by Max Monroe
I pick up the next sheet from my pile and read the ad aloud.
“Single male with a good couch looking for a woman with a house in Palos Verdes. If interested, please send picture of the house.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake, this dude doesn’t want to find love! He wants a sugar momma with a sweet house!
Without even looking at any of the other information, I quickly ball that one up between my hands and chuck it over my left shoulder in the direction of the trash can.
“Holy flaming fuckups, I’m going to end up writing obituaries. I can feel it.”
I grab the next paper, holding my eyes closed tight until I feel ready and then pop them open to read. This one’s a little longer and starts off way more promising.
“Divorced white male, 6’1” tall and a muscular 210 pounds, looking for love with a single female of any ethnicity,” I read quietly to myself. “Looking for someone I can make laugh. Recovering addicts, a plus.”
I scan back over the last sentence again. “Wait, what?”
My mouth moves numbly as I read over each word carefully. Recovering addicts, a plus.
A plus?
Why is this guy looking for recovering addicts? Does he, like, want to prey on them or something?
Lawsuits against the paper and me, and basically everyone in greater Southern California swirl in my mind, and I cringe.
I don’t even bother balling up the paper before tossing it behind me this time. It drifts to the ground like snow on Christmas morning. Geez Louise, why is this so hard?
I pick up the next one and scroll my eyes over the title.
Widowed Male Seeks Curvaceous Sexual Attention.
Ugh. Next.
Single Male Seeks Hot Girl Summer.
Eye roll.
Single Male Seeks Love.
Okay. This one doesn’t sound so bad…
I cover my eyes and look between my fingers as I continue to read silently.
Single and ready to mingle, ladies. At eighty-six years young, I know the meaning of love.
Holy prune juice and melba toast! Eighty-six? This isn’t going to work at all, though I can’t help but keep reading.
Must like watching Flea Market Flip and riding in golf carts. Send pictures first.
I let my head loll back and try not to cry. Am I living in some sort of alternate dimension? I mean, wasn’t almost drowning this morning in the real ocean enough? I have to drown in the metaphorical deep end of work, too?
Gah.
I pick up the next paper from the stack hesitantly. Who knows what snakes in this pile of ridiculousness have yet to strike?
Single Male Seeks Virgin. I’m looking for a woman between the ages of 18 and 30 who will glorify me and God forever. I am willing to teach her all the things she doesn’t know. Virgin preferred but will consider someone revirginized after one-time lover.
“Oh, for the love of everything holy—”
My desk phone rings and startles me out of my seconds-away breakdown.
With a hand to my chest, I inhale a calming breath.
Normally, I’d be annoyed by the surprise, but at this point, I’ll take any distraction I can get.
Hell, I’ll talk to anyone right now—telemarketers, drug pushers, political activists, Pilot Pete’s mom from The Bachelor, anyone—to save myself from reading another personal ad sent straight from hell.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Holley Fields from the Tribune,” a warm, masculine voice says in my ear. “This is Jake Brent from the Ocean.”
“Holy—”
“Shit,” he finishes for me. “Holy shit, indeed.”
“I… Well…” I pause briefly to clear my throat and blink myself out of shock. “Yeah. I guess you could say I didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“And I never expected to call you,” he replies, a slight lilt to his husky voice. “Trust me. Nor did I think I would have to scour the Tribune’s website to find the number for the woman running a dating contest, which, apparently, I’ve been nominated to be a part of.”
“So…why are you?” I ask, then immediately wince. Man, I hope he’s not thinking of taking legal action against the paper. I’d really like to be able to continue to pay my mortgage and buy donuts. I need to have a job.
“Because I’ve lost my mind?”
I laugh. “I lose mine at least twice a day. I still don’t call people who save me from drowning for no reason.”
“I saved you.”
“Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.”
He chuckles. “Well…I guess I’m calling because…”
“Because?”
“Because he’s going to do it!” I hear Chloe yell in the background.
His response is swift and firm without being mean. “Chloe.”
How is it that fathers can say so much with just a name? My dad has the exact same ability.
“You’re going to do it?” I ask tentatively, rather than get in the middle of their parent/child dynamic.
“He’s going to do it!” Chloe shouts excitedly.
Her name is swift and firm again, but this time, somehow, Jake manages to combine the disciplinary word with a laugh. “Chloe!”
The sound is magnetic. So much so, I have to shake off the eerie, warm way it makes me feel.
Finally, of his own accord, Jake confirms my salvation from the land of terrible personal ads. “Yes, I’m going to do it. Slightly under protest, but my daughter thinks this is the right thing to do…for both of us. And…since I’ve done such a good job of raising her,” he says teasingly, “I’m going to trust her judgment.”
Instantly, I feel giddy. I honestly have to work exceedingly hard not to giggle into the phone.
“But I have to remain anonymous,” he adds, his voice edging along serious. “I cannot be part of a circus, and I won’t bring my daughter into one, no matter what she thinks is a good idea.”
“Of course,” I say swiftly, trying not to sound too excited and failing miserably. “Bachelor Anonymous. You can’t put the word in the title without meaning it, right? I’ll use the utmost caution and discretion when it comes to your identity during the dating portion of the contest.”
The line goes silent, and I start to worry that maybe he’s decided this is a horrible idea after all.
“All right, then.” He eventually puts me out of my misery. “Where do we go from here? God help me…but what are the details?”
Hallelujah! I fist-pump the air and then promptly clear my throat and try to act like a professional woman who isn’t tempted to hop up onto her desk and start twerking.
“We should probably get together in person,” I respond. “It’ll be the easiest way to go over everything, and I have some paperwork for you to sign.”
“Okay.”
“When would be a good time to meet?”
“How about now?” he shocks me by offering. “You can come to our house. We were just about to figure out dinner, and you can join us.”
Their house? Holy geez, that seems personal.
“Holley?” he questions.
“Right. Your house. Now.”
He laughs a little, and I’m completely surprised by his mirth. I’m even more surprised when he speaks. “Stop overthinking this and just come over. Do you like spaghetti?”
How in the actual hell does he know I was overthinking it? And, of course, I like spaghetti. I’m not a monster.
“I like spaghetti.”
“We’ll see you in a little while, then,” he says, voice easy breezy. “I’m assuming you have my address from that lovely application my daughter illegally sent in on my behalf?”
I hum my affirmation. “Mm-hmm. Sure do.”
“Great. Drive safe, Holley from the Tribune.”
“I will. See you soon, Jake from the Ocean.”
Holley
The speaker box to my left squawks unexpectedly as soon as I lower my window, and I jump.
“Holley?” the young woman’s voice says ex
citedly.
I put a hand to my chest, suddenly concerned that I’m on camera. I try to look for a lens inconspicuously, but I can’t find one. “Um…yes?”
“Yay! Come on through,” she says as the box buzzes, and the gate starts to open.
My Infiniti—or what my dad likes to refer to as my “I’ve been dumped crisis car”—purrs as I rev the RPMs and let off the clutch enough to roll through the gate.
My tires rumble on the paver driveway as I pull around the circle and come to a stop right in front of the grand steps of the main entrance.
They’re trademark rich-people steps—the ones that curve in sweeping arches all the way to the top instead of running straight across.
I don’t know how much money Jake Brent has, but I know it’s more than I do.
Though, I suppose that’s not the hardest of benchmarks to achieve. After nearly ten years at the paper, I do okay for myself. But I’m not knocking down any glass ceilings or anything.
I’m pretty sure I’d need one of those flying machines from Willy Wonka to do that.
I pull up on the parking brake and cut the engine before taking one last look up at the house.
It’s fairly unassuming for its size and obvious opulence—I mean, I don’t see any gilded lions or anything—but I still feel like I’m suddenly playing ball in a whole other league.
I’m equipped for, like, T-ball. This is, at the very least, a Division I farm team or something.
I snort to myself. I should really leave the baseball metaphors to someone who actually watches baseball.
Climbing out of my car, I shut the door, bleep the locks—though I’m not sure it’s necessary within their gated driveway—and head for the stairs. I have the first foot poised on the very bottom one when the door bursts open and a tornado of arms, legs, and tanned-skin teenager comes flying through.
I, being the graceful human that I am, trip and fall immediately. “Oh my God,” the blond girl shrieks. “Dad!”
All of a sudden, I’m being lifted to my feet by strong hands under my armpits. When I look back over my shoulder, Jake Brent’s blue-green eyes are assessing me closely. I swear I didn’t even see him descend the stairs.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and the mortification of being rescued by him for a second time today makes my neck feel hot.
“Yeah,” I assure him through a thick swallow. “I’m fine.”
Just another night in the blundering world of Holley.
“You’re not hurt?” he prods further, pushing me back and away from his body a little so he can run his eyes over the length of me.
His scrutiny makes my hot neck spread into pink cheeks, but I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really. Just a little clumsy.”
“I’ll help you up the stairs,” he offers, but I shake my head to refuse.
“I know I’ve made quite the impression today, and I really do appreciate the offer, but I’m currently trying to hold on to my final shred of dignity.”
He smiles then, stepping back and sweeping his arm out ahead of me. “Understood. You lead the way.”
I do as he says, taking each step one at a time. Walking up a set of stairs isn’t normally such a difficult task for me. But today, with his eyes burning into the flesh at my back, it seems astonishingly more difficult.
A breath of relief fills my lungs as I make it to the top and turn to wait for his arrival. The girl’s energy is palpable as she skips from the doorway over to me and sticks out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Chloe, by the way. And sorry if I startled you. I’m just super stoked that you’re here.”
Jake rolls his eyes, but I take her hand all the same. She is, as it were, the one I have to thank for his entry in the first place.
She’s also the one who caused this whole debacle of a day, but after reading the ads I did over the last several hours, her gifts really outweigh the negatives.
“No worries, Chloe. I’m not the most graceful anyway.” Jake snorts, and I glare at him. “I owe you a thank-you for entering your dad, and more than that, it seems.” I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though I’m absolutely positive Jake can still hear me. “How did you convince him to do it?”
Chloe starts to giggle, but Jake grabs her gently at the back of the neck and turns her toward the house without waiting for her to answer. Instead, he raises a pointed eyebrow at me.
“That’s not important. But if you don’t want me to change my mind, you should probably go ahead inside.”
As much as I want to needle him, I don’t dare test the waters. I need him to do this too badly at this point. With the bound of a gazelle, I prance inside.
He laughs, evidently hip to my point.
I’ll give Jake Brent that. So far, he has a great sense of humor. Not many men would find it in their hearts to be teased by a woman like me. A woman who, so far, has brought nothing but chaos to his life.
It hasn’t been on purpose, but it’s undeniable. I’ve yet to be anything but a giant thorn in Jake’s side.
Unfortunately, knowing what I know about the rules of the contest, I don’t see that ending anytime soon.
“Come on. Let’s head into the kitchen,” Jake suggests. He walks down the hall, and I follow, Chloe noticeably bouncing behind me.
Her feet make the cutest little rap on the wood floor.
I pay attention to the craftsmanship as I walk down the hallway. High ceilings, crown molding, and impeccable built-in shelves for neatly organized belongings. A light at the end of the hall beckons, opening up into what I can already tell is a large, state-of-the-art kitchen.
I can’t make out more than the color and quality of the cabinets as of yet—a beigey-gray custom wood—but they really say it all.
This house is the crème de la crème. Honestly, it pulls out all the stops.
Knowing that Jake is in the construction business, I can’t help but wonder if he built it himself.
And perhaps, what kind of sexual favors it would cost me to get him to do some work at my place,
When we make it to the kitchen, my every thought is confirmed. It’s beautiful. Tall, almost unbearably beautiful cabinets with big, chunky pulls and marble countertops, and the most intricately patterned simple subway tile backsplash I’ve ever seen. The appliances are all high-end, commercial-grade, and under-cabinet lighting makes me feel like I’m aboard the fanciest of spaceships.
I take a seat at a high-backed black velvet stool on this side of the massive island as Jake moves around to the other side, opens the fridge, and takes out a pitcher of lemonade.
Chloe grabs a couple glasses from the cabinet and sets them down in front of him without having to be asked. Instead, she directs a question to me. “Do you want a cookie, Holley? I baked them earlier.”
I find myself nodding before I can even pretend to be polite. A nice glass of homemade lemonade and fresh-baked cookies sound like exactly what I need after the day I’ve had.
She grabs it from the decorative cake plate in the corner, gets a tiny plate from the cupboard, and sets it down in front of me. I eye it lovingly, but just when I get it to my mouth to make sweet love to it, Jake interrupts our dalliance.
“So, what is it that made you want to write a column about this? What exactly drew you to Bachelor Anonymous?”
Sadly, almost dejectedly, I set my cookie back down on the plate in front of me. A tear threatens to leave my eye, but I hold it back.
Time to be professional.
“Ah, well. It’s a really interesting concept, you know? Letting the public decide on the man they’d like to see chase true love.”
Jake settles his hips into the counter behind him and crosses his muscular arms over his chest as I continue.
“And then to take those self-described qualities and use them to try to match him—well, you—with the best of the best as far as matches go…” I trail off, and a small smile curves the corner of his lips.
“You absolutely hate this contest, don’t you?”
“Holley,” he says with a laugh. “You can barely even stomach the description.”
“No, no,” I counter again. “It’s great. It’s honestly…so great.”
“Holley,” he challenges again, and I can’t help it. I sigh.
“My editor assigned it to me. I didn’t have a choice.”
“You hate it.”
I roll my eyes. “I probably wouldn’t have chosen it.”
He chuckles. “Oh my God, you loathe it so much.”
I throw up my hands, and he dissolves into real peals of laughter.
“I know, I know!” I shout. “I’ve ruined the sanctity of the contest. If you’re second-guessing it now—”
“Are you kidding?” Jake interrupts. “It’s seeming like a good idea for the first time today.”
“Wh-what?” I’m almost unable to form the simple word. I’m so confused.
“I was dreading working with someone who thought this was something…” He shakes his head as he gathers his thoughts. “It’s just a relief to know that you have skepticism. I think we’ll get along so much better than if you’d felt a different way. That’s all.”
“Good,” I say. “I think?”
He chuckles again. “It’s good.”
Finally, unable to stop myself, I pick up my cookie and take a bite. It’s freaking delicious. “Oh my heavens, Chloe,” I nearly shout. “You made these?”
She nods, a small amount of crimson tingeing her cheeks. “Um, yeah.”
“They’re so dang good. Where did you learn to make these? I need the recipe.”
She shakes her head. “I…well, I taught myself. And the recipe is mine. I just, kind of, made it up.”
“Holy crap, are you serious?” She nods.
“See,” Jake interjects. “I told you they were good.”
She shrugs. “You eat anything. You’re not a good judge.”
She turns to me and continues. “Seriously. He’s like a garbage disposal.”
I turn to look at him, surveying his body closely. No candor, no subtlety—I straight-up devour his big, fit body with my eyes. Tanned, veiny, muscled arms and a trim, in no way cushiony waist, make his T-shirt look like it’s been royally awarded the privilege to sit atop his skin. His thighs look like weapons—I know for a fact after seeing him in a wet suit this morning.