The Art of Kissing Frogs

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  “Well, I’m not certain what it is you are expecting out of this.” His tone was very serious.

  I could only stare at him. My dating profile had definitely stated I was looking for a relationship (just as his had definitely stated he was single). I didn’t know how much clearer I could be. I mean, that’s what online dating sites are for, finding your happily ever after. But I didn’t say any of that. I was still trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

  “I enjoy spending time with you,” he continued, again so serious it almost sounded like a bad thing.

  “I enjoy spending time with you, too.” My voice came out a little squeaky and I felt awkward and stupid.

  “I really like you. You’re an interesting person.”

  “Um, thanks?” What else could I say, really?

  “But the thing is—”

  Oh, here it came. He was gay. Or had some horrible disease. Or he was moving to Peru.

  “I’m in an open relationship.”

  I stared at him. Out of all the things that had suddenly raced through my head, that had not even been on the list. I wanted to ask if his wife or girlfriend or whatever knew she was in an open relationship. “Excuse me?”

  “We’re totally committed to each other. I’m not going to leave her, but we have an understanding. You and I can continue to see each other.”

  “No, we can’t.” It spilled out of my mouth so fast, I hadn’t consciously thought about it, but I knew it was absolutely right.

  “I’m sorry?” He seemed a little taken aback by my response. What had he expected? For me to embrace being the “other woman” with open arms? I don’t think so.

  “It’s not my thing,” I said, standing up, back ramrod stiff.

  “Should I go?”

  “Yes. I think that’s best.” I stalked to the door and threw it open. Slamming it behind him, I sank back down on the couch. I felt angry, betrayed, lied to. I got that people were into that sort of thing and that was fine, but he’d taken my choice away from me and that was unforgivable. It was several weeks before I could bear to go online and try again.

  Chapter 4

  IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT by the time we reached our building, still buzzed on forró and caipirinhas. The first and ground floor flats were dark, but the basement flat had a light on. I wouldn’t have thought much of it if the curtain hadn’t stirred a little as if someone were watching us. A shiver ran down my spine. I wondered vaguely what had happened to the Eastern European girl who’d stopped by the other day.

  “Do you see that?” Kev asked, nudging me in the side.

  “Of course,” I whispered back.

  The curtain stilled and then the lights went out as if the person on the other side had caught us watching. My overactive imagination kicked in.

  “Maybe the neighbor isn’t a pimp, after all. Maybe he’s a murderer hiding out in Notting Hill. A serial killer who butchers young women.”

  Kev’s eyes grew wide, caught up in my fantasy. “Or he could be some kind of crazed stalker.”

  “Don’t stalkers have to leave the house?”

  He thought about that. “Oh. Okay, s cyber stalker maybe. Or a drug dealer.”

  “Crap. If he’s a drug dealer, he might kill us when he realizes we’ve discovered his secret lab.” We looked at each other and started giggling. “We are such ninnies.”

  “Speak for yourself, girl.”

  Unnerved by my wild imagination, I clutched my purse straps a little tighter and grabbed Kev’s arm. “Maybe we should check things out to make sure we aren’t in danger. The man couldn’t possibly be up to any good. I mean, innocent people don’t spy on their neighbors, right?” Okay, they do. My mother keeps a pair of binoculars on the kitchen windowsill for just that purpose, even though she claims it’s for “bird watching.” (My ass. My mother has never watched birds in her life.) But that is not normal behavior. Well, it is for my mother, but not for other people.

  “Okay, you go,” Kev urged.

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the one who thought of it. I’ll stand guard.”

  “Fat lot of help you are,” I grumbled, letting go of his arm.

  I slipped quietly down the iron steps, praying they wouldn’t wobble and alert the neighbor, and stopped beside the window. Taking a deep breath, I leaned over and tried to peek between the curtains. Nothing. Just darkness. I couldn’t even tell through the tiny crack between the curtain panels if the room was furnished or not. Now what? I couldn’t very well knock on the door at this hour. How would I explain my presence? Maybe I could see something through another window.

  I crept back up the stairs and around the corner of the building, motioning to Kev to let him know what I was doing. There was a sort of narrow “moat” that ran around the side of the building, a gap of about two feet between the building and the sidewalk. A railing ran along the edge of the pavement to prevent anyone falling in. This allowed for full-sized windows and a back door in the basement flat on that side of the building. Hopefully the tenant had left a window open or something. It was, after all, a rather warm night.

  Unfortunately, all the curtains were drawn tight and there was no sign of light. I couldn’t see a thing. I knew I hadn’t imagined things, though. The guy had definitely been spying on us. But why?

  “Maybe because he heard you come home late, you idiot,” I murmured aloud. I shook my head at our silliness.

  I went around to the front. “Nothing,” I told Kev.

  “Shame. I was really hoping for some action.”

  I snorted as we hurried up the front steps and let ourselves into the old row house. I wouldn’t relax until I was behind my own door with it locked and bolted. “Sure. A bit of action, and you’d be running for the hills hollering for your mama.”

  “Puh-lease, girlfriend. I’ll have you know I’m familiar with several forms of martial arts.”

  “Sorry, but watching old Brandon Lee movies so you can drool over his hot bod does not count as being familiar with martial arts.”

  “That’s what you think,” he sniffed.

  We continued bickering all the way up to our flat. No doubt Mrs. Banjeree from the flat below us would complain about our noise come morning. She was eighty, blind as a bat, and the self-appointed guardian (read “busy body”) of the building. She constantly talked about her grandson, but no one had ever seen him.

  Once inside our flat, I bid Kev goodnight, tiptoed to my bedroom, and tossed my purse on the bed. My mind was still a whirl of excitement. There was no way I was going to sleep anytime soon. Never mind the fact that I had to be up in a few hours. I’d just have to drink more coffee.

  I sank down at my desk and opened my laptop. For the first time in two and a half years, I began to write.

  FRIDAY DAWNED A LITTLE too bright and early for my liking. I staggered out of my bedroom and into the kitchen, giving the electric kettle a shake. The slosh sounded like enough for at least one cup, so I flipped the switch to heat before staggering back to the shared bathroom and turning on the shower. It would take at least a full minute for the water to get warm. Kev left for work a couple hours before me—I had no idea how he managed on so little sleep—and Raj and James were still in bed. I could hear them both snoring through the thin walls, lucky bastards, and I didn’t have to worry about them jumping into the shower before me.

  Except it didn’t warm up. By the time the kettle boiled, the water in the shower was still ice cold.

  “Damn boiler must be out again.” This would be the second time in six months. Kev had told me it went out shortly after he moved in, and they’d waited almost a week for the landlord to get the plumber in. At least it wasn’t the dead of winter this time.

  Locking the bathroom door, I stripped down, grabbed a washcloth and braced myself. Even just a spit bath was enough to make my teeth chatter. Goose bumps stood out on my pale skin. Still, it was better than nothing, and the cold water sure woke a person up. Unfortunately there was no way to get a
round dunking my head under a stream of ice cold water. Not if I wanted clean hair. Several choice cuss words and a million more goose bumps later, I had my head wrapped in a towel and was trying to restore circulation before I got frostbite on my scalp. And the kettle had boiled dry.

  “Dammit.”

  I filled it with cold water and switched it back on, then headed back to my room and clambered onto the bed to use the mirror above it. I swiped on a minor amount of makeup before blasting my hair dry. It was doing the weird tweaky thing it sometimes did. Lucky me. The curse of naturally wavy hair. I swear my hair had a mind of its own. I could not wear a hat to work and my brown hair wasn’t long enough to put in a ponytail. Rolling my eyes, I grabbed one of the cheesy headbands I used while washing my face. It looked ridiculous and childish, but at least my hair was halfway under control.

  The kettle began singing as I slid on my glasses. I much preferred contacts—glasses made me look geeky and not in a cute nerd way—but hours in front of a computer screen wreaked havoc on my eyes, and the glasses just worked better.

  I glanced at the clock. Damn. No time for coffee. How was I expected to function without coffee? No time to stop for any at the station coffee shop, either. I’d just have to grab a cup at work. If I managed to stayed awake that long.

  I grabbed my purse off the bookshelf and headed for the door before realizing I was still wearing my bathrobe. “Shit dammit!” I snarled, tossing the purse on the bed and yanking off the robe.

  My room was too small to hold a dresser. Instead, I kept my non-hanging clothes in bins on the bottom of the small wardrobe while shoes were under the bed. Hanging items were crammed onto the wardrobe pole or on the backs of the doors. Scarves and purses hung from the hooks the previous tenant had used to hang his bike. Small spaces required extreme creativity.

  Jerking one of the boxes out of the wardrobe, I grabbed some undies. Out of a second box came a pair of black trousers, the kind that didn’t need ironing. Hooray for polyester. I snagged a plain white blouse off the back of the bathroom door and followed that with a chunky necklace of peacock blue beads which matched my headband. If I was going to look ridiculous, I might as well do it with flair. In less than two minutes, I was dressed and digging around under the bed for a pair of black ballet flats.

  I glanced at my watch. “Shit, shit, shit.” The only way I was going to make the Tube was if I ran like hell. Snagging my purse off the bed and my tote back off the door handle, I ran out of the flat, locked the door behind me, and made a dash for the stairs. Halfway down, I nearly crashed into Mrs. Banjeree, my downstairs neighbor, who was just coming back from walking her wiener dog, Sparky. Sparky was just about the fattest wiener dog I’d ever seen in my entire life.

  “Woops, sorry, Mrs. Banjeree. Running late,” I said, dodging the two of them. “Have a good morning,” I called as I slipped out the door. I heard her tutting behind me.

  “Running. Always running. Just like my grandson. That boy never sit still. She never gonna find a husband like that, Sparky.”

  Flying down the pavement, I made a mental note to ring the landlord about the boiler and to start getting up earlier. Fat chance. I turned the corner onto Notting Hill Gate and dashed into the station. I gave the attendant a little wave as I slapped my Oyster card on the reader. I took the escalators two at a time, dodging slow-moving commuters. I might as well not have bothered. I missed the last Tube that would have gotten me to work on time.

  With an exasperated groan, I took up my position on the platform to wait for the next one. I didn’t have long to wait. A couple minutes later, I was squeezing myself into the over-packed car. The Tube gave a hard jerk as it pulled out of the station, sending me careening into a Sikh gentleman innocently trying to read his paper. With an apologetic smile, I righted myself, clutching one of the empty rubber straps for my life. The Sikh gentleman nodded before returning to his paper. He was a regular, often riding the same Tube I did. I liked to look out for him and spot which color turban he was wearing. Today it was purple to match his tie.

  Ten minutes later the Tube pulled into Bond Street Station. With a surge, half the people—including me—rushed out onto the platform. I found myself pushed along the walkways and up the escalator in a wave of humanity. Once on the street, I checked my watch. Crap. I was already two minutes late. Screw it. I might as well grab a cup of coffee while I was at it.

  Quickly, I ducked into the tiny Costa Coffee just inside the station. It took a little longer than I anticipated, and by the time I had my crème brulee latte, I was a full ten minutes late. I took off down the street at a fast walk and promptly crashed into a rock hard chest.

  My purse flew one way, my tote another, and my coffee went straight down my white shirt, dousing it and the other person’s trouser leg. I would have fallen if the man hadn’t grabbed me. My hands closed around the impressive muscles of his biceps to steady myself while the scent of freshly showered man combined with sticky sweet coffee hit my nostrils. I cast about frantically for my purse and tote. With a groan I realized the contents of both had spilled all over the busy pavement. Pedestrians were genteelly skirting tubes of lip gloss, wads of tissue, stacks of business cards, and handfuls of feminine products. I could have died right then and there.

  “Fucking hell.” I couldn’t help it. When I was stressed, I swore like a sailor. “Shitdammit. This is all I need.”

  “I take it you’re all right then?” The male voice with its buttery London accent interrupted my tirade.

  “Uh.” I glanced up at the man whose biceps were still in my clutches and froze. Good lord, he was swoony. Seriously, seriously delicious with reddish blond hair curling wildly over his forehead and the most impossibly green eyes. And his cheekbones. Oh, lordy, his cheekbones. “Yes, yes. Thank you,” I sputtered. “Sorry about crashing into you. I’m just...” And then I realized I knew him. “Adam?”

  He smiled, and I could have sworn my heart stopped. Good lord, that smile could melt the entire Arctic ice sheet. No one had the right to be that ridiculously good-looking. His smile turned a very handsome man into a devastating one. “That’s me. You’re in a hurry...?” He paused as if he was trying to remember something. “Kate.”

  So, he did remember. Would wonders never cease? My insides were dancing a freaking Irish jig. “Um, what? Oh, yeah. Hurry. Late. Yes.” I glanced at my purse. “Crap. Sorry. My purse.” When had I turned into a one-syllable idiot?

  “No worries, love. Let me help.”

  Adam let me go, knelt down, and calmly began scooping feminine hygiene products into my purse as if he did it every day. Nothing to see here, folks. Flushing, I knelt beside him and gathered the rest of my belongings, cramming them into my tote.

  I barely managed to repress the wild urge to say, “Well, at least you know I’m fertile.” Not even Bridget Jones had been desperate enough to announce such a thing.

  “Here you are,” he said, handing me the purse. “Safe as houses.”

  “Thanks.” I ducked my head to hide the flush of embarrassment.

  “I have sisters,” he said, as if to tell me I needn’t be so embarrassed.

  “Right.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “And I’m sorry again about, you know.”

  “Using me as a punching bag? Dumping coffee on me?” He winked. “No worries. It’s not every day I get attacked by a beautiful woman.”

  I glanced up at him, startled. Beautiful? Seriously? Had he hit his head? Oh, he was smiling. Laughing at me, no doubt.

  “I guess this is your lucky day then, Adam.” I glanced at my watch. Crap. No time for more coffee.

  “Looks like I owe you a coffee.” He glanced down at my empty cup still lying on the pavement.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. It was my fault for not paying attention.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I want to buy you a coffee.” His expression was so earnest, and he was so damned gorgeous, I couldn’t say no, but...I glanced at my watch again.

 
“Sorry, I wish I could, but I really gotta run. I usually catch the train before this, and I’m way late.”

  “All right. Do you work tomorrow?”

  “It’s Saturday.” I could have kicked myself. Couldn’t I have just said yes? Now he’d never take me for coffee.

  “All right, Monday morning.”

  I blinked. “You want to buy me a coffee Monday morning?” Was this a date?

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “Um, okay. I guess I can meet you here. Ten to eight?” Angels were singing an aria in my brain. I made a note to self to only drink water. And to bring a bib.

  Adam gave me the widest smile. “Perfect.”

  “Deal. Thanks again.” With a little wave, I took off at a dead run, hustling through the crowds of pedestrians. It took everything I had not to look back.

  Mr. Options

  MY FIRST DATE AFTER the disaster that had been Open Relationship Man (aka Mr. Liar, Liar Pants on Fire) was with Jeremiah aka Mr. Options. He was British but of Jamaican decent, and his picture on the dating site was stunning. He had a gorgeous, wide smile that showed off perfect white teeth and a pair of full, kissable lips that had me thinking girlish thoughts. His ripped physique meant he worked out. A lot. Which made sense as he’d listed his occupation as “fitness trainer.” I was a little surprised he was interested in meeting me. I wasn’t exactly the gym bunny type. In my experience, I didn’t have much in common with the fitness obsessed.

  I was a bit leery of going on a date because, while he made the first move online and declared himself attracted, he only sent three or four very short emails with little information about himself before making a date. I figured maybe he just wasn’t comfortable talking online and preferred to get to know someone in person. Admittedly, I felt the same. And what did it hurt, going out to dinner with a handsome man?

  Once we set up the date on Monday, I didn't hear from him again the rest of the week. It seemed odd he would make a date with someone and then ignore them until date time, but I thought maybe he was busy.