thought. She points to the end of the block. “Anyway, there’s Yoda. Let’s see how we do.”

  I pretend to put my arm around the green dude and snap a selfie, and then Kristen puckers up like she’s going to kiss him, capturing that on her phone. We compare, and I concede. “Why am I not surprised? You definitely win. You kissing Yoda earns all the points.”

  She pumps a fist. “Yes, Twenty Questions time.”

  I hold up five fingers. “You get five questions.”

  She pretends to roll up her sleeves. “All right. Are you ready?”

  “Hit me. I’m already warmed up from your barrage of questions last night.”

  She arches a brow. “I didn’t think it was a barrage.”

  I laugh. “What exactly would you call it?”

  “I didn’t think I asked that many.”

  “That many? It was a firing squad of questions.” I soften my tone as we near a mural of a flamingo. “But I didn’t mind. I enjoyed them all. I was thoroughly, completely entertained to the max.”

  She smiles. “Me too. Our conversations have been fun.”

  But it does feel like we’ve had them separately, and I’m not sure why.

  11

  Kristen

  I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  It’s almost as if he’s not the guy I’ve been chatting with on the dating site.

  But he looks exactly like his online photo, which is rare. Usually they’re a few years off, give or take. This guy looks precisely like his shot, almost like his picture was snapped a few
days ago. Plus, Mac is so handsome, it’s almost unreal.

  Still, it’s as if we’re in parallel worlds—close, but not quite running on the same track.

  So even though I’ve earned my five questions, and even though I should make them meaningful, getting-to-know-you ones, like What book would you read if stranded on a desert island?, or ones that highlight a person’s sense of humor, like If you’re clean when you get out of the shower, how does a towel become dirty?, I opt for something simpler in the hope that I can figure out if we’re connecting or disconnecting.

  I gesture to the mural of the flamingo. “Wouldn’t it be funny if the color of our hair was a result of our diet?” He gives me a look that says I’m borderline bonkers, so I explain. “Flamingos are pink because of the pigments in their food. Carotenoids. And they eat pink food—shrimp, algae, crustaceans . . .”

  He points to the saucy birds ornamenting the side of a building. “That does sound familiar. I remember learning that at some point. Now, have you ever thought about this twist—what if they ate blue fish or green birds? Would they be a different color?”

  “We’d probably have emerald-green flamingos all over our mugs, license plates, and other gift shop trinkets.”

  His fingers grip his skull then explode. “A whole different spectrum of tchotchkes.”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it? I’m pretty sure in this flamingo-carotenoid universe, I’d be green. I’m secretly addicted to kale.”

  He looks at his watch. “I’m going to have to leave right now.”

  “Why?” I laugh.

  He crosses his arms. They’re quite toned, I notice. His biceps look nice and strong and would feel great wrapped around me, I bet. A zing shoots down my chest as he shakes his head. “No one is secretly addicted to kale. So you’re either an alien or a robot or a celebrity on a fad diet, and I can’t date any of those.”