Dating Kosher

by Greene, Michaela

  Dating Kosher

  If diamonds are a girl’s best friend, then a man willing to provide them is a girl’s second best, or at least very good acquaintance. This is scripture according to Shoshanna Rosenblatt, self-proclaimed spoiled Jewish princess. The problem is finding such a man in time to accompany her to her father’s wedding where she would be seen and judged by countless important people. The outfit had to be perfect, the man had to be stunning, and her look had to be flawless: it was absolutely imperative that she be fabulous.

  But things aren’t going as planned for Shoshanna; her recent boyfriend abandoned her for a business trip, ex-boyfriends are either unavailable or married off, and she is running out of resources. Enter Nate Cooper, a blue-collar Irish air conditioning technician; the furthest thing from Shoshanna’s ideal man. Well, at least he had the stunning part down. In her desperation, Shoshanna bribes Nate into pretending to be her new Jewish boyfriend and escorting her to the wedding. What were a few white lies told to friends and family? And anyway, what could possibly go wrong?

  Dating Kosher

  by

  Michaela Greene

  ISBN-13: 978-1523251933

  ISBN-10: 152325193X

  Dating Kosher

  Copyright © 2016 Michaela Greene

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Kibitz Press 2016

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  Prologue

  Okay, I’ll admit it: I, Shoshanna Yolanda Rosenblatt was a spoiled Jewish princess. I’d never eaten at a Taco Bell, or had a home perm (who does those?) and I didn’t believe a guy can really love you without giving you at least one piece of decent jewelry. In my experience, the jewelry was more satisfying than the guy, anyway. But in my own defense, you have to understand that a Jewish Princess is not made, but born into her position and never, ever without a solid role model.

  Other than absolute necessities, I didn’t cook, didn’t clean and my idea of getting outside meant a trip to the mall. I was definitely a walking stereotype.

  My family is considered upper middle class, although my dad, the lawyer (I know, how cliché) always said we were comfortable. I couldn’t understand how comfortable equates to one’s financial status. To me, comfortable was my Uggs, bought before Oprah outed them, before they were so hip. I stopped wearing them in public, for the most part. But they were still great for around the apartment.

  Anyway, my life was pretty good; I was looking the best I ever had at a perfect size two. My hair had finally grown out after an insane encounter with a new stylist who had somehow convinced me that a short razor cut would suit me. Needless to say, after that debacle, he’d been cut from my life.

  But all that was behind me and I sported a cute short cut, fringed with ends that didn’t dare split and perfect highlights that were maintained more regularly than my father’s precious Jaguar. On top of that, I had a decent job working as the receptionist for an upscale spa in, a great condo (a short train ride from said job) that I rented from my Dad, which Mom had decorated. If I could just keep my constantly shedding cat, Armani, off the furniture, my abode would be perfect.

  A frequent visitor to the condo was a jeweler named Max Levine who called himself my boyfriend. I was dripping with gold and diamonds, except, of course, on that finger but other than that, I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

  Well, maybe a little. I could have asked to not be so goddamn bored with my life.

  Mom and Dad’s divorce had been final for over a year, so thankfully, most of that drama was over. After that, every Tuesday evening was spent with Mom in the city over cocktails and sushi and Sunday mornings consisted of brunch with Dad at a greasy spoon near where he lived with his fiancé, Susan Weinman.

  Dad had bought the house after Mom cleaned him out, making her more comfortable than he. She had gone back to interior decorating full-time and had been generous enough to offer to decorate Dad’s new place for him at half her regular rate. Dad had respectfully declined.

  Mom now lived in a condo in the city to be close to her clients. She was very involved in the arts scene, going to galas and openings almost every night of the week, but Dad and I knew her well enough to know she was very unhappy. Her most stable relationship was with her therapist and even that was tenuous at best. But there was only so much I could take of Mom; she had always been as much a drama queen as I was a spoiled fashionista, and there was no changing a leopard’s spots.

  Or so I used to think.

  Chapter 1

  It had been an especially tiresome evening spent at a restaurant opening (Mom had been a consultant on the project), where the food had been a heinous fusion of Mexican and Japanese cooking. I lay in bed with Max at his apartment. He was still breathing heavy, long after we’d finished having sex. A sexual dynamo, he was not.

  I looked over at him; his eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath. A bead of drool threatened to escape the corner of his mouth. He was truly disgusting. It was then that I realized just how bored I was. How my life had become shitty when I wasn’t looking.

  “That was horrific,” I said out loud.

  “Huh?” Max grunted.

  “What? You climb on top of me like I’m a horse, ride me for six minutes and that’s it?”

  “Maybe if you didn’t just lie there like a dead horse, I’d have something to work with.” He shot back, not even bothering to open his eyes.

  “Whatever,” I said and got out of bed to take a shower. Go to sleep you loser, like you always do, I thought. I hopped into the shower, rinsing the memory of his clumsy hands on my flesh down the drain. Is this all there is? There’s gotta be something better in the stars for me. I began to seriously weigh the pros and cons of Max Levine.

  Pro: the jewelry

  Con: he’s an utter bore

  Pro: the diamonds

  Con: he’s a clumsy oaf in bed

  Pro: his parents are very wealthy

  Con: his parents are insufferable

  Pro: oh, who am I kidding; it’s all about the jewelry. That’s all there is. I make my own money and if I need anything beyond my means, I just guilt one of my parents into providing it for me. I am, after all, the product of a broken home…

  By the time I emerged from the steamy bathroom, fully dressed, towel-dried hair thrown up into a ponytail, I had made up my mind. Max Levine was history. As predicted, he lay on his back, snoring loud enough for the Shapiros in the next condo over to hear. I grabbed my purse on my way out, considered writing him an explanatory letter, but didn’t see a pen within easy reach and I couldn’t be bothered to go searching one out. So I just left. He should have just been happy that he got a goodbye fuck, even though he had been right; I did just lay there, waiting for him to heave a few times and fall on top of me with his post-orgasm grunt the way he always did. I had never been a dead lay before; how could I have allowed it to get like this?

  No he didn’t need a letter; he was smart, he’d catch on in a day or two. I glanced dow
n at my tennis bracelet; but damn it all, I’d sure miss the jewelry.

  Chapter 2

  When I got home after leaving Max, I stripped off my clothes and fell into bed, tired and wishing my last lay had been a decent one. It was impossible to determine how long it was going to have to last me. I never had a real problem in the dating arena, but giving it up too soon in a relationship had proven to be disastrous in the past. I had to make sure a guy was worthy of buying the cow before I gave out the milk. One-night-stands were like a facial: you need one every once in a while to clean things out, but it’s not something you want to do too frequently. And of course, I had to be careful; being kind of slutty in high school had gotten me a lot of eager bedfellows, but also a nasty case of gardnerella and a reputation to match. No, I wasn’t prepared to go down that road again.

  Max had been a disaster from day one. I could finally admit that, should have seen it coming.

  We’d been set up by a mutual friend at a gallery event. The artist was showing his photographs: mostly pictures of landmarks of Jewish significance with his own commentary (scrawled in red Sharpie) superimposed over the photographs. This is art, my friend Naomi told me. I suspected otherwise.

  Max had walked over with two glasses of wine. “Naomi tells me I’m supposed to introduce myself to you,” he said, handing me one of the glasses.

  “Thanks,” I had said, pondering what kind of slow death I would treat Naomi to. This guy wasn’t good-looking, was dressed in a bad suit and horrible department store shoes. He was not even close to being in my league. I always took great pride in how I looked, from spinning classes and yoga to the flawless outfits put together by either myself, my mother or my insanely talented personal shopper, Julio.

  “Come here often?” he asked.

  I looked at him, trying to ascertain if he was serious or trying to be witty. It was impossible to tell.

  Maybe it was the full moon, the free flowing wine, or it could have been my jumping ovaries, but I was surprisingly amused by his awkwardness. Somehow we ended up in my bed at the end of the night.

  I had been dazzled more by his diamonds (glittery pinkie ring) and the thick bling around his neck than his below average looks and pathetic come-on lines. Maybe I thought I could make him into something, change him from the ugly duckling into a swan. I should have been smarter. No woman, nor even Julio was up to that task.

  Although I shouldn’t have any regrets, I did get quite a bit of jewelry from him. A special blow job on his birthday had netted me the exquisite diamond tennis bracelet, a few exuberant bucks when I rode him one steamy July night turned into flawless emerald earrings.

  But now, as I lay under the covers, staring at the tiny spikes that made up my stucco ceiling, I knew it was over. Tears threatened to erupt from the corners of my eyes just as Armani, my freakishly intuitive cat, jumped on the bed and shoved his forehead into my chin. I pulled my hand out from under the covers and gave him a scratch between the ears, causing him to knead the bed with his front paws while a deep rumble emanated from somewhere inside him.

  But no matter how much comfort Armani bestowed upon me, he couldn’t stop my tears from falling.

  “Why am I crying?” I asked him. “Max was a putz anyway. It’s not like I loved him.” Armani continued to knead, ignoring my questions.

  The tears remained a mystery but as the last one dried up and sleep was only moments away, I swore to myself and Armani that next time I would be smarter and not blinded so easily by the promise of jewels and gold.

  * * *

  Work was never a great place to meet men. Let’s face it; men don’t come to spas much. Well, some did, but they were either gay or sent by their wives for a back wax (yuck) and I had heard too many horror stories about friends dating married men to allow myself to go down that route. Anyway, I was trolling for my own husband, why would I want to share someone else’s?

  That said, I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to meet someone outside the workplace, maybe at a synagogue function or as a set-up through a trusted friend.

  So when I walked into work that Monday, the idea of meeting a man, any man, wasn’t even on my radar.

  Once situated at my desk, my wireless headset snugly in place, enormous latte in front of me (but not too close to the keyboard, I was still getting grief over that last disaster), I glanced at the clock. Time to open. I got up and turned the lock, pushing the door open slightly to allow a stream of the fresh morning air into the lobby. The building seemed a bit warm; perhaps I’d check on the thermostat if the air didn’t kick in soon, I thought.

  Just as I returned to my seat, the door opened. I looked up to greet our first customer.

  I may as well have been kicked in the stomach. Right there in front of me stood perfection in the form of tousled brown hair, matching brown eyes and a sexy smirk on his recently shaven face that made my knees wobble even though they were tucked neatly under my desk.

  “Can I help you?” I managed.

  “I’m here to fix the air conditioning?”

  It wasn’t until that second I realized he was wearing the uniform of the blue collar worker: navy work pants and matching shirt, his name Nate embroidered in white script above the left chest pocket. I rose from my seat and saw the rest of his ensemble: utilitarian steel toed boots and he was even holding a metal tool box. How could I have missed that? Embarrassed that I had mistaken him for someone dateable, I gave him a polite smile, cursing the blush I felt on my cheeks. “One moment, please. Stay there, don’t sit on the furniture.” He didn’t look dirty, but I couldn’t take the chance. Every chair in the waiting area was covered in three-hundred dollar a yard fabric imported from Paris. I had been reminded of that fact several weeks before when a cup of coffee I was passing to a client slipped out of my hand and spilled over two of them.

  I strode into the back room where the estheticians were gathered, drinking coffee and waiting until their appointments arrived.

  “Anyone know anything about an air conditioning guy?” I asked.

  Rita, my boss and the owner of the spa nodded. “Yeah, I called them. Have him come through.”

  “Is he hot?” Bev, my best friend, and waxer extraordinaire asked.

  I frowned. “He’s totally blue collar.”

  “Doesn’t mean he can’t be nice eye candy,” Bev winked.

  I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Decide for yourself, I can’t believe you.” I turned and left the room. No way I was letting on that I thought he was a god in the eye candy department.

  Rounding the corner, I was careful not to make too much eye contact with Mr. Blue Collar. “You can go to the back; the owner will show you where everything is.”

  “Thanks.” He winked at me.

  I rolled my eyes and pretended to gag.

  As he walked past my desk, I had an opportunity to check out his ass. Yow. Who knew navy, standard issue work pants could be so flattering?

  * * *

  By ten-thirty, I had broken a sweat. The spa, with no air conditioning, had turned into an oven.

  Mr. Blue Collar kept returning to his truck for various supplies, most looking like something he’d ripped off of an airplane. Although I was anxious for the air to come back on before—God forbid—I got any sweat stains on my silk blouse, it was nice watching him coming and going. Especially going.

  “Oh my God! It’s roasting in here,” one woman, a semi-famous Manhattan socialite, and client of my mother’s said as she glided through the front doors.

  No shit, lady, I hadn’t noticed. “I’m very sorry, we’re having some trouble with our air conditioning today.” I tried to smile at her as I spewed out what Rita had instructed me to say to arriving clients. “We’re still offering our services today, but if you prefer to reschedule, we’d be happy to do that and offer a five percent discount.” Five percent doesn’t sound like much, and really, most of our clients didn’t care about our exorbitant prices, having money to burn, but a deal is a deal. Most o
f them were rescheduling—including one who had scheduled a pore-opening wrap that was done in our actual sauna.

  It had become an easy day for the estheticians, and an extremely tough day for me.

  “That’s fine, I’ll reschedule my facial and massage,” the woman said, fanning herself with a brochure she’d taken off the counter.

  As soon as I had plugged her new appointment into the computer, the phone rang. “Tranquil Seas Day Spa, this is Shoshanna speaking, how may I make your day more tranquil?” The lame greeting now rolled off my tongue with mindless ease.

  As I took another appointment over the phone, two more women entered the spa. It only took a second before both were sporting scowls due to the close, sticky air within the spa.

  A few minutes later, when I had rescheduled them and the lobby had cleared, Nate walked by again. “Hey,” I said. “When’s it going to be fixed?” I dabbed at my face with a Kleenex, holding the heavy drape of hair away from my neck with my other hand.

  He stopped and turned to look at me. “Very soon, sweetheart. Don’t get your panties all in a bunch.”

  Not possible, I’m wearing a thong, I thought. Not that I was going to let him in on that fact. “Don’t call me sweetheart,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he said, leaning in to read my nametag, “Shoshanna.” He smiled, apparently quite pleased with himself that he could read English.

  “So, uh, when’s it going to be fixed?” I asked.

  “Actually, I just need one more part from my truck. Then we’re all set.” One corner of his mouth turned up into that sexy smirk that had grabbed me when he first walked in the door. I placed my fingers on my keyboard and looked at my screen, pretending to do something.

  His eyes were on me. I could feel them boring into my skull. Ignoring him, I started tapping on the keys, glad that the monitor was recessed and he wouldn’t see what I was typing.

  I’m typing just to pretend like I’m busy. I have nothing to type about, but I hope he goes away soon before he sees that I’m not actually typing anything. Blah blah blah typing. Tappity tap tap typing.