by Patt Marr
No, and she didn’t care.
“Meg-gy’s got a boy-friend,” he singsonged.
She rolled her eyes, and singsonged back, “Brad-ley makes up stor-ies.”
He laughed knowingly. “You can’t fool me, Meg Maguire. You’ve got that ‘down for the count’ look. Who’s the guy?”
“No guy, Brad,” she said firmly, filing a couple of papers to look busy. Did she really have a “look”? That would be too humiliating.
“Oh, there’s a guy, all right. I’d say that little Matchmaker Meg has finally met her match,” he crooned with a grin.
Brad and his opinions. If he didn’t have a question about work, he could leave. “How can I help you, Brad?”
“No, no. Let me help you! When you need dating advice, darlin’, I’m your man. I’ve been around, you know?”
Poor Brad. A man who talked that much about his conquests probably had none. As irritating as he was, she ought to be kind. “It’s nice to know I can count on you, Brad, but I’m still on my own, and I like it that way.”
“Good for you, sweetness. Just keep telling yourself that. It won’t hurt as much when that guy lets you down.” He patted her hand sympathetically.
It was too much to bear, sympathy from Brad, the most pathetic guy she knew. “Look at the time,” she said, pulling her purse from her desk drawer. “Got to go.”
“I struck a nerve, didn’t I?” he said knowingly.
Not at all, but Brad had plenty of nerve. “Have a good night,” she said brightly, locking her file cabinet.
“Hey,” he called after her, “seal the deal with this guy, Meg. You’re not so young anymore.”
She made it to her car without losing her cool, but only barely. Brad and his dating advice was enough to make a person scream. Seal the deal, indeed. As if she could. Holding on to Ry was like holding running water.
She pulled out of the parking lot and headed for home, praying as she drove.
Lord, more than anything, I want Your will. I want to show Your love and be a vessel You can flow through. You know how I feel about Ry and how he melts my heart. I want him to know what a good man he is and that he has nothing to prove. I want him to feel accepted just as he is.
But, Lord, protect me from caring about him too much. Don’t let me get caught up in a longing that isn’t meant to be.
The Lord never gave people too much for them to bear. When the time came that Ry didn’t need her like he seemed to right now, she would be fine. Ry would never hurt her, not intentionally. He was the least hurtful person she knew.
The butterfly troop loved that about their guy—that, and his warm, caramel voice. And his eyes, not so much their color, but the way they looked at her with so much approval that she wondered how she had lived without it.
There were men who were more handsome, but Ry, with his high cheekbones and tapered jaw, had a lean and ready look that was totally appealing. And then there was his smile, that fabulous smile that just lit up his face.
If she ever got him on Dream Date, he would steal the show. The audience would love him, and the women contestants would, too. She could see it now, Ry taking it all in stride, letting none of it go to his head. That lack of ego was the mark of an adorable guy.
She could match Ry with someone wonderful. She really was very good at her job. Why didn’t she have him scheduled for Dream Date already? Usually, when she saw a perfect contestant, that person was as good as booked. She’d even gotten her brother to go on the show, and he’d been a total recluse at the time. Why was she letting Ry off the hook?
It wasn’t as if they would stop being friends just because he found Ms. Right. They would still be great friends. They could even double-date. Ry in the front seat with Ms. Right. Her in the back seat with Mr. Right.
The butterfly troop didn’t like that at all.
Over the top of his menu in the Mexican restaurant, Ry checked Meg out. He’d already decided on his order, but she always took more time. He didn’t know why. He knew what she would order—some form of grilled chicken and salad—though she would change her order to match his after he ordered. It happened so often, he’d gotten in the habit of ordering things he knew she especially liked.
Tonight she wore her hair in yet another style. He didn’t think he’d seen her wear it the same way twice in a row. This style left her slender neck bare and had a tousled effect that looked like he wouldn’t mess it up if he followed his instincts and kissed his way up that slender neck to her pretty face and sweet mouth.
Tonight she wore pink gloss on her lips that matched her soft-pink sweater. It was a great color, and it was a great sweater. He liked all her clothes and the way she wore them, not so snug that a person who knew she was a Christian would doubt it, but just right. Her jeans and boots were black, and her black shoulder bag was big enough to park a small car in it. If it were as heavy as it looked, he ought to be the one carrying it.
The food server appeared and asked Meg for her order.
“I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad.”
Ry hid his smile. Now to see if his predictable girl would switch. “I’ll have the chicken fajitas,” he ordered.
Her eyes lit up. “That sounds good. I’d like to change and have that, too.”
He loved it when she did that, as if they thought alike and were a couple. They did think alike so much of the time that he couldn’t imagine them having a real fight.
The server left with their matching orders, and Meg folded her hands on the table, smiling at him so brightly that he braced himself for a Meggy Maneuver. He knew she was up to something.
“Tonight’s the night,” she said, those pretty blue eyes sparkling with confidence.
His heart bumped hard against his chest, reacting to her innocent comment the way he would have in his pre-Christian days. “What do you have in mind?” he asked, taking a sip of water while he marshaled those pre-Christian thoughts.
“Tonight we fill out your Dream Date application,” she said as if she were doing him some great favor.
It felt more like a punch in the gut. Couldn’t she see he didn’t want to be with anyone but her?
“I haven’t been fair to you, Ry.”
Oh, no. That were the classic opening for a kiss-off. “Fair to me?” he echoed faintly, his heart in his throat.
“Yes. The way I’ve kept you to myself isn’t right.”
She was dumping him. What could he say to make it stop? “I don’t think I’ve complained.”
“I know, but I got to thinking about you today…”
That was good.
“And I thought that if I were a real friend, I would want to schedule you for Dream Date.”
Okay, now he would complain.
“I want to see you happy with the woman of your dreams.”
He already was happy with the woman of his dreams, or he would be if she would stop talking like this.
She dug in her big black purse and whipped out a pen and paper. Poised to write, she said, “Talk to me. If you could take someone special on the date of your dreams, where would you go? What would you do? The more details the better.”
“Let me make it easy for you, Meg,” he snapped, on the edge of losing his temper. “We’d be at a Mexican restaurant just like this one, and my date would put that pen and paper away and enjoy the chips and salsa.”
Her eyes opened wide. “See! That’s why you’re going to be great on the show. That was a perfect ‘bad boy’ response. Our audiences love bad boys, and so few qualify.”
Why was he so crazy about this woman? She might have trouble choosing what to order or how to wear her hair, but Meg Maguire was plenty strong-willed.
“You know, Meg, I’m not real sure what a ‘bad boy’ is,” he said with a lazy drawl to cover his irritation.
“That’s it!” she said, glowing. “It’s the attitude. You said that like you didn’t know and you didn’t care. Women eat that up, Ry. They can’t resist the challenge. They say to
themselves, ‘Can I make that bad boy care? Can I capture his heart and turn him around?’”
If that were true, Ry was no bad boy. Once, he may have been, but he no longer qualified. Meg had already captured his heart, and the Lord had turned him around.
“A true bad boy doesn’t let anyone shove him around,” she said brightly. “He does what he knows is right for himself. Sound familiar?”
Of course it did, but hadn’t she seen how he’d changed? Did she really think he didn’t care what she thought or that he only went after what was right for himself? A Christian didn’t do that.
“If that’s what you think, then you know I’m not going to do your show.” He didn’t care how hard that sounded.
“Did you follow the Knicks when you were in New York?”
“Of course,” he said, glad of the change of subject. They could talk about the Knicks, eat their food and then he would take her home.
“One of the Knicks’ players was on Dream Date last month. He was our first pro basketball player, and you’ll be our first paramedic.”
In her dreams. He took another sip of water and looked toward the kitchen. Their food ought to be here by now.
“Another great perk is we provide every contestant with a network-quality recording of the show. It may not seem important now, but someday your children, even your grandchildren, will see the show and know, that once upon a time, their daddy—their granddaddy— was young and strong and good-looking and—”
“Meg,” he interrupted before his temper boiled over. “In the interest of ending this so we can enjoy our dinner, may I make a suggestion? If you’re that hard up for contestants, sign up my partner.”
“Your partner?”
“Hector Gonzales isn’t a paramedic, but he is an EMT. He’s a genuine ‘bad boy,’ and he’d love to be on your show.” There. That ought to end it.
She stared at him steadily as if she were considering the deal. “You really don’t want a dream date?”
Not with anyone but her, and he wasn’t so sure about that at the moment.
“I could find you someone perfect, Ry.”
“I know you could,” he said sincerely. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I don’t need any help right now.”
“Well, if you’re sure….”
She didn’t seem all that disappointed. In fact, her smile was so wide, a person would think she’d just gotten her way. What was she up to?
Chapter Ten
Their food arrived, and, to his relief, Meg changed the subject and was her usual darling self. Sometimes he thought he couldn’t stand this waiting for her to fall for him, and sometimes he wondered if she already had and only pretended to want his help in her search for Mr. Right. In truth, the search seemed to be only a token effort.
Could she be playing the same hide-and-seek game he was? As bad at words as he was, how could he find out?
A true bad boy would just ask.
“Are you going to give me the daily report on the Mr. Right search?” he asked, gathering his courage for what he really wanted to ask.
She played with her napkin, not meeting his eyes. “I’d think you would be sick of listening to me talk about my flawed love life.”
Of course he was, but as long as her search was on, he wanted to be in on it. Coaching from the sidelines, he could control the game. “But I’m believing with you, Meg. This is your year. Mr. Right is going to show up.”
She loved that, he could tell. “You think so?”
“I do. For all we know, it could be me.”
She choked on a sip of soda. “What?” she said in a strangled voice.
“Maybe I’m your guy. Did you ever think of that?”
She looked at him as if he couldn’t be serious.
“Don’t we always have fun together?” he said, touching her index finger with his, keeping it light, hoping she would see what he did.
“Of course we have fun together, Ry, but you have fun with lots of women.”
“Lots of women?” Where did she come up with that? “Have you seen me with anyone but you?”
“No, but I happen to know that the bikini twins are taking a survey on which Los Palmas woman will be the first to date Ry Brennan.”
Once, that wouldn’t have surprised him, but it did now. “The bikini twins?” he repeated, wondering who would start such a stupid survey.
“Oh, you call them the coffee cake twins.”
“Ah, Carol and Cheryl.” Now he understood. They loved to joke around.
“See? That’s what I mean. I can’t even remember their names, but you can, and you’ve barely moved in.”
“But I’m good with names, and Carol and Cheryl are nice people.”
“They are, but that’s not the point. My Mr. Right will think I’m a nice person. Just me, not one of the pack.”
“I never knew you were the jealous type, Meg.”
“I’m not.” She threw her paper napkin at him.
He caught it, laughing. “You do sound kind of jealous, babe, but don’t worry. I’ll be true to you.”
“That would be nice if you were a match for my list,” she said sweetly, “but you’re not.”
“I’m a perfect match on that list,” he protested, knowing he wasn’t, not quite, but playing along.
“Let’s just check that.” She dug in her big black purse and produced a folded paper. “Number one—Mr. Right has to be Christian and go to church.”
“That’s me,” he murmured, marking a tally in midair.
“That’s every guy I’ve considered,” she said, as if that ought to burst his bubble. “And few have made the cut.”
He laughed, loving her sass. “What’s two?”
“Two is that he has to be a best friend who’ll want to spend time with me—”
“I’m here, babe.” She had to see that for herself.
“But who was with me last night?”
She had him on that. “You’re not keeping secrets, are you, Meg?”
“I don’t keep secrets. You’ve known about every candidate, except the guy last night. That was Steve who just happens to be a fabulous chef. After he cooked dinner, he made himself at home on my sofa and we watched a praise-and-worship video together.”
“It is a very comfortable sofa.”
“I believe Steve said the same thing.”
“Too bad Steve’s not Mr. Right.”
“And how do you know that?”
“You said he was a chef.”
“What woman wouldn’t want an in-house chef?” she asked as if he were absurd.
“You. You want a guy who’ll want to spend time with you ‘and have a job where he can.’”
She looked at the list. “That’s a direct quote. How do you do that?”
He shrugged. He’d always had a good memory. “A chef works a lot of hours, Meg, usually in the evening,” he said. “Too bad for Steve, but he’s out.”
“Then you are, too. I can never remember when you’re going to be working and when you’re not.”
Ry frowned, disgusted with himself for walking into that. He must really be tired. “Paramedics work eight-hour shifts in some places. We could move to one of them.”
She had the nerve to laugh in his face.
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to see the humor in it himself.
“Next is a good sense of humor. I don’t see you laughing, Ry.”
If a man couldn’t laugh at himself, he wasn’t much of a man. It wasn’t that hard to come up with a smile, a genuine “I’m crazy about you” smile, and said, “I’m your guy, Meg.”
She rolled her eyes. “Try that on someone who hasn’t seen you use that look dozens of times.”
Did she really think that badly of him?
“You’ll like number four better,” she said. “Remember that Beth insisted that we add ‘not a doctor.’ That ought to make you happy because you’re not.”
But he might be. “You wouldn’t exclude a guy for tha
t, would you? Maybe God wants your guy to be a doctor.”
“I don’t think so,” she said firmly. “The Lord knows how lonely I was when I lost Beth to med school, and I’ve seen how your parents live. Why would I want that?”
Ry could see she was serious about this, and it just about broke his heart. She had been a Christian longer than he had, but he knew that God gave a person what was needed when it was needed, not necessarily before. And a person didn’t slam a door on God’s will just because it seemed too hard. They would have to work on this. “What’s next?” he asked, his heart not really into this anymore.
“‘Five—he must have a dream and goals.’”
He had a dream, a very big dream, but this was not the time to share it.
“No comment?” she asked.
“I’m a match on the rest.” He ticked off the remaining items, counting on his fingers. “Mr. Right must ‘like and want children, like your friends, work out, eat healthy and save money.’ Did I miss anything?” He knew he hadn’t.
She scanned the list. “That’s about it.”
“Face it, babe. I’m your man.”
“Care to prove that?” she asked sweetly. Too sweetly.
“Maybe. What do you have on your mind?”
She pulled the Dream Date application out of her purse.
“Not that again!”
“Relax. I’m not going to make you fill it out. We’ll just use the categories to see how compatible we are.”
That might work. He knew her pretty well.
“The first item is ‘favorite food on a dream date.’ I’m writing my answer down, then you can answer verbally.”
She hid her paper from him, but he didn’t care. He knew her answer, and he could match it.
She finished writing. “Okay, you first.”
His favorite would be Greek specialties from Toula’s in New York City, but he said, “I already told you. Mexican.”
“You did say that,” she admitted, frowning.
“Yes, I did. Are we a match?”
She nodded. “On that, we are. Next is ‘favorite form of transportation.’”
She wrote her answer, and he considered the options. She loved her convertible, but for a dream date, he thought she’d like to go first-class.