Million Dollar Date

by Susan Hatler

  “Just your license and registration, ma’am.”

  I bristled in frustration. The guy was like an impenetrable wall. “Was I going a little fast or something? If so, it wasn’t on purpose. I’m an excellent driver.”

  “Fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, ma’am.”

  I let out a breath, deciding to try a different tactic. “I’m so sorry about going a little over the speed limit. I got distracted by my cutie pie dog for a second and didn’t mean to go so fast.”

  I grabbed Banana from my purse and lifted him up for the officer to see. I knew using Banana to get out of a ticket was a low move, but I was desperate. No one could resist those big, imploring eyes and bite sized paws and eagerly wagging tail. It was humanly impossible.

  “License and registration, please,” he said, and it was then that I discovered this police officer was not in fact human because he ducked his head past Banana so he could stare at me. “Are you admitting that in addition to speeding you were driving distracted, ma’am?”

  “Um . . .” I wiggled Banana up at him one more time. I mean, maybe he just had really poor eyesight. What else could explain the Banana magic failing? Finally, I pulled Banana back inside the car and grabbed my wallet from my purse. “Look, Officer. Is there any way you can give me a pass this one time? It’s been a rough day and I would take it as a sign that there is still good in the world if you could just let it slide.”

  “The law is the law, ma’am.”

  “Yes, but you’re the one who decides how to enforce it,” I countered. “You could show a bit of mercy and understanding. You see, my friend just told me she’s going to have to shut down her dog rescue and all of those poor dogs will be without a home which breaks my h—”

  “License and registration, ma’am,” the officer repeated like the soulless robot he clearly was. “Or, I’ll have to ask you to get out of the car.”

  For some reason I suspected it wasn’t so he could twirl me around, dip me low, and whisper he could never give a ticket to someone as beautiful as me. But, by some unknown inner strength I managed to keep up my smile as I fished my license out of my wallet. The name Abigail Adams stared back at me and I chastised myself for not getting that updated legally after I changed my name. After all, Abigail Adams was the woman I’d promised never to be again: the woman who thinks only with her head and is a passionless, unhappy lawyer from Harvard.

  Now, I was Abigail Apple. Vibrant, fun, and passionate about puppy safety. But, you know, the DMV is such a pain with their long lines and it smells like a dusty warehouse in there. So, for a little bit longer Abigail Adams lived on my driver’s license. I handed the license and car registration over to the inhuman police officer and then slumped over my steering wheel as he walked back to his car.

  I glanced over at Banana, who wagged his tail. “I can’t imagine the type of girl who would even consider a date with that guy.” I shook my head even as I found myself checking out the officer’s backside as he walked away. “Not me, that’s for sure. I need someone with passion and emotion. Like my date tonight.”

  Oh, no. My date.

  I checked the clock on the dash and realized I’d barely have time to swing by my place to drop Banana off with my bestie Hannah—who was currently living on my couch while looking for a more permanent place to live—before hurrying (within the speed limit) to The Boat House in Old Sacramento for dinner. And even then I would probably be late. What a great first impression I was going to make: dirty from working outside all afternoon, covered in dog hair, makeup a mess from crying, and frazzled from Reagan’s bad news and RoboCop’s ticket.

  I glared at the officer as he returned my license and registration (two words I knew would haunt my dreams tonight) and, of course, gave me a ticket. Maybe he was secretly also Reagan’s heartless landlord. It wouldn’t shock me.

  “Pay the ticket at the address printed there or contest it in court on the stated date,” he said, tipping his head at me. “Drive safe now.”

  “You have a great day, too,” I said, watching him leave without another word. I considered giving the ticket to Banana. Does “my dog ate my ticket” work any better than my dog ate my homework? Sigh.

  I drove back into town and quickly dropped Banana off with Hannah at my place before hitting the road again, comforting myself by imagining my sweet date finding some reason to make me feel better about this awful day. Based on the emails we’d exchanged I knew he’d understand. He’d agree with me that the handsome officer, no, the not handsome officer was heartless. He would pat my hand and tell me that giving me a ticket when I was under such distress was totally ridiculous. He would be sympathetic and kind and order me a piece of chocolate cake to console me.

  I parked in Old Sacramento and rushed into the restaurant, pausing by the mirror in the lobby to rub away some mascara from under my eyes and to dust off some dog hair, assuring myself it would all be fine because I’d never have to see that police officer ever again.

  I strode up to the podium, gave the hostess my name and the name of my date, and then she led me toward a table by the back window with a view of the river. My heart pounded with excitement at the man already seated at the table, the sweet man I’d been emailing and would finally get to meet in person. But when I got a better look at my date, my feet stopped moving forward and my eyes bulged.

  Sitting at the table was the hot cop who had given me a ticket, somehow looking perfectly put together in a clean, pressed suit, and still without a hair out of place. As I stood there gaping at him, he turned his head and his gaze met mine. He paused as he took me in and then ever so slowly the corners of his mouth lifted.

  Chapter Two

  As I stood in the restaurant with my mouth hanging open, I stared at the soulless robot who had given me a ticket about twenty minutes ago. My emotions fired up as I pondered if this guy seriously had the nerve to be smiling at me right now.

  Lips curved upward. Eyes dancing. Yep, he was definitely smiling at me. So infuriating!

  Maybe RoboCop got a kick out of seeing me again after his obvious triumph with his little ticket book. Or maybe he found humor in how disheveled I looked thanks to his taking up all of my time so I couldn’t shower (or use a lint remover) before my date. Whatever. Not like I was going to wait here and ask for his reasoning. I obviously had the wrong table.

  I whirled around, accidentally knocking the menu out of the hostess’s hand and sending it flying in the air before it hit the floor with a thump. “Oops. Sorry. I’m having a bad day. Such a bad day. It can only get better though, right?” I asked, picking up the menu and handing it to the hostess. “Can we go another way to my table, please?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Your table is right here.”

  I tilted my head. “Where exactly?”

  “Right there.” She nodded toward the table where the smug officer was sitting (and smiling).

  “Um, no. No-no-no.” I shook my head, knowing this couldn’t be possible. My wonderful date that I’d been looking forward to for a week could definitely not be with the heartless cop. Fate would not be that cruel to me three times in one day.

  So, I checked out the table next to him. A group of six men wearing suits sat there having a discussion that, in my opinion, looked painfully dull. Next to them, a table with a family of four who were arguing over a dinner roll. Nope, not my date either. I stretched up onto my tiptoes to see if there was a table behind RoboCop, but there was only a window overlooking the river and Tower Bridge, illuminated in the waning light as dusk fell.

  “I don’t see my date,” I whispered to the hostess, hoping the cop couldn’t hear.

  “Right there. Dirty blond hair. Blue eyes. Muscles . . .” Her voice trailed off and she gave him an appreciative look as if she wanted him to be her date. “The really cute guy.”

  “No way,” I said, shaking my head. “That can’t be my date.”

  “Why not?” she asked, stepping closer to me. “He’s good looking and he
was really sweet when he came in.”

  “He’s a robot,” I said, stating the sad fact.

  The hostess started to laugh and then stopped short when I didn’t join in. “Oh, you’re not kidding. Well, he said his name is Cooper Hill, which is who you said you’re meeting. And he said he’s meeting a woman named Abigail Apple, which is your name. Right?”

  For a moment, I considered pulling out my license to show her I was technically Abigail Adams and then making a run for it. But then a thought hit me: the cop hadn’t known I was Abigail Apple when he gave me the ticket. We’d only ever communicated through email, so he didn’t know what I looked like. He’d thought I was some random stranger, which was still a bit rigid. But at least if he’d known he’d pulled me over then surely he wouldn’t have written that ticket.

  I’d go clear things up with him and then we might be able to still share a nice evening together. Hopefully something good could come out of this train wreck of a day. The hostess led me the short distance to the table and the officer kept his gaze on me as his eyebrows rose. Then he scanned the room and did a double take when I stopped at the table.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” the hostess said in a giddy voice.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my cool as I sat down. The hostess left the menu, giving another glance at the cop. I shook my head, surprised she hadn’t high-fived me before walking away. Finally, I turned to my date and smiled. “Hi, Cooper.”

  “Abigail Apple?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I said, holding my palms up. “Don’t worry. I understand what must’ve happened earlier on the road.” I paused for a moment, waiting for what would surely be a heartfelt apology from him. When he stayed silent, I shrugged. “You didn’t know it was me you’d pulled over, right? That’s because I haven’t gotten around to updating my license yet. So, you saw the name ‘Abigail Adams’ instead of my new name ‘Abigail Apple’ and had no way to put the connection together. My new name has a long story behind it about an apple tree and a quarter-life crisis and wanting a change and . . .”

  I realized I was rambling and stopped, feeling my cheeks warm.

  “Anyway, the point is I’m sure you would’ve cut me some slack if you’d known it was me you’d pulled over. There’s no way you would’ve given me that ticket if you’d realized who I was and that we were going on a date, this date, later tonight. Right?”

  He just stared at me as I sipped my water. Poor thing, he must feel terrible.

  “Look, please, don’t feel bad,” I insisted, holding up my hand. “It’s really not your fault. It was just a misunderstanding. Don’t feel bad at all.”

  “I don’t feel bad.” He gave me a side-glance and a slow smile, shaking his head. Finally, he tapped his fingers against the menu. “To be honest, if I knew who you were then I still would’ve given you a ticket.”

  I laughed big time. See, there was that sense of humor I was so attracted to in the emails we’d exchanged before deciding to schedule this date. Everything wasn’t so terrible after all. He was so funny and loved to joke around. Ha-ha-ha!

  “Abigail, I’m serious,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I feel obligated to be honest about that fact. I would never want to lie.”

  My jaw dropped for the second time in less than ten minutes and I leaned forward. “But I was barely speeding and I’d just received bad news and I’m your date.”

  He leaned forward, too. “And you broke the law.”

  I blew out a breath. “Barely.”

  “Barely over the speed limit is still over.”

  My eyes widened. “Over is over? Are you saying you would’ve given me a ticket even if I’d only been going one mile-per-hour over the speed limit?”

  “You weren’t going one over,” he said, his voice calm.

  “But—”

  “Good evening,” the waiter said, appearing beside the table with a bottle of wine. “I’m Javier and I’ll be serving you tonight. The gentleman said this is the lady’s favorite.”

  I glanced at the bottle of Chardonnay that bore the label of my favorite winery. For a moment, I started to melt that he’d remembered my favorite wine from our email exchanges. But then I remembered the way he’d handed me that ticket. The ticket that he still would’ve written if he’d known I was his date. What was wrong with this guy?

  The waiter smiled at us. “I can already see the sparks flying tonight.”

  I leaned back and crossed my arms and Cooper did the same, the muscles on his forearm flexing as he did so. How did he manage to look so good while being so annoying?

  The waiter’s cheery disposition faltered. “May I offer either one of you a sample?”

  “Water is just fine for me,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Cooper.

  “For me as well,” Cooper said, keeping his gaze on mine, and his expression blank.

  The waiter hesitated, clearly unsure of what had happened between the time Cooper had ordered the (thoughtful) bottle of wine and now. Finally, the waiter set the wine in a bucket of ice without pouring a sample for either of us.

  “Okay, then. I’ll inform you of our specials tonight—”

  “Just a salad for me, thank you,” I said.

  The waiter clearly hadn’t been expecting me to order right away because he fumbled as he pulled out his notepad. He clicked his pen and held it at the ready. “And which salad would the lady prefer this evening?”

  I didn’t even look at the menu. “Whichever is quickest to prepare.”

  “The house?”

  “Wonderful.”

  The waiter jotted down my order and shifted so he was facing Cooper. “And for you, sir?”

  “I’d like the clam chowder.”

  “A cup or a bowl?”

  Cooper made a point of looking over at me before answering. “Cup.”

  It was so silent between us that I heard the scratch of the waiter’s pen as I maintained eye contact with Cooper. I wasn’t going to be the first to relent. No way.

  “And what else for you, sir?”

  Cooper didn’t even blink. “That will do it.”

  Totally obnoxious to order a quick meal just because I had first. What was more annoying was that I couldn’t stop comparing Cooper’s blue eyes to the color of the sky over the barn earlier. I was trying to be indignant here, but found myself wondering if the dark flecks in his eyes were black or brown.

  Cooper’s expression was blank and the man was obviously as stubborn as a mule, but none of that annoying personality was present in his eyes. They looked soft, and sexy. . . He narrowed them as if trying to look imposing, but merely managed to make my belly do a little flip. Those eyes were driving me crazy.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll get your orders started for you two,” the waiter said as he retreated from the table like a hiker who had just stumbled across a pair of mountain lions about to fight.

  Cooper and I remained silent after the waiter left. We stared at one another from across the table as everyone around us shared conversations. I contemplated leaving, but my overly strict parents raised me to be polite. Plus, you know, my stomach was growling.

  “The time might pass more quickly if we talk about something,” Cooper finally said.

  I considered it and nodded. “What would you like to talk about? Traffic laws?”

  He chuckled. “Really, Abigail?”

  “Fine,” I said, letting out an audible sigh so he’d know how put out I was with the concession I was making by continuing with this date after he’d issued me a speeding ticket that he would’ve given me, date or not. So, so, so rude. “What kind of movies do you like, Cooper? The Shawshank Redemption? Cool Hand Luke?”

  “Funny,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

  My belly fluttered again. I probably should’ve let the waiter pour me a glass of wine. Or maybe the bottle. . .

  “I enjoy watching documentaries,” he said, reaching for his water and taking a sip. “If they’re accurately done.”


  “Interesting,” I lied, because snooze. Documentaries were what one was forced to watch in school when one had a substitute teacher. As a good and attentive student, I’d been the only one awake during the film while the others slept—mostly because my parents wanted me to get into Harvard and Harvard students didn’t sleep through boring documentaries. Unfortunately.

  “What about you, Abigail?” he asked, while I pondered where I’d gone wrong in life to get to the point where I’d thought a date with this man would be a good idea.

  Finally, I shrugged. “Maybe it’s cliché, but I love a good rom-com.”

  “Interesting,” he said, with all of the enthusiasm of someone about to have their wisdom teeth pulled.

  “You don’t like rom-coms?” I asked.

  “You don’t like documentaries?” he countered.

  “To be honest with you, I find them rather dry,” I said, which I figured was a more eloquent way of putting it than saying, ‘They’re a snoozefest, bro.’

  He nodded slowly, a line forming between his eyebrows. “Well, I find rom-coms rather unrealistic, overly sentimental, and frankly, a bit pointless.”

  I hoped Elle Woods and Vivian Ward haunted his dreams.

  “Maybe a different subject?” I suggested, smiling even though it was seriously painful. Plus, I had to stop gritting my teeth or I’d have none left to chew with by the time my house salad arrived from the kitchen. “You were emailing the pet store about adopting a dog when we got sidetracked talking about everything else except the fact that you’re a police officer,” I said, thinking that might’ve been a nice heads-up. “What kind of dog are you looking for?”

  “A dog that can be well-trained,” he said, resting his hand on the table. “One that will listen to my commands. Maybe something with a bit of German Shepherd.”

  Ah, he wanted a miniature furry him. I could imagine this dog—probably named Speed Limit or Code Book or Siren—barking at Banana for jumping up on the couch. Doggie ticket for this, Doggie ticket for that. No barking after eight p.m. No running on the sidewalk, only walking. Between Cooper and Speed Limit, Banana and I would probably end up in prison by the end of the weekend.