Breakfast At Bethany's. Kathleen O'Reilly
quite pleased with herself. Now who was the schmiel?
Mr. Hotshot Journalist-Man was rendered speechless. His face turned primitive—eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, breathing shallow. All facts seemed to indicate that Mr. James was seeing her as a sexual being, not just a guinea pig.
She would have been lying if she didn’t admit to feeling a little squishy herself—okay, a lot.
There were many reasons why she wanted to shock him. Some of it was the simple biological response to the highly charged testosterone that was shooting from every solid inch of him.
But there was more to it than just chemistry. She’d always felt like a bystander in life, not the ambitious one, not the intelligent one, not the sexy one. She’d skirted along, moving from job to job, boyfriend to boyfriend, not ever needing to settle.
She’d never seen anything wrong with that until now. Now, as he stared at her with those cool gray eyes that made him just as much a bystander as she was, she got mad.
He thought her love life was great fodder for his article, and nothing else.
She met his eyes squarely, with a show of bravado she’d never attempted before. This time she wasn’t about to look away.
He glanced down at his paper, his cheeks flushed, but he wasn’t writing.
She’d made him stop writing.
It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
SPENCER CLOSED HIS EYES and began to count. He was a professional. He just needed to concentrate on something other than the far too appealing fantasy of the woman across from him playing under her skirts while reading Cosmo.
Slowly, the fog lifted and he opened his eyes. Still she was watching him. Some part of him, the non-glandular part, wanted to forget the whole incident and concentrate on the issues at hand, namely his story. Spence had learned a long time ago how to turn off the female of the species. He’d turned into a first-class asshole. A drastic measure, but effective. Besides, the reputation had helped his career.
Tonight, though, the more ruling part of him, namely his erection, felt a response was in order. A physical response. Already he was anticipating that physical response. She wanted to play games?
He lifted his glass to her. “Salute. To the pursuit of pleasure.”
She lifted her glass to her lips, eyeing him over the crystal edge. There was some uncertainty in her face, but the blue eyes were dark with knowledge.
“I shouldn’t have strayed,” she murmured. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. After all, this is being recorded for posterity.”
“Not for posterity,” he corrected. “Just for my own personal review.”
“Still, I’m babbling.”
“No, my dear. You’re seducing me, and that’s an entirely different matter.”
BETH FELT HER blood pressure rising to near volcanic proportions. The pig. The arrogant swine. As if she’d like to bed him. Of course she would.
As if she’d like to see if he could kiss as well as he could talk. Mais certainement!
His gray eyes were daring her to continue. Go ahead, missy, do me.
Beth smiled grimly. “Let’s stick to business, shall we?”
“If you insist.”
She glared. “I insist. You’ve said you can get me great dates. However, I think we need to define the terminology we’ll be using. Great for me indicates a man who is handsome—”
“Aha! Looks are important.”
Her knife was calling to her. “Intelligent,” she grated out between clenched teeth. “Sensitive. And not a boor.”
“Then you’ll have to change things around.” He pulled a folder from his briefcase. “Instead of saying ‘Looking to meet good man’ say ‘Are you worthy?’ It implies you’re confident and above clichés.”
“‘Looking to meet good man’ is not a cliché.”
“It’s the most cliché of clichés.”
Beth threw her napkin over her knife, just to eliminate temptation. “Let’s move on.”
“Romantic walks.” He shook his head. “It means you’re fat.”
The napkin came off the knife. A knife that had cut through approximately twenty-seven Weight Watchers points’ worth of food. “I’m not fat.”
“No, but a man will read between the lines. It implies that you don’t want to do anything to break a sweat. Including having sex. No wonder you’re having problems here.”
“I understand,” she said, suddenly comprehending why his wife had divorced him.
“The ‘good wine’ bit isn’t bad.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”
He continued on, ignoring her. “If you’d said martinis or cosmopolitans, you might get a livelier crowd. Just as long as you don’t mention beer.”
“Why?”
“Beer means you’re fat.”
“I hate beer.”
He looked her over. “And it shows.”
Quickly she changed the subject. “Old movies? I suppose I should say action movies, right?”
“No, the average single man will read ‘old movies’ and think that he can put up with it, and then get laid on the couch. Old movies are a great aphrodisiac.”
“Do you think old movies are a great aphrodisiac?” she asked, suddenly curious.
He frowned for a moment, as if he’d never considered the idea of aphrodisiacs. “No.”
She folded her hands together gracefully, the image of calm. “Ah, but you’re not the average single man.”
“God forbid.”
She polished off the last of her wine. No dessert tonight. It was getting late, and she was feeling fat. “So how would you rewrite my ad?”
He looked up in the air, his pen twirling idly. Then he focused on her and frowned. The pen twirled again. “Are you worthy? Sexy blonde who savors a great cabernet wants to wile away hours with a man. Life is hectic enough. I need someone who appreciates a classic movie and a lazy Saturday night. Dave Eggers fans need not apply.”
It was good. And he really thought she was sexy? Not that it mattered, of course. All she wanted was great dates with someone other than him.
And so it came to pass. Beth smiled and held out her hand. “Mr. James, I believe we have a deal.”
2
Sexy blonde is looking for Mr. Right Now. Could that possibly be you? Need someone who knows how to laugh and is smart enough to make me smile.
HIS APARTMENT WAS CURSED.
For over an hour he’d been trying to work, but his concentration had been shot to hell. The constant buzzing of his cleaning woman’s vacuum was driving him batty.
“Sophie!”
Still the buzzing continued. How the hell was he supposed to work in a war zone?
“Sophie!”
God bless it, the buzzing ceased.
Sophie appeared in the doorway to his study, clad in her latest red spandex jogging shorts, which accentuated curves she didn’t need to advertise. Sophie, however, was a woman who’d never recovered from the eighties. “You rang, Mr. James?” she asked in the clipped English