Romance Me (Boxed Set) (7 page)

Holding the pen between his fingers, Craig scratched his temple. “Did my scenario upset you?”

“No. Yes . . .” I splayed my hands on the table and leaned forward. “This is only our second date and you’re asking me how I’d handle a horrible accident if we were married when the truth is, we don’t even know each other yet.”

“What do you mean?” He unfolded what appeared to be my completed
Detailed Dating
questionnaire and gestured toward the pages in his notebook as if to prove the point. “I feel I know you quite well and I’d be happy to answer any questions if you need more information about me. Complete and total honesty is important to making a relationship work.”

“That’s the thing, Craig. We’ve gathered a bunch of information about our likes and dislikes by exchanging emails for over a month, but that doesn’t mean we know each other. Not really.” I thought about Henry and how much I’d learned about him in our few exchanges. “You and I have no idea what jokes make the other person laugh. If there’s
chemistry
and
vibe
when we touch. How important our families are to us. Or, what the other would do if we saw a dog stranded by the side of the highway, hungry and malnourished . . .”

“Let me reassure you on that last one.” He nodded and clasped his hands together on the table. “I would call animal control or the SPCA immediately, give the location and unless I was in a hurry, I’d wait near the dog until the proper authorities arrived.”

My throat closed up. It’s not that Craig wasn’t nice, it’s that the only thing that had ever intrigued me about him was our high
Detailed Dating
score. “You’re a good guy, Craig.” As the waiter was about to set the bill on the table, I handed him my credit card, and couldn’t believe what I was about to say to my perfect match. “We’re just not . . . compatible.”

His eyes went wide and his mouth hung open a little. “We’re not a hundred percent, sure, but we have potential that’s worth exploring. Look here,” he opened his notebook, pulled out our profiles and showed me a number at the top of the paper that read, “
98% match.
” Then, he flipped to the last page of his notes where he’d drafted some kind of spreadsheet, and pointed to the line at the bottom. “According to my own personal observations, it’s 84% likely that you’re the one for me.”

The straight A student in me (yeah, yeah, A-/B+) immediately felt insulted, so I rotated the book toward me and scanned his notes. “Let me see that.”

“The closest any other woman has come is 62% and that was five months ago.” He sounded as if I should be proud.

With an 84%? Yeah, right.

Hmmm. I’d been marked down 4% for making fun of him with the restaurant food critic remark (his loss, that had been a good one), 2% for hesitating between answers, and 5% each time he’d had to repeat himself tonight when I hadn’t been paying attention, which was valid but should’ve put me at the low A range not mid B range. “When, I’d like to know, did I ever hesitate between answers?”

He pointed to the prior page. “First, at the beginning of our meal when I inquired if you cooked.”

My mouth dropped open. “Well, I was trying to decide if microwaving counted.”

His finger slid down the page to a sentence with an asterisk next to it. “Second, when I asked if you set the toilet paper roll facing up or down.”

I squeezed the cloth napkin in my lap. “No fair, I’d been chewing my food.”

“I’ll accept that.” He made some slashes and calculations, then adjusted my score to 86%. “See, we’re even more compatible than I thought.”

Um, somehow we’d gotten off the point. Oops. “You’re going to make some woman very happy, Craig. You really are.”

“I’m willing to improve on areas you feel need work, Ellen. It feels a little early in the relationship, but we can explore the
chemistry
and
vibe
thing if you’d like.” He put his hand over mine and . . . nothing.

No zip. No spark. And no wonder . . . he wasn’t Henry. I patted his hand, then signed the credit card slip the waiter had set down. “The truth is, Craig, on paper it does read like we’re compatible. And I can’t explain it, other than to say I know in my heart that we aren’t.”

He bowed his head a moment and then nodded. “I certainly appreciate your honesty. Thank you for getting the check.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, as we both stood. “Best of luck to you.”

“To you as well.” He started to hand me the boxes of leftovers until I waved my hand indicating he could keep them. It was the least I could do. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said.

I smiled and thanked him even though it’d be impossible to find what I’m looking for when I didn’t know what that was anymore. I’d wanted someone compatible and even with a 98% match (the lame 86% doesn’t count) from
Detailed Dating
, all I could think about was Henry. Checking my watch, I saw that the final doggy class had ended—along with my last chance to see Henry.

I tossed and turned in bed that night, trying to push Henry out of my mind. My head battled with my heart for hours, but eventually my heart won out and I let the few memories we’d shared wash over me. Curled up in my comforter, I replayed our conversations in my head. Every elbow nudge. Every laugh. Every touch. I wished I’d asked outright what he’d been up to that was so “intense.” I wished I’d let him know I was interested. And more than anything, I wished I could see those deep gray eyes again.

CHAPTER SIX

My coffee intake doubled Friday morning and I still barely had the energy to make it to work. Too much tossing and turning all night.

I parked my car and dragged my feet across the employee parking lot, debating swallowing my pride to ask Rach if Henry had said anything about my missing class. But then, what would be the point? He’d never shown anything other than friendly interest in me, so the logical thing to do was move on. Right? Ugh. Why did dating have to be so complicated?

To distract myself from my dating debacles, I focused on customer reports all morning, and was deep into typing up a customer inquiry for our sales team (it had been a pleasant call for a change) when my phone beeped.

I leaned toward the speaker. “Yes?”

“Hi, Ellen.” Ginger’s perky receptionist voice rang out. “Gilbert Watson would like to see you in the lobby.”

Frowning, I remembered it was Friday and checked my watch. “Didn’t he already meet with tech support?”

“Yes, but he specifically asked to speak with you now.” Her voice lowered. “He’s very insistent.”

Why didn’t that surprise me? “I’ll be right out.”

With a few keystrokes on the computer, I checked Gilbert Watson’s file to see if tech support (aka: Teddy) had solved our client’s laptop issues. No updates. Great, I had to walk out blind.

I straightened my blouse, headed toward the lobby, and prepared myself for another rant from Gilbert Watson on how our software program was to blame for his computer issues and that we needed to pay up.

Pasting a smile on my face, I approached the tall elderly man in the lobby who stood next to a woman with short, curly white hair. “Good morning, Mr. Watson. I’m Ellen, the customer service rep you spoke with on the phone. How was your meeting with tech support?”

He introduced me to his wife, then to my utter astonishment, pumped my hand enthusiastically. “Wouldn’t you know, it turns out I downloaded myself a virus containing spyware that slowed my computer and even made it stop sometimes. Had nothing to do with the software program after all.”

Gee, that’s exactly what I’d tried to tell him. Repeatedly. “I’m relieved to hear it wasn’t our program, Mr. Watson.”

His brows came together suddenly as he felt the empty breast pocket on his collared shirt. “Left my glasses in the restroom.” Then he turned around. “I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Watson chuckled as she watched the receptionist buzz her husband back to find his glasses. “Thank you for being so patient with Gilbert this past week, dear. When he gets it in his head that he’s being taken advantage of, there’s no reasoning with him. And from what I’ve heard, you’ve handled him very professionally. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve made him apologize over the years.”

Her admission made my mouth curve upward, especially since he’d insisted several times that his wife agreed with him. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been married?”

Her forehead crinkled and she tapped each finger against her thumb, counting. “It’ll be fifty-two years this October.”

Clearly my lack of sleep had taken its toll on my professionalism because I blurted out, “What made you decide to marry him?”

Smiling, as if the answer was obvious, she said, “Gilbert? Well, I loved him, of course.”

With five decades of marriage under her belt, this woman had to know the secret to making marriage work. “Yes, but how’d you know that you were compatible? You must’ve had the same life goals so you knew there wouldn’t be conflicts, right?”

Did my tone sound as desperate as I felt?

“Throughout our marriage, I’m guessing our ‘life goals,’ as you put it, have changed at least half a dozen times. As far as conflicts go? That man can drive me crazy as no one else in the world can, I assure you.” She slid the back of her hand across her forehead as if to wipe pretend sweat away. “Still, I couldn’t imagine spending my life with anyone else but Gilbert.”

She had to be kidding me. These were her magic words of wisdom? That she couldn’t imagine living without him? “More than fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, Mrs. Watson. In order to make that lifelong decision, how did you know it would last forever?”

“I guess I didn’t.” She put her hand on my forearm. “But, I wasn’t going to lose him because of statistics. I loved him and I went for it.” She winked at me. “Good thing, too. Wouldn’t you say?”

As if on cue, Gilbert strode into the lobby with his computer case slung over his shoulder and held up his glasses. “Forgot my laptop, too. Isn’t that a hoot?”

“Gilbert.” She nudged his arm. “What am I going to do with you?”

We said polite good-byes, and as I watched Mr. and Mrs. Watson head out of the lobby, holding hands after half a century of marriage, it felt like a blindfold had been lifted. There were no guarantees. If you love someone, you either go for it or you don’t.

Wait. Love? Where had that come from? I hadn’t even known Henry a week and I certainly didn’t believe in love at first sight. What a ridiculous notion for a strong, smart woman. Storybook love doesn’t exist in real life. Yet, when I’d first met Henry and looked into those deep, dark gray eyes . . . And every time I’d talked to him since . . .

It had
felt
like storybook love.

Okay, forget my pride. I had to find Rachel.

****

Rachel came to the office after lunch and I stormed into her cubicle. “Where have you been?”

“Ran to the mall at lunch and guess what I got?” She smiled, apparently oblivious to my desperation, as she set a double handled silver shopping bag on her desk, pulled out a shiny white shoebox, and handed it to me. “Surprise!”

“No way.” I lifted the top, pushed the tissue aside, and immediately recognized the stunning pair of red stilettos I’d tried on last week but passed on in favor of the more practical black boots. “You went back for these? What for?”

She pulled them out of the box and displayed them in the air as we both stared at them in awe. “After Chester made his little chew toy mistake, you wouldn’t let me buy you new boots so I decided to get you the pair you really wanted.”

I slid my fingers over the smooth, sexy heels. “They’re as gorgeous as I remember. Thanks.” I gave her a quick hug. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I could do after you introduced my sweet baby to Simply Skilled.” She put the heels back in the box and leaned against her desk, wearing an excited expression. “Since yesterday was the last class, Abby Wilson let us choose a special skill for our babies to master and guess what? My smart boy can now do his business in a litter box!”

So much for breaking him of his destructive chew habit. “You trained your dog to use a litter box? Like a cat?”

“Yes.” She nodded, enthusiastically. “In just one class, too. My baby is super smart.”

Yeah, except when he’s Hoovering globs of hair from my brush.

She let out a contented sigh. “Now, I don’t have to go home at lunch to give him a potty break anymore. Isn’t that cool?”

“As long as the other dogs don’t make fun of him for it.” At the joke, I immediately thought of Kenzie. “I’m glad you liked the Simply Skilled class.”

Rach slid into her chair, spinning it to face me. “Loved it. Emily Post couldn’t find a flaw with Abby Wilson’s training.”

“True,” I said, though she wasn’t the person from class I’d been thinking about. “So, did you meet Henry? Did he say anything about me?”

It felt like junior high but, when you’re desperate, why mince words?

“Yes.” Her forehead wrinkled as if she were rethinking the conversation. “He did ask about you, actually.”

Each second that ticked by felt like torture. “And . . . ?”

“Well, at first we introduced ourselves, he wondered where you were, yada yada.” She waved her hand in the air as if to skip to the point. “Then, get this, he asked if I thought your dates with Craig were going anywhere.”

My heart started pounding. That had to be a good sign. “Really?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry. I gave him a piece of my mind.”

Oh, no. “W-what do you mean?”

She crossed her arms. “I told him plain and simple that if he liked you—and it kind of seemed like he did with the way he hung on every word I said—then he should’ve asked you out himself. Not go digging for information from your friend.” She peeked up at me with a smug smile. “Then, he asked for your number.”

The pounding in my chest upgraded to galloping. “He did?”

“Don’t worry, I told him he was too late because you were out with that
Detailed Dating
guy again and how compatible you both were. Then, I
may
have gone off about why men pretend to be one way and then act another way . . . like Dillon pretending he was interested in me one minute and that I was just a hook-up the next. It’s weak, you know?”