The Dating Proposal

by Lauren Blakely

  “Seems like she was trying to hurt yours,” she says softly.

  I nod, sighing, since that’s precisely what nearly happened. “One time we were taking live questions from viewers, and her job was to screen them. She let a guy on who asked, ‘Can you give me your best tip for scoring with a girl at work?’”

  McKenna’s expression goes ashen. “Oh no, she didn’t.”

  “She did, and I was so taken aback by it, I kind of bungled it. I asked her why she let that guy on, thinking maybe the viewer changed up the question. But she said she thought it was a timely topic, given all the various dating and girl questions that viewers send in.”

  “Do you answer them?”

  I shrug. “Every so often. Bruce—the head of programming—thinks they’re a hoot, so he’s been angling for me to do more. But I’m not interested in any of the best tip for scoring with a girl at work variety.”

  “Gee, I can’t imagine why you’d dislike that one.”

  Already I’m digging her sense of humor. “Anyway, the whole experience was an eye-opener. I decided that it’s best not to get involved with someone you work with. I’ve worked too hard to risk it, and there are too many other people who rely on the show. I need to bring my best for every single episode, and if getting involved with someone I work with might cause trouble, it’s best not to go there.”

  She nods several times. “Definitely. I do a lot of my work solo, but I have contractors for tons of stuff. Never get involved with someone you rely on to run the ship.”

  I hold up my mug, and we clink again in solidarity.

  She takes a drink then asks, “Where is she now?”

  I set down my mug and raise my arms towards the sky. “Hallelujah. She got another job.”

  “The universe was looking out for you.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “And what about the questions from viewers? Do they still send in the stuff about dates and women?”

  “They do. It’s weird, since the show has nothing to do with that. But a ton of my viewers keep writing in, asking me for dating advice.”

  She quirks up her lips. “It’s because you’re personable and smart and good-looking. They want you to share all that wisdom so they can follow in your footsteps.”

  I arch a brow, latching on to one awesome adjective. “You think I’m good-looking?”

  She laughs and scans the coffee shop, affecting a female newscaster voice. “Bob, did you know ten out of ten patrons at the SassyAss coffee shop think Chris McCormick is good-looking?” She drops down to a male voice. “Well, Susan, I’m not surprised. All the ladies have been checking him out.”

  A smile sneaks across my face. “Thank you. You’re quite entertaining.”

  “Tell me stuff.” She leans in eagerly. “What do they ask you?”

  “How do I ask out this woman or that woman? What do I say in this situation? What would I do if this or that happened? How do I know if this girl really likes me?”

  She’s Susan again. “As I always say, Bob, you can tell if a girl likes you if she invites you home. If she touches your arm. If she laughs extra hard at your jokes, especially if you’re not funny at all. But if she does none of that, don’t assume she isn’t into you. Try, I don’t know, being direct and asking her. Women like that, and there’s no reason for you to have to wonder.”

  She says it like she’s delivering advice to a guy.

  On TV.

  On my show.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  I’ve found my gold, and I wasn’t even panning for it. All I have to do is convince Bruce.

  7

  McKenna

  He takes off, and I stay behind at the shop to answer work emails on my phone. When I finally pack up, I spot one of the tiny screwdrivers on the floor.

  Like when a lady leaves a glove.

  Don’t be silly.

  A screwdriver is just a screwdriver.

  I pick it up, tuck it safely in my purse, and smile like a fool because I have a reason to text him.

  * * *

  McKenna: Missing a screwdriver? I’ll hold it hostage for you. For a king’s ransom, this tiny tool can be all yours again.

  * * *

  He replies as I’m walking home.

  * * *

  Chris: You drive a hard bargain. But I’ll liquidate all my assets to get it back. I always want to be prepared to repair hard drives.

  * * *

  As I fashion a comeback, he sends a second note.

  * * *

  Chris: I’m at the studio. I’ll text you later, and we’ll devise a drop-off plan. Some dark, undisclosed location. I assume you want a leather bag full of unmarked bills.

  * * *

  McKenna: It’s like you know me so well already.

  I’m in bed, reading an article on business-growth strategies when Hayden texts me.

  * * *

  Hayden: I’d knock on the wall, but figured this could work.

  * * *

  McKenna: Indeed it does. What’s up?

  * * *

  Hayden: I have your next date for you, thanks to my daughter.

  * * *

  McKenna: Are you kidding me?

  * * *

  Hayden: Dead serious. When the FedEx guy dropped off some documents at the office earlier, I arranged a date for you, per Lena’s advice. Is that cool?

  * * *

  McKenna: Sure! I suppose I was expecting an attorney, but a delivery guy will work.

  * * *

  Hayden: You don’t care that he doesn't have a swank job?

  * * *

  McKenna: Please! This is me! I’m not interested in men for their money. I want a guy who’s nice and fun, and who respects women.

  * * *

  Hayden: Excellent. I’ll firm up the deets.

  * * *

  I say good night to her and return to my article. A little later, Chris texts. Seeing his name on my phone lights me up in all those groovy parts.

  * * *

  Chris: Just making sure the deal is still on. I have your ransom ready. I just need to know one thing . . . is the screwdriver unharmed?

  * * *

  Smiling, I hop out of bed, scurry to my living room, and take the tool from my purse. I grab a box of ribbons from a cabinet, tie a tiny sliver of one around the tool, shoot a photo, and send it to him.

  * * *

  McKenna: Unharmed, but still bound.

  * * *

  Chris: Please don’t hurt it.

  * * *

  McKenna: You know what to do. I’ll contact you tomorrow with a location.

  * * *

  Chris: Until then, don’t get whacked by any shower doors.

  8

  McKenna

  I model a cute Gucci knockoff top for the camera.

  “And this is the official what-to-wear-on-your-first-date-in-a-decade look. How did I decide, you may ask? Well, naturally, it only took ten thousand wardrobe changes, but that’s totally normal. Just kidding. I don’t want you to suffer through all that indecision, and that’s why I recommend the simplicity of this top. It’s comfortable, simple, and shows off the teeniest bit of skin.”

  I lean into the camera, showing the slope of my shoulder. “Ooh la la. Let’s see if it works. Wish me luck. Don’t forget to leave all your what-to-wear questions below, and I will answer them, my fellow fashion hounds. There is never ever a need for a thousand wardrobe changes when you have a fashion hound to help you.”

  I hit end to turn off the video then raise my face and catch Andy’s attention. “What do you think?”

  He’s parked on my couch, working out of my home with me today. He gives me a thumbs-up, his standard web-dude response.

  “That’s why I like working with you. For the wordless thumbs-up,” I tease as my blonde half-horse-half-dog trundles on over and parks herself at my feet with a heavy sigh. She’s probably counting down the hours until it’s time for a walk, her internal doggy clock calibrated to the
rhythms of our day. I scratch her ears then pet her head. “Did you like it, girl?”

  I do the dog’s squeaky voice. “I loved it. You were so awesome. What should I wear when I run into Roscoe down the street?”

  My jaw drops, and I admonish her. “You naughty girl. You do not have a crush on that beagle. You’re bigger than he is.”

  Andy laughs. “She’s a domme, I take it?”

  “Evidently. Who knew?” I ask in a hushed whisper.

  He clucks his tongue a few times but says nothing. Uh-oh. That’s what he does when something’s bugging him.

  “What is it? What’s bothering you?”

  “I dunno,” he says with a shrug, his curly hair flopping into his eyes as he taps away. “I guess I just don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “The Gucci knockoff? It’s perf. I even modeled it on FaceTime last night for the girls. Erin said it’s hot, Julia said it’s rocking, and Hayden said she’d do me if she were still experimenting, like back in college. So there. It’s a winner.”

  “Yeah, the shirt’s a winner.” He tilts his head to the side and meets my gaze. “I’m not talking about the shirt.”

  “Then what?”

  He heaves a sigh. “I worry about you meeting guys IRL. What if they’re stalkers, serial killers, or sadists?”

  “Um, the same could be said of guys online.”

  “Yeah, but that’s how everyone does it these days.”

  “But it’s just as likely you could find a creep online,” I point out. “Don’t you meet creeps online?”

  “Grindr is a whole different kettle of fish.”

  “I thought you were done with that. I thought you were looking for”—I clasp my heart and flutter my lids—“love and a tight bod.”

  He smirks. “I still want both. But sometimes, I settle for a tight bod.”

  I grab a pillow from the other end of the couch and toss it at him. He catches it and puts it behind his head. “Look, it’s different on Grindr. It’s different with guys. We know the score. I worry about you.”

  “Trust me, I know the score. The score is fun and only fun. This girl doesn't want anything serious.”

  “But please promise me you’re vetting these guys. If you don’t, I will.”

  I grab my laptop from the coffee table, click open my email, and show him the background check I ran on Steven Crane. “See? I’m no dummy. Everything will be fine.”

  He breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Good. And call me if anything feels off for any reason.”

  “I promise, Daddy.”

  He wiggles an eyebrow. “That’s what I like the young ones to call me too.”

  “You’re so gross,” I say, smiling.

  “Fine, they call me Big Daddy.”

  “Stop, stop!” I shout as I head into the kitchen to grab an apple. My cries are echoed by the phone. It’s ringing from the table. “I bet it’s that supplier I’ve been waiting to hear from.”

  Andy’s nearest to my mobile so he grabs it then grins as if he’s caught me red-handed. The phone trills again. “Who’s Chris? And does this hottie bat for my team?”

  A sparkler ignites in me. I spin around and dive for it, hurtling over the back of the couch, landing on the cushions, and wrestling it from Andy.

  “Hey there.” I try to sound cool, casual, as if I haven’t just jostled for the phone.

  Chris sighs heavily, his tone dark and brooding. “Hey. I have everything ready. Just let me know when you can do the handoff.”

  I make my voice gravelly, like I'm a movie thug. “Everything? Don’t you be trying to cheat me out of my money.”

  “Look, lady. All I want is my screwdriver unharmed. No nicks, no dings, and no more choking. I have the dough. That’s what we discussed.”

  “Maybe I’m changing the terms,” I say, going full mafia heavy now as Andy regards me like I’ve changed personalities in front of him.

  “Fine. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  I laugh then drop the ruse. “So, I’m heading to Shakespeare Garden later. Are you anywhere near there?”

  “I started the day at seven so I’m taking off around four to surf, but I can meet up with you before or after. Shakespeare Garden is near the beach.”

  “Well, I have a date. But why don’t I meet you after?”

  He’s quiet at first. “Sure. That works. When will you be done?” His tone shifts, sounding stiff.

  I give him a time, and we pick a place on the beach then say goodbye.

  “Eager much?” Andy arches a brow.

  “Oh please. He’s just a . . .” What is Chris? A guy I met in the electronics shop? The wizard who fixed my hard drive?

  “Just a . . . ?” Andy prompts. “Just the guy you were waiting to hear from?”

  Yes, that’ll do.

  9

  Chris

  Shortly after I send the video to Bruce, I have an answer.

  * * *

  Bruce: The answer is yes. And now. And get her.

  * * *

  Chris: That was easy.

  * * *

  Bruce: Some things in life are.

  * * *

  Chris: Okay, so you like her shtick?

  * * *

  Bruce: Like it? I love it. Is that not clear? Do I need to use a megaphone? Stage a parade? Play a trumpet?

  * * *

  Chris: Do you play trumpet?

  * * *

  Bruce: Every man needs a talent. One of mine is that I play trumpet. What’s yours?

  * * *

  Chris: Make you money hand over fist with a top-rated show? That’s the correct answer, right?

  * * *

  Bruce: Years of training are finally paying off. You got it, kid. Also, when you make me money hand over fist, you make it for yourself too.

  * * *

  Chris: It’s a wonderful symbiotic relationship. Like anemone and clownfish.

  * * *

  Bruce: Yeah, sure, whatever you say. Now, go. Or I’ll do it myself.

  * * *

  Chris: I can handle it.

  * * *

  Bruce: Then handle it as excellently as I would.

  * * *

  Chris: I’ll handle it like I’m playing a trumpet.

  * * *

  Bruce: I’m going to come to the studio and wring your neck. You can’t play trumpet for bupkes.

  * * *

  Chris: Oops. Wrong analogy. Like I’m riding a killer wave. Gotta go. Camera is on, and I’m recording a segment.

  * * *

  Bruce: You love to wind me up.

  * * *

  Chris: Only because you are so easy to wind.

  10

  McKenna

  I’m camped out on a bench in front of Shakespeare Garden, surrounded by the ponds and hills and bike paths of Golden Gate Park. Though Shakespeare Garden has a big name, it’s a little spot, maybe the size of a large backyard or a private courtyard. Twin columns frame wrought-iron double gates, a brick walkway cuts across the garden, and a sundial stands in the middle.

  I like this spot for many reasons, but especially because Todd and I never went to Shakespeare Garden in all our time together. It’s untouched by the enemy.

  Steven walks toward me. He is as ridiculously handsome as he was the other day. He’s wearing jeans and a Henley, and I must tell him he dressed well.

  His body isn’t the only thing chiseled. As he nears me, I admire his well-designed face again, with carved cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and a subtle wave in his brown hair. I take out my earbuds and gently lay my phone on the bench. I smile, a little nervously, and stand. I am not sure what the proper protocol is. I wrack my brain, trying to remember how a first date usually starts, since it’s been eons. Entire evolutionary stages, it seems. I could say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, mess up the secret handshake that experienced daters know.

  I err on the side of friendliness, reaching out for a quick, short hug.

  “Hey there,” Steven says.
/>
  “Hi. Good to see you again.”

  I sit on the bench. He follows suit. I reach for my phone, tucking it safely away in my favorite light-blue Kate Spade. It matches my Gucci-esque shirt and has a playful air. Perfect first-date accessory.