The Do-Over

by Julie A. Richman

  Chapter 8

  Addiction is so easy to understand was my first thought upon waking. My hand was already reaching for my phone before my eyelids were fully opened. With a flick of my finger my PerfectDate.com account page appeared and the little red heart glowed, indicating messages in my chat threads. Yes! Now I just hoped that there was one from Matthew.

  Lightly touching the heart, the next screen popped up. There were messages from three people. Someone named Hike4Food, Todd the car rapist, and Rob Lowe’s look-a-like, Matthew. Yes!

  Brunch

  Just one word. Not even a question mark. Was the man inviting me out? Hmmm, how to respond?

  It’s one of my four favorite meals ? I smiled as I typed.

  Taking my phone with me down the hall to the kitchen, I placed it on the granite countertop as I hit the coffeemaker’s on-switch and stood twirling the K-cup rack, feeling extreme ambivalence at my uninspired choices. I wanted a large Americano with an extra shot of espresso; taste the rich, full flavor seconds before it coursed through my veins, blasting me off like a capsule of focused energy.

  As soon as it dinged, my hand was poised to grab the phone.

  What do you like to eat?

  I rolled my eyes at the early morning double-entendre. Dude, I need my caffeine first. For brunch?

  Yes, for brunch.

  The olives in a Bloody Mary. Oh, and the celery and shrimp, too.

  I have the perfect place for us?

  Bwahahaha, I’ll bet you do. Your bed?

  If you insist.

  Forget it, you haven’t fed me yet.

  Well, I WAS trying to get you to brunch first at a place that has a build your own Bloody Mary bar.

  Hmm, that does sound promising. Do they have shrimp? My mouth was watering as I imagined the peppery concoction.

  As a matter of fact, they have JUMBO shrimp.

  Jumbo shrimp sounds like an oxymoron to me. You online guys, hmmph, exaggerating the size of everything!

  I just spit coffee on my keyboard, Carissa.

  A man who spits. Hmmm, is it okay if I spit then? Where was this crazy, forward woman coming from? I was so bold and ballsy, hidden and untouchable behind the electronic wizard’s curtain. I was no less a sham than Oz’s wizard. I just had better equipment, a rose-gold MacBook and the latest iPhone.

  I love your sense of humor.

  Thanks.

  So, come meet me. It’s still an acceptable brunch hour.

  We just met last night. Too fast for me.

  Brunch next weekend.

  My immediate thought was that I had Scarlett home next weekend, How about this, I proposed, if we are still talking in two weeks, and feel so inclined, we can meet for brunch then.

  Two weeks???? You know that’s forever in internet years. We could own a house together by then.

  LOL and be broken up I added.

  I have a feeling you are worth the wait.

  Rob Lowe’s look-a-like had me smiling and sighing and by the time we wished one another a good day, I was telling myself that I deserved this, after living through a cheating husband and being “turned in” for a younger model with perkier tits and an ass that was still too young to suffer the devastating effects of gravity, that handsome, amusing Matthew was my due. If he really looked like his pictures and was as normal as he seemed, then I could get over having to find a new dentist.

  “Chris isn’t in this morning?” I was surprised to see the lights out in my boss’ office and his door shut at 10:30 A.M. on a Friday morning.

  “No, today’s that charity golf tournament thing for the Breast Cancer Resource Council.” His admin, Donna, looked up from her laptop.

  “I didn’t realize that was today. Well, they certainly got a gorgeous day for it.” It was a perfect early spring day, not a cloud in the sky and temps in the mid-60’s.

  The Breast Cancer Resource Council was one of three charities our company, O’Donnell and Associates, supported through both monetary donations and services-in-kind. We often developed pro-bono videos for the BCRC as well as Autism Speaks and the Humane Society and regularly purchased tables at the organization’s black tie fundraisers. It was customary for us to invite and entertain our clients at these events which were generally packed with celebrities, as well as scions of business.

  My boss, Chris O’Donnell, the company’s founder, was a man who walked-the-walk. The only one of three sons not to embrace the priesthood, the charismatic Irishman learned early in life that his easy charm and persuasive powers could be used for good without donning a frock and collar or disappointing the women drawn to his green eyes and sandy-colored hair. A master at hiring, Chris built a world-class video production company recognized for our award-winning work, and he expected all employees’ ethos to be synergistic with his own.

  Less than a year after he formed the company, a recruiter introduced me to Chris, convincing me that I should talk to the president of this small start-up. “He sizes people up quickly, so don’t be surprised if you’re out of there in twenty minutes. I’ve sent him seven graphic artists and none of them have made it past the twenty-minute point.”

  A two-man shop at the time, I met with the charismatic video producer and knew within minutes why no one had made it past the twenty-minute barrier. Answering one of his questions with blunt candor, Chris pounced on me with a rather intimidating response.

  Instead of crumbling, I maintained eye-contact with this handsome guy and just began to laugh at him. “Looks like I’ve hit a hot button, huh?”

  His smile was slow and I could tell by the laughter in his eyes that I had just passed the Chris O’Donnell test. When I left his office nearly two hours later, there was no doubt in my mind that I had found a new home.

  “Do you know if he’s coming back in at all today?” I asked Donna.

  Sitting back, she just shook her head. “I highly doubt it, it’s out at the Long Island National Golf Course in Riverhead.”

  “Oh yeah, forget it, that’s over a two-hour drive.” My question was going to have to wait until Monday.

  “And he had a limo take him,” Donna’s tone was conspiratorial, as if this were some Earth-shattering secret.

  Laughing, “Good for him. And other drivers on the road. Sounds like he’s going to be doing business in the clubhouse this afternoon.”

  Chris was legendary for bringing on new clients in the hours both on the fairway and those that followed at the bar. Our biggest clients came on board over a glass or two or three of Glen Livet.

  Leave work and meet me at the Waldorf Astoria.

  Matthew’s daily messages had become the highlight of my days. Logging on and seeing the little green dot next to his name instantly brought a smile to my face. The moment I signed on, I could count on a greeting and a message from him, as if he’d been waiting for the little green dot to light up next to my name. The man had me feeling like a middle-schooler.

  It was Friday and our infamous brunch date was now only two days away. After work, Laynie and I had plans for highlights, eyebrow threading and champagne, as I prepped for Sunday’s meeting.

  Why? Did Room 69 just open up or something? I kidded.

  Ha-ha. You just can’t wait for brunch to ravage my body.

  This man was so cocky. Ravage YOUR body? You’re the one who just invited ME to the Waldorf.

  Only because I know when you see me you’re not going to be able to keep your hands off me. ☺

  You are just that irresistible to women, Matthew?

  Carissa, you are toast.

  I was afraid he was right.

  We’ll see. I’m still praying you’re not my dentist in disguise.

  LOLOL. I can promise you that I am not. I can also promise you that you will willingly open your mouth for me. I’m getting hard just thinking about you.

  The man was killing me. All I wanted to do was lock my office door and call him. I needed a cold shower. Suddenly waiting until Sunday seemed ridiculously far away.

&
nbsp; I said a silent prayer that he would be as great in real life as he’d been over the past two weeks and that we’d have great chemistry – that went both ways.

  “You need to rid yourself of that hairy bush. Maybe just a landing strip.” Our highlights were processing, and Laynie was on her second glass of champagne. “I am not letting you walk out of here with that beast between your legs.” She was dead serious.

  “Please,” my tone was meant to shut her down. I took another sip of champagne before shaking my head.

  “Tara, you’re making sure the hair on your head looks fabulous before you meet him on Sunday. Why would you not make sure the hair for his head looks fabulous, too?”

  With an exaggerated sigh, “Because his head will not be playing I Spy with any of my body parts.”

  “Let me see his picture again.” She put her hand out for my phone.

  Handing it over, I watched her facial expression morph from interested into pure lust. “Why would you not fuck his brains out?”

  “Because I really like him. I’d like to get to know him and see if this could go anywhere.”

  “Girlfriend, what is wrong with you? The ‘90s are over, Tar. Time to join this century.” Motioning to a tiny woman, “Thao, my friend here needs her hoochie updated. Leave her a little landing strip and put it on my bill. Thank you, doll.” She then turned to me. “Not another word,” she warned, her pointed finger close enough to the bridge of my nose to feel the heat.

  I held out my glass for more champagne and said nothing.

  The outfit was brand new. Highlights were fresh and all excess, and potentially offending, body hair had been professionally removed. I’d spent more time in the gym over the last two weeks, since my first online conversation with Matthew, than I had in the past year, as if mega-workouts could miraculously morph my thirty-nine-year old body into its perky twenty-three-year old former self.

  “I can’t wait to hear what he’s like in real life.” Jill increased the incline on her treadmill. She was as excited as I was, having lived through the morning updates of my nightly conversations with him.

  “I’m really nervous,” I confessed. “I just know that if this is a bomb, I’ll really miss looking to see if he’s logged on and waking to his messages.”

  “No need for nerves. You are fabulous and smart and gorgeous. And if it doesn’t work out,” waving her hand, Jill gave me what I already knew was great advice. “Next!”

  Handing my keys to the valet at the historic inn that Matthew had chosen for brunch, I stood for a moment on the gravel driveway trying to absorb and memorize the pleasant onslaught to my senses. I took in my surroundings, almost surprised that spring had shown up, as I breathed the brackish air blowing in off the Long Island Sound.

  The distinguished establishment was perched high on a cliff overlooking Greenwich, Connecticut on the Sound’s far shores. I couldn’t help but get swept up into the romance of the white clapboard structure that had been in continuous operation, serving thirsty, hungry and weary travelers in its quaint setting, for nearly 300 years. I wondered what handsome pairs of lovers had sat in the bar, foreheads together, chatting conspiratorially, as they let the spicy citrus hues of their Pimm’s Cups rush in waves over their tongues and planned their summers on the island. Perhaps Zelda and F. Scott had passed a Sunday at the inn. Feeling as if I had to duck as I passed through the door, the lintel barely inches above my head, I wondered if Matthew was significantly taller than our nation’s forefathers and had to stoop over to enter the building.

  My breath hitched at the base of my throat as I caught my first glimpse of him at the bar. The pictures were no lie. Dressed in tan khakis and a light blue polo, the first thing I noticed were the muscles in his thighs straining his pants’ leg and then I caught sight of his biceps. They were ridiculously huge. The man was Rob Lowe’s buff younger brother. Hot damn!

  Slipping onto the barstool next to him. “Matthew?”

  As he turned to greet me, I was most surprised by the intensity of his pale blue eyes. The bulging muscles and his square jaw disappeared as I was captivated by the clarity of his irises.

  This man was trouble. Very few men looked like this, and those men were not on dating sites. They were models, actors, scions of business. They were not on blind dates garnered via internet and phone apps. With the ease of a U.S. Open contender, I swiped the red flag away with a strong backhand. Get off my court, doubt!

  “Carissa.” His large hand gave my shoulder a squeeze as he leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than your picture,” he delivered the line with a practiced ease.

  With a smile from the other side of the bar, the bartender asked, “What can I get you?”

  “A Bloody Mary.”

  “How spicy do you like it,” he inquired, sliding a glass out of the rack above his head.

  “With a good kick.” Realizing he was going to be making the drink for me, I was immediately disappointed as I had thought this was the Make-Your-Own place.

  Turning to Matthew, “This isn’t the Bloody Mary bar place?”

  “Ah no, ah,” he stammered for a moment. “I couldn’t get a reservation there.”

  The first sip delivered the necessary relaxation potion so that I was able to do more than just stare at this handsome man.

  “Do you have a good dentist?” I asked and he cracked up, knowing the story of my dentist’s boundary breach.

  “Actually I do and she’s in the city on 32nd and 3rd.”

  “I like that. I work on Madison Avenue so that’s doable and a woman might be a very nice change.” His blue eyes were not looking at me.

  “Dude, up here.” I pointed to my eyes. The scoop neck on my shift dress was not that low.

  His smile had a sneer quality to it, “Carissa, it is hard to focus on anything but how I’d like to be touching you.” Reaching out, he ran two fingers along the inside of my bare upper arm. The pressure was focused inward, so while it looked like he was gently stroking my arm, that is not at all what he was doing. This time he looked me directly in the eyes, challenging me and knowing that I wanted to gasp and clench my thighs and yet, with lips slightly parted, I remained silent.

  With his free hand, Matthew signaled the bartender for another round of drinks. I was already feeling the first cocktail on my empty stomach and I knew the second was about to obliterate me.

  Chomping on my drink’s celery stalk, “No jumbo shrimp,” I mumbled.

  Matthew sneered again, “I’d much rather see that piece of celery disappear down your throat.”

  “You got me here under false pretenses, you know that.” Pointing the remainder of my celery stalk at him, I stared into his beautiful, pale eyes, unable to read them or get a handle on him. “So, what is it you are looking for, Matthew?” The vodka was making me bold.

  “Someone I can have fun with. Someone who can just go with the flow.” His fingers were back on my upper arm, this time he let his thumb stray to stroke my breast.

  Leaning forward, both to hide what he was doing to me and to let him get a good look inside my dress’ neckline, just to fuck with him, I spoke low so that he would have to listen, “You remind me of this underwear I used to have.”

  “Underwear?”

  “Mmm-hmm. They had days of the week on them. I think you probably have women for each day of the week and labeled underwear might really be helpful for you.”

  Matthew straightened in his seat, letting out a guttural laugh. “So what day are you?”

  “Well obviously, Sunday.” I took another healthy sip from my Bloody Mary, reaching the bottom of the glass. Once again Matthew signaled for the waiter to bring another round.

  “So are you wearing your Sunday undies?”

  Laughing, “No. Those were retired long ago.” Slowly, I crossed my legs the other way.

  “I’ll bet you’re wearing a black thong.” His top lip pulled back into that smile/sneer. He was kind of a Rob Lowe with an Elvis smile going
on.

  “No, I’m not a thong girl. They are really uncomfortable. I’m all about comfort.” I was officially trashed and on the verge of pulling a Sharon Stone move on this player. Trying to focus on the sexual tension and his good looks, I didn’t want to think about the disappointment. What had seemed like a promising connection over the last two weeks held no promise at all. The man was a player. A horn dog. Beginning and end of story. I didn’t even want to begin to wrap my brain around how many women he’d slept with in his life.

  “Comfort, huh? Did you wear your Granny panties for me?”

  That made me laugh just as I was sipping my drink and I began to choke. He patted me on the back a few times and I took another sip.

  Nodding, “I did. I wore the white cotton ones for you.” I kidded, pausing to take another sip of the spicy deliciousness before letting my filter completely disintegrate. With a smile, “I figured they’d be best to absorb any moisture.”

  His eyes bore into mine as if I’d just reached forward and unzipped his Dockers. “You’d really be better with a polyester to wick the moisture away.” His words were incongruous with the intensity of his stare.

  “I can’t believe you know that,” I laughed.

  “Yeah, well…” he shrugged, as if that were an explanation, his gaze still holding mine.

  I was reaching the bottom of my glass again in an effort to occupy my hands and mouth. Three drinks and no food, my fingertips were numb. Was this guy going to feed me or what?

  “Let me run to the Ladies’ Room before we get a table.” I hoped he’d take the hint and be seated at a table with menus when I returned from the bathroom.

  My step down from the barstool was daunting, but my feet hit the floor with more grace than I could’ve imagined in my highly inebriated state. Smoothing my dress down before I walked away, I caught Matthew’s eyes tracking my hands as they moved over my hips.

  “Be right back,” I smiled.

  The hallway toward the restrooms was narrow with uneven wide-planked wood floors. It was hard not to bang into the walls as I walked. My heels didn’t like the knotty pine boards beneath them. The second door I came upon was labeled, Loo, and with a laugh, I opened the door and felt along the wall for a light switch.