The Dating Proposal

by Lauren Blakely

  * * *

  I furrow my brow as I glance at the snoozing blonde beast. “He wants to give me a lesson, girl. What do you think?”

  She lifts her snout.

  “You obviously approve.”

  Her tail twitches.

  “You completely approve, and I need to get on that, stat? Is that what you just said?” I gasp in shock. “Ms. Pac-Man, how dare you?”

  Her tail thumps harder.

  “I do not want to ride him like a horse,” I mutter. “Fine, maybe for a minute. Okay, longer. But this can only be business. He doesn’t get involved with people he works with.”

  I drop a kiss to her snout. “So just do the lesson as friends and business partners, and don’t think all those naughty, dirty, wonderfully delicious thoughts? Is that your final advice?”

  I do her high-pitched voice in response. “Yes, sounds brilliant.”

  The dog oracle has spoken. I write back.

  * * *

  McKenna: You teach at the computer store?

  * * *

  Chris: That’s why I was there when I met you. Once a month, I teach newbies how to play video games. Like you, evidently. Go ahead and say it. I am a full-fledged internet geek.

  * * *

  McKenna: You are, certifiably. Sounds fun though.

  * * *

  Chris: We’ll have a good time, and I promise I won’t be too hard on you.

  * * *

  McKenna: It’s okay. You can be hard on me.

  * * *

  I force myself to turn off my phone for the night. When I snuggle under the covers and close my eyes, I’m thinking about Chris more than a business partner should.

  But you know what?

  It feels good to let my mind drift to how hard I want him to be.

  So good, in fact, that his message the next morning feels like a flirty, dirty reward.

  * * *

  Chris: If you insist, then, I’ll be prepared to be quite hard on you.

  15

  McKenna

  Before I leave for my dinner date, Hayden stops by, eyeing my outfit. “You look fabulous. Is this the new Bershka?”

  I glance at the red-and-black leopard-print blouse with a tie front. “Yes! Isn’t it yummy? It’s the most versatile top in the world. In fact, that’s what I said in the video I just posted.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” Hayden states, touching the soft fabric. “It’s the kind of top you can wear to work and then to a date.”

  “Gah! When you say stuff like that, it makes me feel like you love me,” I say playfully.

  “Goofball. I do love you, and I know fashion is the way to your heart. Well, fashion and dogs.”

  “And naturally, Ms. Pac-Man appeared in my Insta video.” I bend down to rub her soft head. “You were such a good companion.”

  She wags her tail, and my phone buzzes with a message that my Lyft driver is here.

  “I’m off! And thank you for setting me up with Dan,” I say, mentioning the FedEx guy who services her office. “Wish me luck.”

  She blows me a kiss. “Luck, but you don’t need it. Be yourself, and have fun.”

  I slide into the Lyft, and as the driver takes me to a restaurant in Russian Hill, I answer questions from viewers on Instagram and on my blog. They ask for advice on what to wear, and a few want to know how the dates are going.

  Briefly I picture Chris, then I want to slap my mind. I’m not dating Chris. Please. He’s off-limits.

  I reflect back on teary-eyed Steven, and I devise a diplomatic reply.

  The first one was interesting. He was hung up on his ex, but so it goes. I’m undaunted and dipping my toe back in the pool again tonight!

  After I answer a few more questions, I arrive at Lemongrass, a hip new place wedged between a coffee shop and another coffee shop, because . . . San Francisco. I thank the driver and push the door to head inside.

  A man is there, holding the door open. “Are you McKenna?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say, a little flustered because holy cannoli. Dan Duran is handsome. He has blond hair and brown eyes, a combo I love.

  “Great to meet you.” He extends a hand, and Hayden was right—the man has strong arms. Maybe not quite as toned or muscular as Chris’s, but still, they’ll do.

  Stop. Do not think of Chris on your date.

  He guides me to the table and pulls out my chair.

  My heart beats a tick faster since he’s so darn polite. “Thank you.”

  He sits across from me. “Glad we could do this.”

  “Me too. Also, I have to say Dan Duran is a fun name.”

  He crinkles his nose. “Thanks. It’s kind of goofy.”

  “No, not at all. It’s happy and upbeat. It’s a great name.”

  He smiles. “I’m glad you think that. It’s alliterative, and kind of rhymes in multiple ways.”

  “Exactly. That’s why it’s fun.”

  Now I’m not thinking of Chris at all, because Dan Duran is a cool guy. We chitchat as we review the menu and discuss what we’re going to have. When the waiter comes by, Dan remembers my order and places it for me—mushroom risotto with snow peas.

  I want to pump a fist because this date is starting off so much better than the waterworks one.

  He gestures to my top. “That’s pretty.”

  “Why, thank you. It just arrived, and I’m already a little bit in love with it.” Yes, this date is worlds better. Everything is working.

  He squints, studying my appearance quizzically. “But . . .”

  I barely have time to brace myself.

  His voice is clandestinely sweet as he says, “I wouldn’t let you wear that out with friends.”

  I blink, shaking the water from my ears. Surely they must be clogged. What did he say? “Excuse me?”

  There’s that deceptively affectionate tone again. “It’s lovely for a date with your man, but you can’t wear that if you’re out with friends or going to work.”

  I force a laugh because surely he’s joking. “You’re right. I’ll save it for the house.” I practically slap my knee so he knows I’m totally in on it too.

  He clucks his tongue. “Good. Because it’s too appealing. I don’t mind that you’re wearing it on our first date, because you don’t know better.”

  I slam on the brakes. “I don’t know better?”

  He smiles, and it’s not sweet. Not even saccharine. It’s condescending. “That’s only because we just met. But now you know how I feel. And I couldn’t let you dress that provocatively if we’re together. Other men would be drawn to you.”

  The number of things wrong with what he’s saying are nearly too high to count, but I start simple. “First of all, if I’m with someone, I’m not drawn to other men.”

  Dan shakes his pretty head adamantly. Why, oh why, do the good-looking ones have to be so kooky? From Steven to Dan, the universe is drawing wildly handsome cards for me and then turning them into complete wackadoodles.

  “Of course you wouldn't be drawn to other men. But men are animals, and I wouldn’t want to put you in that position.”

  “Gee. Thanks for the chivalry.”

  He smiles, thrilled I finally understand, simpleminded female that I am. “Exactly. A man’s job is to keep a woman safe, to make sure she’s treated wonderfully, and to ensure no other man would even attempt to go near her.”

  “Perhaps a leash could help in that regard?”

  He chuckles. “A leash is hardly necessary if you’re wearing appropriate clothing. Only I’ll know what’s underneath. Not the whole town. Have you considered turtlenecks for daily wear?”

  I cringe, every fashion-loving bone in my body mortally offended. I am two-hundred-six-bones-worth of pissed at Dan Duran.

  But just to be completely, absolutely certain he’s not putting me on, I ask, “You’re definitely not joking?”

  His face is stony. “I’m serious.”

  I paste on my best smile as I fold my napkin and set it on the tabl
e. “Thank you, Dan. I appreciate your candor. And the mushroom risotto sounded delightful. But I’m afraid I have a low-cut top and tight jeans to wear when I saunter around the city tomorrow.” I adopt a frown, like I’m abjectly sad at this turn of events. Then I dip my hand into my wallet. I toss two twenties on the table. That’ll cover both of us.

  “Goodbye, Dan Duran. This girl dresses herself. And sometimes, call me crazy, I pay for dinner too.”

  I walk out.

  “How can I put this tactfully? He wasn’t exactly a raging feminist,” I tell my sister as I take another drink of my Purple Snow Globe, a new drink Julia is testing out on me. I’m at her home away from home, Cubic Z in the SoMa neighborhood, where she tends bar. With raspberry juice, gin, and sugar crystals on the rim, this drink is exuberantly delicious. “And I don’t need a feminist per se. But he was more like the anti-feminist.”

  “He didn’t pull out your chair or hold the door?”

  I nod savagely. “Jules, he did all that. The problem was he wanted to do that and put me in my place,” I say, then explain what went down at dinner.

  Julia mimes dropping a ball then kicking it far, far away. “Ouch. No man is winning a Bell woman with that attitude.”

  I place the martini glass on the counter and look straight at her. “Exactly. And even though I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and I’m definitely not looking to get serious”—I flinch momentarily at the memory of how such a relationship could go belly-up in one fast weekend away in Vegas—“I don’t want to date someone who thinks he’s better than, oh, say, my entire gender.”

  Grabbing a cloth, she wipes down the bar, nodding in solidarity. “I hear ya, sister. R-E-S-P-E-C-T is where it’s at. I see no reason to waste time with any guy who doesn’t see eye to eye on such basics.” She tosses the towel onto a hook. “But it does raise some interesting questions. Have you thought about what happens when you go on a few dates with someone who does see eye to eye with you?”

  I take another swig of the heaven in a glass, savoring the sugary finish. “What do you mean?”

  “I know you’re into the whole ‘let’s see how this goes and have fun,’ which is awesome, and exactly where you should be at. But what if the next guy tickles your fancy, curls your toes, and stimulates your mind. What then?”

  I part my lips to answer, but I don’t have a quick retort. I want to have fun, to get back out there, to test the waters. But I haven’t considered beyond a date or two, maybe more. My heart won’t let me. I still have a cage around that organ, protecting it from pain. It’s still bruised and tender to the touch.

  That’s why I need to keep everything on the surface level. A few dates can’t hurt me. If I meet someone I like, I’ll simply keep it in check.

  A customer at the other end signals he needs a refill, and Julia tells me she’ll be right back. I glance briefly at my sister, who is quite simply a heartbreaker. She’s sexy and curvy and has that kind of reddish-auburn hair that drives men wild. I bet someday some man is going to walk into this bar and sweep her off her feet.

  But me? Being swept away? That’s hard to conceive of, especially when I’m zero for two at the dating plate.

  Zero for ten in the toe-curling department.

  And that’s A-OK. I don’t need my toes curled and my fancies tickled. All I need is another way to meet interesting men. I glance around the bar, and an idea strikes me. I could take a class. A mixology class. Or a cooking class. Or a cupcake class.

  When Julia returns to my corner of the bar, I’m lit up like a bulb. “I should take a class. I can meet potential dates there.”

  Her lips tip up. “Yes! I heard someone talking about a coffee-tasting class recently. Why don’t you try that?”

  She gives me the name for one, and I google it and sign up on the spot.

  Pleased with my can-do attitude, I set my phone on the bar with a flourish. “Take that, Dan Duran.”

  Julia holds out a palm to high-five me. “Also, why don’t we do a girls’ night out? We can go to some hip bars on a Saturday night, and you can meet guys that way.”

  “Boom!” I thrust both arms in the air. “I love it.”

  She taps the bar. “And someday you’re going to meet someone you have an instant connection with.” She snaps her fingers to demonstrate then heads over to a new customer.

  I flash back to Chris, to our easy conversation over fries, to the moment at the beach, to the store, to the coffee shop. There was something sort of instant in our connection, wasn’t there? We have the kind of quick banter and repartee that makes a girl think of possibilities, of days and nights and music and laughter. It makes a girl think songs were written for her, like “A Sailboat in the Moonlight,” my favorite Billie Holiday number.

  Every now and then, I wonder what it would be like to find my sailboat in the moonlight. To find it for real.

  As I take another swig of Julia’s concoction, I let myself linger on my text messages with Chris, scrolling through our last conversation. Our saucy comments and naughty replies.

  I stare at the exchange, running my finger across our messages.

  Wondering.

  Waiting.

  Hoping.

  But what am I hoping for?

  Just as soon as I ask the question, the answer touches down, landing softly but insistently before my eyes.

  I see a kiss that starts sweet and soft and slow. Hands cup my face as if he’s claiming me, saying you’re mine with his lips. I imagine a thumb tracing a line along my jaw.

  And I see myself melting into a moment that makes my toes curl.

  I halt the image train. I can’t let the fantasy go any further. After all, I’m seeing him tomorrow for work. I finish my drink and resolve to enjoy this newfound friendship and partnership with him.

  That’s all there is, and that’s what I focus on the rest of the night as I go home, kick off my shoes, and strip out of my clothes.

  Except I’m pretty sure it’s not in any business handbook to think of your new colleague the whole time you’re taking a hot shower.

  But I do it anyway.

  16

  McKenna

  I choose my outfit carefully, opting for a cap-sleeve mint-green blouse with a sweetheart neckline and capri jeans. I shoot a quick video for my Instagram, detailing why I chose it for my first on-air segment, then posting it with details on where to nab the goodies.

  I head to the studio. Chris waits for me in the lobby, looking California cool in jeans and a navy Henley.

  “I’m pretty sure those clothes were made for you,” I say, after he gives me a quick hug.

  “These? Nah, I just grabbed them at Banana Republic, or maybe even Target, I think.”

  I nudge him. “It was a compliment on how good you look. Not on where you shopped.”

  “Oh.” His cheeks turn a faint shade of red. “Thanks.”

  “You’re blushing!”

  “Thanks for pointing that out,” he says as we turn down the hall.

  “It’s kind of cute actually.”

  “Thanks, that’s what I was hoping for. Cute blushing.”

  “You don’t like the sound of cute blushing?”

  “It’s not very manly, now is it?”

  “A man doesn't have to be manly every second of the day,” I say softly.

  He looks over at me as we walk, adopting a too-deep voice. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

  I roll my eyes. “I like your blushing. It’s sweet.”

  “Great. Now I’m sweet,” he says sarcastically.

  I shrug happily. “I think it’s sweet that you blush at a compliment.”

  We reach the end of the hall, and he stops abruptly. “You look completely fucking edible.”

  I blink, and my cheeks flame. “I do?”

  “You do,” he says with a devilish grin, then he leans closer. “And now you’re blushing, and it’s insanely cute too.”

  I smack his arm. “You devil.”

  He winks, sets a hand on my back,
and says, “Let’s do a segment, like the couple of cute blushers that we are.”

  Yup. I can’t stop flirting with this man.

  And from the looks of it, he can’t seem to stop flirting with me either.

  That makes me deliciously happy.

  17

  Chris

  McKenna is a pro. With the cameras on us, she makes everything seem easy. And honestly, this is her bailiwick and mine too—chatting it up for the lens.

  I introduce her and explain what the new segment is all about, then I point to the camera. “And now it’s time for you to have your say and get all your burning questions answered.” I turn to the gorgeous brunette by my side. “Are you ready, McKenna?”

  She rubs her hands together. “Bring it on. Hit me.”

  “No softballs here. We have a question from Jason in Dallas. This is a tough one. When you’re on a first date with a woman, what does it mean when she orders lobster?”

  She looks at the camera then at me. “That’s simple. It means she likes shellfish.”

  I give her a playful look. “C’mon. That can’t be all it means. Isn’t lobster like a code for something?”

  She pretends to consider the question then answers thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s code for the lady likes shellfish.” She turns more serious. “Fine, let’s be frank—it’s usually the most expensive item on the menu. A lot of times guys think that means it’s a guarantee for action. Am I right, Chris?”

  I hold up my hands, so I’m not culpable for that kind of one-track-mind thinking. “I’m not saying I think that, but some dudes do.”

  She pats my shoulder. She’s quite touchy, and I like it. I like it a lot. “It’s okay,” she says. “If you ever take me out, I promise I won’t order lobster.”