Crap. He had me trapped, and he knew it.
I let out a low whine even though part of me was curious. “If I do this, the two of you are never allowed to say another word about my dating or lack thereof. Got it? My vow, my problem.”
“Scout’s honor,” Mia said, holding up her middle finger.
Setting down my load of breakfast items, I raised her index and ring fingers for her. “It’s three fingers, genius.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, I know.”
Miles sprang up and stepped between us in three long strides to hand out the drinks Mia was pouring. “All right, ladies, let’s call a truce before someone breaks a nail.”
I sipped mine gratefully before beginning to whisk the mix, eggs, and milk together. “Where do we start?”
Miles set down the laptop, angling it so I could partially see the screen. “Well, I know your name, birth date, and occupation, so we can skip that,” he said, keying in the information. “It starts by asking you to describe yourself. What’s your hair color?”
I pointed at my head. “You aren’t blind. Can’t you just fill that in for me?”
Miles held up a hand in self-defense. “Hey, hey, some people like to lie online. I was just giving you the chance. Brown it is.”
“Mousy is more accurate,” Mia said.
“I can still kick you out. Remember that.” I beat the batter with extra vigor to work out some of my irritation.
“Eyes?”
“Hazel.”
“Height?”
“Five foot six.”
“On a good day,” Mia chimed in. “And don’t forget to mention her freckles.”
“Not all of us are six-foot Amazons. Just for that, I’m burning your pancakes.”
“Girls,” Miles warned in his best dad-like tone, still clicking away. “Ah, now here, we’re finally getting to the good stuff. What’s the most important quality you look for in a mate?”
“I can only pick one thing?” I popped a chocolate chip in my mouth and thought as the first pancakes bubbled in the skillet, slowly releasing the scent of chocolate into the small apartment. “I have to be able to trust him, to know he won’t abandon me.”
I glanced at Mia. She gave me a pitying smile, knowing full well to what, and to whom, I was referring.
After a few seconds of tapping at the keys, Miles continued. “Got it. If you could build your ideal partner, what are three things his personality would have to include?” He pointed at Mia. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”
“He has to be romantic in an old-fashioned sort of a way—you know, treating me like a lady. He has to be smart because I have to have someone I can discuss all my weird thoughts with, and he has to be honest. I hate duplicity.”
“So basically, you want a guy who only exists in romance novels,” Mia concluded.
I stuck my tongue out at her as I set down three plates, ready to dig in.
After a few moments of chewing in silence, Miles pulled the computer toward him again. “Three qualities for his looks.”
“That’s easy. Tall, dark, and handsome,” Mia said before Miles could stop her.
“Actually, she’s right.” That came out more like “mapfully, she’s white” through my mouthful of food.
Miles washed down his with a full glass of alcohol-laden orange juice. “Top me off? Biggest fear.”
“Never falling in love.”
“She means dying alone,” Mia clarified.
“Same difference.”
Instead of typing, Miles looked at me quizzically. “Really? That’s worse than getting cancer or being buried alive?”
“Have you seen her box of letters? To her, it is.”
“Mia! No one’s supposed to know about that.”
Miles ignored us. “I’m skipping over your favorite TV shows, movies, et cetera. You can fill that in later. Describe your worst dating experience.”
“Which one?”
Mia laughed then coughed. “Um, I think mimosa just came out of my nose.”
“I’m serious. Should we tell them about the guy who proposed after one date, the one who skipped bail to flee to Mexico, or perhaps the creep who stood me up twice then brought his male best friend on our date, who he proceeded to dump me for two weeks later?”
Mia waved her arm to stop me from continuing. “Oh, you should so mention the ‘literary speed dating’ event we went to. Miles, it was so sad. All old women, us, and three middle-aged, balding guys. What did you call them again?”
“The recently divorced trio,” I answered.
“That’s it! They kept staring at me the whole time. It was creepy.”
“That’s because no one believed you could read, much less have an opinion about a book.”
She gave me a venomous look.
Miles tried unsuccessfully to cover a laugh, and Mia playfully hit him. “Moving on. What’s your ideal date?”
I stood and cleared the dishes, pretending to think. I didn’t want them to know I could answer that off the top of my head. I turned on the water and let one side of the sink fill with soap bubbles. “How do you pick just one?”
“Well, it gives some ideas here.” He read from the screen. “‘If money was no object, where would you want to go and what would you do for dinner that evening? Where do you want to be proposed to?’ Things like that. They seem to want you to think big.”
“Hmmm… well, if that’s the case…”
Mia poked me in the ribs. “Come on, out with it. I know you already know. Where would you want Alex to take you?” Leaning in so only I could hear, she added, “I’d forget the date and take him straight to bed, but that’s not your style.”
Heat rose up my neck, a flush I couldn’t really blame on the hot water lapping at my elbows. “He missed his chance. We’re talking about guys who actually want to go out with me. I do love the Signature Room in the Hancock Building. It’s got the best views of the city, the food is to die for, and the whole place has this art deco charm. I’ve only had dinner there once—my parents took me there on my first trip to Chicago when I graduated from college—but I kept waiting for Al Capone to step off the elevator. It’s his kind of joint.”
“You do love those gangsters, don’t you?” Mia bumped my hip playfully. “But seriously, hon, you really need to join the rest of us in the present. It’s the twenty-first century, not the nineteen-twenties. You’re going to scare men off with an answer like that.”
“You know, you could be helping dry the dishes instead of criticizing me,” I snapped, cocking my head toward a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.
Mia opened her mouth to snark back, but Miles interrupted. “Just dinner or is there more?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t dated much lately. Aren’t you supposed to say something about a horse-drawn carriage ride?”
“Only in the movies. Guys don’t really go for that,” Miles advised. “How about this? ‘Then we’ll see where the night takes us.’ Leaves it to his imagination.”
“Fine with me.”
“The rest is pretty standard Q and A. Do you want children? How often do you drink? Do you have or want pets?”
“Yes, frequently since I’ve become friends with you two, and no. Are we done now?”
“I’ll let you pick your own photos, but there’s one more thing.”
“What?” I asked over the rushing water.
“An essay.”
I looked over my shoulder to see if I’d heard him correctly, and I caught Mia knocking him out of his seat to have a closer look.
“There’s a test? Seriously?” She was aghast.
“Yeah.”
I peered over Miles’s shoulder while drying my hands and read the company explanation at the top of the page. One of the things that sets Heart+Soul apart from other dating services is that we don’t rely on a profile and a few photos to help you find love. We let you set the tone. Here you have the chance to say anything. Use it to tell
people why you’re here and who you’re looking for. This free space is meant to give you a chance to convey what’s important to you and give potential matches a sense of your personality. Use it as you will and have fun!
I had never been at a loss for words at the keyboard, but the thought of writing about myself, something so intimate that would be read by anyone matched with me, was terrifying. As much as I loved Mia and Miles, I couldn’t do this in front of them.
“Okay, you wanted pancakes, you got pancakes. Show’s over.” I removed Mia’s glass from her hand. “Time to go home, M&M.” I hadn’t used my nickname for them in a while and was hoping it would get their attention.
“But you aren’t done yet,” Mia whined. “And I wasn’t done with that.” She swiped at the glass like a cat batting at a strand of yarn.
“Nope. My apartment, my rules. You got me to fill out the profile, and I fed you. Mission accomplished. Now I have to finish it on my own.”
Miles stood and wrapped me in a bear hug. “We’d better not overstay our welcome. Thank you, Annabeth. It was a lovely visit.” He took two steps back so as to better look me in the eyes. “Don’t forget to hit submit when you’re done with that thing. I’m expecting daily progress reports.” He pointed a thick finger at me. “And don’t think you can skip out either. I know where you work.”
“Ha-ha,” I said, ushering them to the door. “Your warning is duly noted.”
I watched them wait for the elevator. On or off, they were cute together. Despite my irritation with them, I felt a tiny pang of jealousy as Mia hooked a finger into one of the loops on Miles’s jeans, a small gesture not meant for the world—unlike ninety-five percent of what she did—but an intimate expression of possession. You’re mine, and I’m glad, it said. I wanted that.
Eschewing the orange juice, I poured another glass of bubbly and stared at the glowing screen of my laptop. What I really wanted to write was way too brutally honest, but I had to start somewhere. What was it my English professor had said? Get the words down; you can cut and polish later. She was right. Taking a deep breath, I started typing.
They say everyone has a secret that will rip out your heart. Here’s mine—I’ve never been in love. I thought I was once, but looking back on it, I see it for what it was—infatuation and the need for security. I’ve never had that head-over-heels, heart-melting kind of love. You know, the stuff people die for. And it’s what I’m looking for.
To all of you who look at my age and wonder how what I say is possibly true, I’ll only say one thing—not everyone’s life fits society’s timeline. Some people are lucky enough to fall in love in high school or college and stay together for the rest of their lives. And that’s great. I’m happy for them. But that’s not the way things worked out for me. I’ve got a great life with a burgeoning career, a loving family, and loyal friends, but I don’t have anyone to share it with. That’s why I’m here. I know that person is out there, but I haven’t found him.
So what are you getting with me? I’ve been called many things: old-fashioned, naïve, and quirky. But I prefer to think of myself as unusual. If you need proof, just take a look at the photos I’ve chosen. You’ll see one with a kissing couple in a park on the left. That’s my sister and her husband. The one on the right is me. Yes, you’re seeing that correctly—I am kissing a tree. It started out as a joke since I didn’t have anyone to pose with at their engagement shoot, but it ended up being emblematic of who I am. I’m that goofy girl willing to make fun of her situation if only to avoid crying over it. (I’m also the girl who danced with a mop at her senior prom, but that’s a different story.)
I always wanted to be the kind of woman who could perch herself anywhere and look sexy, like the models in those ads who manage to be alluring on top of the kitchen stove. In reality, I’d probably fall off.
In the end, here’s everything you need to know: I am who I am. I’m outspoken and honest, fun-loving and strong. I’m a romantic who, in some ways, will never grow up. I’m not one for a quick fling. I’m in it for the long haul or not at all.
Rereading what I’d written, I realized it didn’t sound so bad. Honest? Yes, but that was me. If they didn’t like it, they didn’t have to contact me. Why should I pretend to be something I’m not just to get the attention of some guy I’d never actually met?
Mia would have a fit when she saw this. She believed in telling men what they wanted to hear—“alluring them rather than repelling them,” as she’d explained once. She had tried time and time again to teach me her particular method of charm, but every time I tried, I felt wrong, as though I was misrepresenting myself—ironic since I worked in PR.
Oh well, it was my life, not hers, and I was going to live it on my own terms—online and off. I selected a few more photos—my most recent headshot, taken by a photographer who had let me play stand-in while he measured the light and waited for Mia to get into wardrobe; a few from last summer’s vacation to Paris; and yes, the one with me kissing the tree—filled in the missing favorites section, and squeezed my eyes shut as I clicked “submit.”
My love life was in the hands of the online gods. Maybe I’d have better luck with them than with Venus and Eros.
CHAPTER THREE
May
“Do you have any idea what this is about?” I asked Miles as I took my place around the conference table. Sunlight streamed in through the western-facing windows, so I had to squint to look at him.
“No idea. I just got the email meeting request like the rest of us.”
My stomach tightened. The last time a group of creatives had been called into a room like this was during the worst layoffs our agency had ever seen. Within ten minutes, they were all jobless. I sent up a quick prayer that wasn’t the case this time.
Nearly every seat was full by the time our boss, Laini Grenwick, took her place at the head of the table. Nearly fifty, she was one of the first female executives at the agency, and as such, she treated this business like her baby and was not known for putting up with nonsense. Today she looked every inch the career woman, from the dark twist of her hair and the subtle makeup highlighting her toffee-colored Indian skin to her mauve skirt suit and black pumps.
“I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.” She looked each one of us in the eye before continuing. “Well, let me start by alleviating your fears. The fact that you are here is an honor. You’ve been hand-picked for a very important, high-profile assignment.”
Miles and I looked at each other, intrigued and shocked. As my coworkers whispered to one another, I realized that collectively, we made up an account team. There was Jenna, the perky blond account executive; Miles and me, the writer and designer team; Rick, our creative director; and Kendra from media relations and the special events teams.
Laini adjusted her chunky black hipster glasses. “Some of you may remember the Fifty Shades of Great event we worked on earlier this year. Well, in addition to raising nearly half a million dollars for charity, it also brought some very attractive business our way. That night, I was fortunate to make contact with Dr. Gordon McAllister, Dean of the Department of English Language and Literature at the University of Chicago. They normally do their marketing in-house, but this is such a big undertaking that they need us. We’ve been tasked with helping with a yearlong campaign they want to launch in September aimed at increasing enrollment in the English program.”
A collective groan went up. Four months to create a project of that scope was insane.
“I have chosen you for this project because you’re the best we have. It goes without saying—but I’ll say it anyway—that if this goes well, it could mean big things for our agency. So I’m asking you to clear your schedules this afternoon. We have a one o’clock meeting with the university president, the dean, and some of his professors. Listen to what they have to say, then get creative. I want your best ideas first thing tomorrow.”
Miles raised his hand. “Are these billable hours?”
&n
bsp; “Beginning with the meeting, yes. Track your time, and do what you have to do.”
The campus of the University of Chicago was sprawling, taking up two hundred eleven acres in Hyde Park on the south side of the city. Built in Gothic style, its turrets and ivy-covered walls immediately took me back in time to an era when learning was considered a sacred art. The Main Quadrangles—six courtyards each surrounded by buildings bordering one larger quadrangle—reminded me of the colleges of Oxford and Cambridge that I’d seen on a PBS special. Holding them all in a snug embrace was the Midway, a long green area constructed for the 1893 World’s Fair that joined with two other parks to surround the campus in nature.
“Tell me again why I didn’t go to school here,” I called to Miles as we crossed the parking lot.
“I don’t know, but I’m kinda having school envy myself. And I never thought I’d say that. I loved Drake.”
A long hike later, we arrived, huffing and puffing, at our destination, a dark-paneled conference room down the hall from the dean’s office. A long, rectangular wooden table dominated the room, flanked on all sides by luxe leather chairs that looked as if they were used to supporting the fattened backsides of rich board members rather than working stiffs like us. Along each wall, above waist-high mahogany wainscoting, was a row of oil paintings. The wall across from me bore likenesses of great men of English and American literature—Shakespeare, Byron, Whitman, Keats, even Fitzgerald and Hemingway—on either side of arched triple windows. We each took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs.
“I could get used to this. Hey, Laini, what would it take to get one of these for my office?” Miles asked.
“About a thousand extra billable hours. Find them, and it’s yours.”
“Ouch!” Miles said, shaking his hand as if he’d just touched a hot stove.
Not long after an assistant returned, bearing cups of steaming coffee and glasses of water, two well-dressed men entered, and we all stood respectfully.
The one in the lead, a handsome man with a crop of thick black hair and the mercurial face of a politician, immediately put out his hand to Laini. “Dean McAllister. Wonderful to see you again, Ms. Grenwick.” They shook hands, then he introduced his companion. “This is President Harrison.”
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