“Arrrrrgggghhhh!” I groan with frustration a few minutes later, throwing the phone down and laying my head back against the couch pillows.
“What’s wrong?” Nate asks, plopping down on the seat cushion next to me.
“It’s a grown-up problem,” I say, with a grimace.
“That doesn’t mean a kid can’t solve it.”
He has a point. And it’s not like Nate is a regular kid; he’s more intelligent and mature than most of the thirty-year-olds I know. The question is: Can I trust him? I don’t want him blabbing my business to Pilar and Ford. I’m sure that neither of them would approve of my plan, which is admittedly a bit mercenary.
“Okay.” I sit up straight and eye him with what I hope is a very serious expression. “What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential, which means you can’t repeat it to anyone.”
“I know what confidential means. I’ve known since it was on one of my vocabulary lists in first grade. I can now say the word in eight different languages: confidencial, confidentiel, vertraulich, poufny—”
“All right, all right.” I hold up my hand to stop him. “You’re annoyingly smart. Thanks for the reminder.” I tickle him in the ribs to let him know I’m kidding. He laughs and swats my hand away like any pre-teen would.
“So, here’s the sitch,” I tell him once his chuckling has subsided. “Due to an unforeseen change in circumstances, I’ve decided that it might be time for me to focus on things other than my career.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’m turning thirty later this year, which is the same age Pilar was when she married your father.”
He furrows his young, naturally unlined brow as the computer that is his brain processes what I’ve told him, then spits out the conclusion, “You’re in the market for a husband then?”
“Right. And not just any husband. I need a man who’s well-off.”
“So that he can support you in the lifestyle to which you’d like to become accustomed?”
I gape at him, flabbergasted that he was able to suss out my motivation so easily.
“Aunt Ana always says that you have champagne taste on a beer budget,” he explains how he connected the dots.
Have I mentioned how much I loathe my eldest sister Ana? She’s so critical and quick to make disparaging comments about me. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with having aspirations and enjoying the finer things in life. I don’t see Ana living in a hovel, driving a beat-up, old car, or shopping for her kids’ clothes at Goodwill. She’s always lived high on the hog and not because she earned a cent of all that money she spends. She didn’t go to college; she never worked or brought home a paycheck; Ana’s one and only accomplishment is that she managed to hook a man who was going places. (Raymond is now a successful estate attorney who’s a partner in my father’s law firm).
Ew, wait, does me going husband-hunting for a man who’s loaded and can support me mean that I’m following in Ana’s footsteps? I hope not because I certainly don’t want to emulate that shrew in any way, shape, or form. I’ll just have to do her one better and catch a man who’s even more prominent, wealthy, and handsome than Raymond.
“Your aunt is a hypocrite; another word I’m sure you know the definition of thanks to all those classes for mini-Einsteins you take. Now, it’s been suggested to me that I need to approach my search for Mr. Right in some sort of organized fashion, like maybe compile a list of candidates and figure out where I’m most likely to meet up with each of them. I tried to do a search online, but there was just too much info, most of which didn’t really apply, and I got overwhelmed.”
“Uh huh,” Nate reaches for his laptop and flips it open. “What you need is a database, which I can set up for you,” he says while typing away on his keyboard, “but first, let’s establish some parameters. What are your criteria for a potential mate?” He waits with his fingers poised above the keys.
“Um, well, number one, no uggos.” I know I’m being shallow, but if I’ve got to live with a guy and share a bed with him, he needs to be relatively attractive.
Nate frowns. “That’s kind of subjective since different people find different physical attributes appealing.”
“I’ve dated blond, all-American types as well as swarthy Latinos, so I’m pretty flexible on hair, eye, and skin color, but I do need a man who’s physically fit and has a face that’s photogenic since I love my selfies. Oh, and he can’t be short. I’m five-nine in my bare feet and I like to wear heels, so let’s say six foot or taller.”
“Okay . . .” He types in this new data. “What else?”
“He should be very successful in whatever his line of work is. I’m thinking that a high-level businessman or executive would be good. No athletes.” Because they’re all a bunch of man whores. The only STD I’ve ever had in my life was the bad case of crabs that resulted from my close encounter with Lorenzo, the shortstop.
“No musicians. And I’ll take a hard pass on any computer geeks who invent apps, or microchips, or whatever. I know there are plenty of super rich ones here in Miami and they’re most likely single because they’re glued to their laptop screens twenty-four/seven, but I just can’t go there.” I crinkle my nose with distaste, imagining what it would be like to be married to one of those dorks on The Big Bang Theory.
“What age range?”
I should probably cast a fairly wide net here. “Twenty-eight to forty. Wait, forty’s probably too old. What’s your dad’s age?”
“Forty-two.”
And he still looks pretty doable, so . . . “Okay, then I should be safe with a cut-off age of forty.”
“I’ve got all I need.” Nate closes the laptop and rises from the couch. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Thanks, kid!” I shout after him. Do I know how to delegate or what? And now that I’ve got that off my conscience, I can focus on the really important stuff for the rest of the evening.
I pull a bag of chipotle-flavored Tostitos out from behind a throw pillow and pick up my phone. Stuffing two tortilla chips in my mouth, I scroll down the home page of my favorite site, reading the captions beneath the pictures.
“Mmmmm, you are so right, Fug Girls,” I mumble. “That paisley print gown with the ruffles is definitely retro-eek, instead of chic. What were you thinking, Michelle Williams?”
* * *
“We’re home!”
Finally! I’ve had my bag packed and sitting by the front door for hours. Not that I haven’t enjoyed spending all of this quality time with my niece and nephew, but there are only so many episodes of Sofia the First a person can watch before her brain short-circuits and my skin is still pruney from spending most of yesterday in the clubhouse pool where the kids and I played a seemingly endless game of Marco Polo. The days are so damn long when you’re taking care of children. They get up at the crack of dawn (even on the weekends!) and they demand so much attention. It never lets up; it’s like you’re their servant or something. I have a new respect for the moms who do this on a full-time basis. Three days was more than enough for me. Note to self: Ask gyno if there’s some sort of extra-strength birth control pill you can start taking.
“Mamá! Daddy!” Gabi runs into the foyer and flings herself into her mother’s arms.
“I’m so happy to see you. I missed you so much!” Pilar hugs the child fiercely. When they break apart and she gets a good look at Gabi, her face falls. “What did you do to my daughter’s hair?” she asks me.
“They’re called ‘bangs’ and . . .,” I lean into my sister and whisper in her ear, “they cover up that massive fivehead the poor kid got from Ford. It works on him, but not so much on a little girl. You’re welcome.”
“Ashlyn has bangs too, Mamá!” Gabi holds up the doll who’s been attached to her hand since she got up this morning. The two of them are currently wearing matching outfits.
“She’s almost as pretty as you are.” Ford chucks his daughter affectionately under the chin.
“Don’t you love how honest children are?” With a smirk, I pick up my weekender bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“Hold up, Aunt Izzy!” Nate slides across the foyer’s marble floor in his sock feet, coming to a stop right in front of me. “I finished that, um,” his eyes dart back and forth between the questioning looks being directed at him by Pilar and Ford, “project you and I discussed.” He hands me a flash drive, along with a large, impressive-looking binder that has colored tab dividers. “If you have any questions, you can text me, but I think it’s all self-explanatory.”
“What project?” Pilar asks Nate, because she knows she’s not going to get a straight answer out of me.
“Sorry, can’t say. I signed an NDA.”
“An NDA?” I have no clue what he’s talking about and we’re supposed to be in on this together.
“A non-disclosure agreement,” he clarifies. “It’s legal and binding. I printed the doc off the Internet to give you peace of mind. There’s a copy in your binder.”
This kid thinks of everything!
“You’re the best. Thanks again.” I ruffle Nate’s tousled mop of brown hair. “Stop looking so nervous, you two,” I say when I see the pinched expressions on Ford and Pilar’s faces. “I haven’t lured your son into a life of crime. He just went on a little fact-finding mission for me; that’s all. And now, I’ve got a lot of reading to do.” I thump the binder. “So, I’ll say, ‘Adiós. Don’t call me; I might call you.’” And with that parting line, I swing open the front door and step out onto the front porch.
I peek my head back into the house just as I’m about to close the door and say, “I hope you weren’t too attached to that Sisal rug in the living room because Gabi had a little juice box accident in there and I tried using bleach to get the stain out, but that ate a hole through the rug. My bad!” I quickly close the door and hightail it to my car.
CHAPTER 7
Potential Husband’s Name: Adrian Doscher
Occupation: CEO of American Riviera Publishing Group, which publishes popular, award-winning magazines M*I*A, SoBe Beat, and 786.
Age: 35
Family: Divorced two years ago, no children. One sibling, a younger brother who’s the CFO at American Riviera.
Hobbies/Interests: Devout runner, into local music scene, coffeeholic.
Where You Can Make Contact: According to a recent interview, he goes for an early morning run on the Lummus Park beachside path every day.
I’m reviewing the bio on Adrian that Nate created for me (he followed the same template Pilar does for the initial evaluations of her patients, which I thought was funny) just to make sure I haven’t forgotten any of the key points before I meet the man himself. I’ve been working up to this all week. First, I called Adrian’s office and finagled when his work day starts (8:30) out of the receptionist. Then, Topaz and I did recon at the park for several days, getting here at sunrise (her idea, not mine—and I complained about it each and every one of those days). We quickly established that Adrian is a creature of habit and he hits the midway point (Ocean Drive and Eighth Street) of the Lummus Park path between 7:16 and 7:23 every morning. So, that’s where I’m sitting right now, on the limestone beach wall that separates the extra-wide curving sidewalk from the sand. There’s not a lot of foot traffic at this time of day, but there are several shirtless frat boy types playing volleyball on the makeshift court in the sand behind me. When they first got here, they yelled, “Yo, mamacita!” to me and made a variety of lewd gestures, but I flipped them the bird and they haven’t bothered me since.
My cell phone dings, and I close down the bio so that I can look at my text screen.
‘The sea is flowing north.’
That’s Topaz’s idea of a coded message. Translation: Adrian, whose name is derived from the Adriatic Sea according to some baby-naming website she consulted, just ran past her at Fifth Street and will be reaching me in a few minutes. So, I’m up.
I secure my iPhone in the armband strapped around my right bicep, then grab the small spray bottle on the ground next to me and spritz my face, neck, and chest with a fine mist of water. (The goal is to look like my skin is covered with a sexy sheen of perspiration from exercising.) I rise to my sneakered feet and cross over to the other side of the path so that I will be facing my target, not that he wouldn’t get an equally pleasing view if he saw me from the backside, but that wouldn’t work with what I’ve got planned. I begin jogging in place, trying to achieve a breathless state so I can sell that I’ve been running for a while.
I don’t own a pair of sneakers, or any workout clothes, so I had to borrow what I’ve got on from Topaz. It’s a reasonably cute outfit from Kate Hudson’s Fabletics line (the moisture-wicking shorts with a fuchsia and white floral print on a black background draw the eye to my curvaceous booty and make my legs look a mile long), but Topaz is quite petite, so her fluorescent pink ASICS are a size too small (I can already feel blisters forming!), as is the black sports bra with all the criss-crossing straps in the back. One wrong move and my ample boobage could spill right out of this top, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing if it gets the attention of a certain publisher.
Although Nate’s binder included the profiles of thirty-nine other eligible men, I zeroed in on Adrian as the best option after reading through all the media coverage on him because our personalities/lifestyles appear to be simpatico (we’re both sociable and enjoy the nightlife). Thanks to his job (his magazines are exclusively devoted to what’s hot and happening in Miami), Adrian has entrée into parties and high-profile events all over town where he hangs with celebrities like Jennifer Lopez, Dwayne Johnson, Pitbull, John Legend, and Chrissy Teigen. I could totally see myself throwing back a couple of mojitos with JLo while partaking in some girl talk—Latina-style!
Adrian might move in some glamorous circles, where he’s exposed to beautiful women on the reg, but I could find no evidence that he’s a player. He was married for four years, which shows that he’s not averse to commitment. And the only woman he’s been romantically linked to since his divorce is some publicist who works in the music industry. Not to be mean, but that publicist looked totally basic in all the photos I saw of her. Neutral-colored clothing, stringy dishwater blond hair, she wasn’t even wearing makeup in any of the pics, including several that were taken at a black-tie affair—gasp! It’s really no wonder things didn’t work out with those two. A man in Adrian’s position needs a woman on his arm who has the “Wow!” factor, and I will be auditioning for that role . . . now!
I start running, pumping my arms and breathing in and out of my mouth in a rhythmic fashion as per Topaz’s instructions. And it sucks. I really don’t understand how people can enjoy exercising. It feels unnatural, it makes everything in your body hurt, and worst of all, it’s boring. I’d rather just have sex, which is cardio you can actually get some pleasure out—
RED ALERT: Tall, hunky publisher with spiky brown hair approaching.
It’s go time! Now, let’s see if I can actually pull this off without hurting myself.
Knowing I’ll have only a split-second to make this happen, I wait until Adrian’s about three feet away, then I pretend to come down on my left foot wrong so that it looks like I roll my ankle, which throws me off-balance. I squeal in “pain” as my body keels over and I crumple to the ground right in front of him. And the award for Best Fake Injury goes to . . .
“Oh, no! Are you okay? That was a really nasty fall.”
Clutching my ankle, I glance up and my vision is filled by the sight of a middle-aged woman with a heavily teased, violet-colored ‘do (clearly, a drugstore dye job gone wrong). In defiance of the balmy, seventy-three degree weather, she’s sporting a polyester slacks/turtleneck combo and has a fanny pack secured around her waist. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that she’s a tourist.
“How badly are you hurt, hon? Do you need
me to call for an ambulance?” She unzips her pineapple print fanny pack and extracts her cell phone.
While I appreciate the woman’s solicitousness, she is not the knight in shining silver Nikes I was hoping for. Where is Adrian? Did he just jog around my prone form? After all the trouble I went to in order to meet him in a dramatic, memorable fashion, I can’t believe he didn’t stop to offer assistance. What a tool!
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that. I’m okay.” I raise myself to a seated position and straighten out my “injured” leg. “Ow!” I yelp when I feel a burning pain in my knee. Looking down, I see that I scraped it pretty good on the sidewalk during the fall. Isn’t that peachy? I’d better not end up with a scar.
“If you could just give me a hand—” I extend my left one, then try to push off the ground with my right. I feel someone clasp my forearm and give it a gentle tug. As I’m being pulled up, I realize that this Good Samaritan’s appendage is much too muscular and hairy to belong to Betty Lou from Sioux City (unless she has a hormone problem or she’s a cross-dresser—nah, no transvestite would be caught dead in purple hair and a fruit-themed fanny pack). My eyes travel up the arm, which leads me to a broad set of shoulders encased in a snugly-fitted T-shirt that’s the same color as the wearer’s sky blue eyes. Yum! Adrian Doscher is even more ruggedly handsome in person than he is on the Internet.
“Thanks,” I say breathlessly once I’m upright. “I probably shouldn’t put any weight on this foot. Would you mind helping me over there?” I gesture at the limestone wall several feet away.
With a nod and a smile, he wraps his arm around my waist, and I lean against him, clutching his beefy bicep. Nice!
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