Jillian
I SHIMMY INTO A flattering black dress and sit down in front of the mirror. Pushing back my hair, I take my earring and thread the gold wire through my earlobe, then repeat the process on the other side. The diamonds sparkle next to my cheeks.
After artfully applying a layer of makeup, I smile, pleased with what I see. My smile wavers when I think about my Matchup.com date. We’re supposed to meet for dinner in Summit at seven-thirty. I pick up the scrap of paper I’ve written a few notes on. Gerald, forty-seven, six feet tall, lawyer, lives in Westfield, likes traveling and mountain biking. On paper he looks fine, but I’m suddenly wishing he was in his twenties with long blond hair.
I can’t stop thinking about Raine. If I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t stopped thinking about Raine since he left on Thursday. True to his word, he sent all the book covers to me on Thursday night at almost midnight. A blush spreads across my cheeks when I think about my visit to the spa for a bikini wax earlier today. At the last minute, I went for a full Brazilian, and I can’t say it was for Gerald.
I toy with the idea of ending the date early so that I can drop by The Grasshopper. Then I remind myself: although unconfirmed, Raine’s probably half my age.
Picking up the slip of paper again, I do my best to generate some enthusiasm.
My cell phone rings and I glance at the number. It’s Brigitte. I managed to send her my synopsis on Wednesday morning which should satisfy her professionally for a while. I hope this is just a social call, or better yet, about the book cover.
“Hey, B.”
“Good luck tonight! I can’t wait to hear all the details tomorrow,” she gushes. “What are you wearing?”
I gaze into the mirror at the sleeveless, scoop-neck black dress. Enough but not too much of my cleavage is displayed. A nice diamond necklace that matches my earrings lies subtly at my throat.
“The standard uniform.”
“You don’t sound very excited. What’s the matter?”
I release a breath. “Nothing. He sounds nice over the phone, but you know how these things go. The chemistry could be crap when I get there.”
“True, but try to be positive,” She lowers her voice. “Don’t forget to bring condoms in case you decide to go back to his place.”
“B! Come on, really? No. I may write romance novels, but I don’t believe everything I write.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t had real sex since Robert died, either,” she counters.
I roll my eyes. “Define ‘real.’ It wasn’t like Robert and I had a blazing sex life before that anyway. I’m used to my state of deprivation.”
Brigitte clucks at me. “‘Real’ as defined by a man actually being attached to the penis.”
“That’s highly overrated in my opinion. I’d much rather stick to mechanical means if my last two dates are any indication of my alternative.” I think of Raine and flush. He’s the only temptation I’ve run across since I got married.
“Speaking of romance, I got the covers you sent.”
I sit up straighter. Enthusiasm returns to my voice. “What did you think?”
“They’re very good. There’s no denying the guy has talent, Jillian. And he’s hot with a capital H, but I still don’t think we’ll have much luck getting the publisher to approve them.”
“Don’t give up, B. I really want to use him,” I say with conviction. Now that I’ve seen the covers, I can’t imagine there being anything better suited.
She sighs. “Don’t worry. I haven’t. Call me tomorrow.” Then she quickly adds, “And have fun on your date!”
“Will do.” I hang up and eye the clock. Time to get moving.
After a deep breath, I walk into the bar at Huntley Tavern, an upscale restaurant known for its wine bar and Arts and Crafts theme. High tables are scattered in front of a line of booths in the two-story room which also boasts an open kitchen, a long bar covering one wall, and a fireplace at one end. The low-lit room is warm and welcoming.
I smile at the hostess and walk past her to find a seat at the bar. My eyes dart around looking for Gerald. Not seeing anyone who fits his description, I pull out my phone to make sure he hasn’t canceled at the last minute.
My stomach tightens as I wonder if I can make it through a whole dinner. This makes my third blind date since I ventured into this online dating adventure. The first two were okay, but clearly not a match, no pun intended.
Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn.
“Jillian?” he asks. I recognize him from his picture, only I wonder how long ago it was taken. At forty-seven, Gerald looks much older than Robert did when he died at forty-eight.
I force a smile. “Gerald?”
“That’s me.” He points back to the hostess. “Our table is ready.”
“Lead the way,” I say and slip off the bar stool. In my high heels, I’m his height. Why did I think he would be taller? Rather than waiting for me, he walks ahead. . . way ahead. He’s already lost points and we haven’t even sat down yet.
I count to five and say a silent prayer asking for patience and fortitude.
They seat us in my favorite area on the covered porch. Removable window panels insulate us from the chill of the outside air.
“Are you a wine drinker?” he asks, picking up the menu.
I unfold the napkin onto my lap. “Yes, but I prefer red.”
“Let me guess: Merlot?” he says with a snide undertone.
My jaw tightens and I will myself to relax. He seemed much nicer on the phone. “That depends if I’m drinking it with or without dinner. Usually, I prefer a nice Australian Shiraz or an Argentinian Malbec unless I’m having beef, and then I prefer something heavier like a Cabernet or a Cote de Rhone.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says, giving me a tight smile.
I return his smile with an equal degree of tightness. “You didn’t.”
“Why don’t we order by the glass then,” he says.
“Great idea.” I clench my hands under the table and wonder if I’ll make it to the appetizer. Beyond his comment rubbing me the wrong way, I already know he’s not for me. His sports jacket doesn’t hide the fact that his mountain biking isn’t having the desired effect on his waistline—which I can overlook. It’s the pinched look of unhappiness on his face that I can’t. I’ve had enough misery touch my life, and I’m not in the market for any more.
The waitress takes our drink order and leaves.
“What kind of law do you practice?” I ask to kick it off.
He folds his hand in front of him and seems to relax. He would actually be handsome for an older man if he focused on something positive. “Intellectual property, mainly. There seems to be no shortage of work these days. Especially when it comes to piracy over the Internet. So, you’re a writer?”
I smile and this time it’s genuine. “Yes, I’m actually in the middle of writing a novel right now.”
“Oh? What kind of novels do you write?”
My glass of Shiraz appears in front of me, as does a glass of scotch for him. I wonder why he’s starting with hard liquor after he grilled me about the wine.
“Romance, mostly.” I take a sip from my glass.
His eyebrows rise. “My ex-wife was a big romance reader. She was especially intrigued by that Fifty Shades of something trash.”
My hackles rise and I take a breath. “I don’t write erotica, but if I did, I wouldn’t mind having that author’s success or her following.”
He takes a sip of his scotch. “But I’m sure your novels contain sex just the same?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Generally, to sell a romance, it needs to contain sex to satisfy the reader, yes. And your point would be what?”
“Well, no point really. So you like sex then?” he asks and his stare slithers over my skin. How the hell do I answer a question like that?
“What are you asking? Are you wondering whether I like writing about it or having it?”
“Both.” He gives me salacious look before taking another sip of his scotch.
“I think it’s a little too soon to ask something so personal. Don’t you?” My hand chokes my napkin under the table.
His lips purse and I wonder if he’s trying to be sexy. “Just sizing up my chances for later.” Then he winks at me.
My stomach turns. As if! “I take it you’ve never actually read a romance novel, have you?”
He sniffs in disgust. “No disrespect, but no, and I don’t think I ever would. I prefer nonfiction.”
Irritation swirls inside me, and I decide to switch topics. “Your profile says you like to travel. Have you been anywhere interesting lately?”
“Not lately with the divorce and all. But I’m thinking my next trip will be to the Far East. I’d like to see China since its economic rise.”
Finally, something that seems like a safe topic. I sit up in my seat. “That sounds interesting. I think I’d like to see Europe before I expand my horizons into the Far East.”
“You haven’t already been there? I’d think by your age you would have ventured into Europe several times.”
By my age? I bristle at his assumption. “My husband wasn’t much of an international traveler. Since I married young, that leaves a lot left for me to see.” I have no reason to add that Robert had a morbid fear of flying.
“I suppose,” he says. “What did your husband do?”
“He was a real estate developer in New York City and northern New Jersey.”
He perks up with interest. “Oh. That must have left you sitting pretty. I can’t imagine writing romance pays very well.”
My anger flares at the audacity of this guy. “That would be none of your business, and as a New York Times best-selling author, I do quite well on my own.” I drain my wine glass as the waitress approaches the table. “You know, I’m wondering if maybe we should skip dinner. I think we might have a compatibility issue.”
A look of shock washes over his face. “Why would you say that? I thought we were getting along quite well.”
“I don’t understand how you could say that. You’ve insulted me from the moment I sat down.”
“How have I done that? Was it my comment about romance novels?”
Seriously? I try to keep my jaw hinged shut. “If you don’t know, that’s a problem.”
I place my napkin on the table, and push my seat back ready to leave.
“I find it appalling that you would end a perfectly good date. I can’t imagine you’re getting a lot of offers.”
I freeze and stare at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
His eyes travel over me, and I cringe. “For one, I wouldn’t be wearing such a formfitting dress when you could stand to lose ten pounds. Not to mention, I expected you to look . . . younger. I thought I was being generous offering to have sex with you.”
My face flames red and fury rises inside me with the intensity of a force five hurricane. “Are you serious? I think you have it wrong. The situation is actually reversed. I’d be the one doing you a mercy, grandpa!”
I throw a twenty dollar bill on the table and storm out as my eyes fill with tears. As much as I don’t want to believe his cruel words, they still cut me to the quick. He’s obviously a bitter, miserable jerk. I’m surprised his wife didn’t divorce him sooner for his pompous attitude.
Rounding the corner, I thrust the valet ticket and a five dollar bill at the boy standing there and dab my eyes with a tissue. With incredible speed, my SUV is waiting with the driver’s side door open. I slide in and close the door. My hands grasp the wheel and I sit paralyzed. To think that I could’ve taken Raine up on his offer tonight instead. But as the thought enters my mind, Gerald’s words come back. I look down at my midsection under my coat. Is this dress really too tight? My shoulders slump. The bulge is small but it’s there. I glance into the mirror and stare at the crow’s feet around my eyes and the fine lines around my mouth. A subtle honk comes from behind me. I step on the gas and pull away.
Tears blur my vision. I don’t think I look that bad. I hunger for someone to take me into his arms and tell me it’s okay. No, not just anyone. I hunger for the feel of Raine’s arms, strong and sure. I think about the playful look in his eye as he gathered me up and held me close at the photo shoot, and I want that . . . right now.
I hate that I let those ugly words affect me and remind myself that even though words have power, it’s up to me to take that power away.
My car takes me through Summit and into Chatham, but it doesn’t stop. It snakes its way all the way to Morristown. It’s only eight forty-five when I park across the street from The Grasshopper. My hand trembles as I turn off the engine, and I check my makeup in the rearview mirror. I’m not thrilled with what I see, as if I’m looking at my face through creepy Gerald’s eyes.
Glancing across the street, I see a group of young people, the same age as Raine, hanging outside the door next to the bouncer. Lights pulse on the other side of the darkened, steamy windows. The band must be on stage. The girls are all twig thin, dressed in short skirts with long flowing hair. They look like Jenny, and I look like I could be their mom.
I keep my seat belt on until tears once again cloud my vision. I feel foolish. I said I’d go to dinner with Raine next week. I must be crazy. What the hell am I doing here now? My discomfort grows as I think of walking in there with puffy eyes feeling like some old cougar on the prowl for young flesh. How desperate is that?
I sit immobile behind the wheel. If I go in, what good will come of it? I can only imagine how dark and noisy it will be, having to scream to be heard. Raine is bartending, so he won’t have time for me anyway. I can’t put him in the position of having to make up for my bad night. Worse yet, what if he rejects me, too?
After brushing away my tears, I start the engine. I tell the weaker part of me that wants to rush across the street into the bar to shut up and let the stronger part drive me home.
I haven’t felt this lonely since Robert died.