A Girl Like You

by Maria Geraci

  “How was your weekend?” he asks.

  I tell him about Catfish Cove and cow-chip bingo and how the cows took their sweet time doing their business, and I embellish it just enough that Ben laughs so hard his eyes water. Nowhere in the story do I mention Nick Alfonso.

  “Frazier, you’re making this up.”

  “Am not.”

  “Okay, the next time that town of yours does one of these cow-chip bingo things, I want an invite.”

  Luckily, at this exact moment, Jackie and Richard both walk in, so I’m saved from responding. I know Ben is not serious about wanting to visit Catfish Cove. It’s just one of those things people say, but it still rattles me.

  “Cow-chip bingo?” says Richard, crinkling his nose in disgust. “Is that what I think it is?”

  My cell phone pings. I glance at the screen and my heart speeds up. It’s Nick! Sometime during my dinner with Torie and Kimberly, he left a message on my cell phone. I called him back and we talked for over two hours. We also texted till three in the morning. I should be exhausted from lack of sleep, but I’m not. I’ve discovered that Nick likes to fish (something I’d already assumed, since every baby boy in Catfish Cove is born with a fishing pole in his hand), is into country-western music (didn’t take a genius to figure this one out either), hates cauliflower (me too!), and his favorite movie is 300. (No one is perfect.)

  I also found out Nick likes to read. Which greatly relieves me because I just don’t know if I could ever date a guy who didn’t read. Nick’s favorite author is John Grisham (I can live with this) and his favorite book of all time is Of Mice and Men (yes!).

  I read his message. Have a great day. Can’t wait till Friday.

  Back at ya, I text.

  Part of me is thrilled and excited and another part of me is scared and leery. I’m not used to guys giving me this kind of rush. Up to now my relationships have always started out timid toe in the water, not cannonball dive.

  Lisa joins us in the conference room, and after a few minutes of personal conversation about what everyone did over the weekend, the donuts are gone and it’s time for our Monday-morning staff meeting. I set my cell phone on vibrate.

  Ben glances my way, all business now. “Frazier, how are things going with the NASCAR article?”

  “I’m in the process of setting up an interview.” This is not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. I fill them in on the other articles I’m working on, but neither of them is as “sexy” as the Trip Monroe story. I have to get this interview.

  Ben ends the meeting by once again reminding us to post a daily contribution to the magazine’s Facebook page and to Twitter, but although he’s addressing all of us, he’s really only talking to Richard.

  I’m headed to my cubicle when my cell phone vibrates. I look down hoping to see another text message from Nick, but I’ve just received a voice mail. I click over to my messages and instantly recognize the number. It’s from Frank Monroe. Finally! Now I can set up my meeting with Trip. Can my day get any better?

  I listen to Frank Monroe’s message. Then I listen again another three times just to make sure I’m hearing it right.

  “This is Frank Monroe, returning your call. I have a pretty good idea why you want to speak to me and the answer to your question is no. Please don’t call again.”

  His tone wasn’t rude, but it wasn’t friendly either.

  I spend the next hour stewing, thinking about exactly what I said in my message that might have put him off. The only thing I can figure out is that Julie must have warned him that I wanted to interview Trip. I understand why Frank Monroe would be protective of his nephew’s privacy, but I can’t believe that he wouldn’t at least talk to me. Then I remember Toby’s hostile reaction when all I did was inquire about Frank, and I chalk the whole thing up to celebrity paranoia.

  I camp out in my cubicle and begin to attack the Trip Monroe story from another angle. After two hours on the Internet and another call to the Yellow Rose of Texas in which I basically suck up to her, I get her to send me a copy of Trip’s public itinerary. In three weeks Trip Monroe will be in St. Petersburg for a cocktail party, hosted by one of those tony charity groups, that is being held to honor celebrities who have given lots of bucks to local organizations. The event will be covered by a few select local media. Florida! magazine, unfortunately, is not one of the select few, but for a thousand dollars I can purchase a ticket.

  Great. I can feel myself itching all over again. Not only does Florida! not have that kind of budget, but there is no way I can justify a thousand-dollar expense on the possibility of getting an interview. Lisa would laugh me out of her cubicle.

  I do, however, know someone whose firm does have that kind of budget. I go to my computer and find the Web site of the charity organization hosting the cocktail party. Just as I’d hoped, listed among the names of local businesses attending the event, is the Yeager Agency.

  I call Kimberly and tell her I need to see her about business, something I’ve never done before. She’s instantly curious and tries to wheedle me into giving her information, but all I tell her is that I’m working on something that will be mutually beneficial to us both. After a few minutes she gives in and tells me she has an opening at four, which is perfect. I work through lunch and by three-thirty I’ve researched and written a proposal I’m secretly calling “Ambush Trip Monroe.” In reality the proposal’s title is “The Benefits of Signing on with the Yeager Agency.” Which is really boring, but I’m way out of my comfort zone here and this is just meant to get Kimberly’s creative juices flowing.

  I touch up my red lipstick to boost my confidence, say good-bye to everyone for the day, and head downtown. The Yeager Agency is one of the most prestigious advertising and public relations firms in the Southeast. Their Tampa office takes up an entire floor of one of those high glass numbers that make up the downtown skyline. I park my car in the garage across the street and present myself to the receptionist. The Yeager Agency is as sleek and modern as the Florida! magazine office is homey and low-key. All the men look like they stepped out of GQ and the women look like they belong on the runway at Bryant Park.

  Kimberly meets me at the reception area and escorts me to her office, which is small, but has a great view of the city. She is wearing a pencil-thin skirt that I could never wear in a million years because my hips are too big. She’s also got on the most uncomfortable-looking pair of cockroach killers I’ve ever seen. Her honey-blond hair is swept up in a sleek knot at the nape of her neck and her makeup is perfect. I’ve never been envious of her, but I can’t help but feel frumpy wearing my dark blue pants and my sensible ballerina flats.

  “Want a cappuccino?” Kimberly’s restraint is admirable. I know her well enough to know she’s dying to find out what I’m doing here.

  I glance around her office. “You have a cappuccino machine in here?”

  She shrugs impatiently. “There’s one in the break room.”

  This is tempting. But I’m too excited to put this off any longer. “No thanks.” I hand her my brief, two-page proposal. “Read this and tell me what you think.”

  Kimberly pulls out a pair of black, designer reading glasses that only serve to make her more attractive. She skims the pages. “Where did you get all this?” Her voice is tempered, but I can see by the look in her eyes that her mind is already racing with possibilities.

  “Off the Internet, so I’m sure it’s not all completely accurate.”

  The proposal includes a list of all the endorsements Trip Monroe has been involved in over the past few years. Seeing that he is NASCAR’s current superstar and the poster boy for clean living, his endorsements are all grade A. I knew they would be, of course, but it’s nice to have things spelled out on paper for you.

  “Don’t you think it’s terrible that a Florida boy like Trip is using an out-of-state PR firm when there are so many fabulous firms right here in Florida?”

  “It’s downright sinful,” Kimberly agrees, lettin
g her voice revert back to the natural Catfish Cove twang she’s worked so hard to get rid of. “But how does this involve you?”

  “I need an interview with Trip Monroe. Which, I’m pretty sure I can get if I ever talk to him in person.” I tell Kimberly about the charity cocktail party in St. Petersburg and this is when she informs me that her firm has purchased four tickets for the event (which of course, I already knew).

  I offer her a simple deal. A ticket for the cocktail party in exchange for an introduction to Trip Monroe. Because Trip was such a nobody in high school, plus the fact that Kimberly is younger, she’s never actually met him.

  “I have to clear this with Murray.” Murray is Kimberly’s boss and we both know this is just a formality. Murray (and probably every other guy who works here) is infatuated with Kimberly. If Kimberly asked him to jump off the top of the building, he’d at least consider it.

  Although it is just the two of us in the office, Kimberly lowers her voice. “This is top secret, but we’re really close to getting the Dr Pepper account. The advertising division would be my bitch forever if I could get them Trip Monroe.”

  “Trip Monroe, shirtless, holding a can of Dr Pepper to his lips,” I say.

  We both envision this and let out a dreamy sigh. I don’t even like Dr Pepper, but an ad like that would make me buy it by the cartload.

  We strategize for over an hour and Kimberly promises to get back in touch with me as soon as she talks to Murray. She cautions me not to get my hopes up because anything can happen.

  Thirty minutes later, she calls to tell me I’m in. Murray is impressed with my chutzpah and has arranged for two of the Yeager Agency’s tickets to go to me and Kimberly.

  chapter nine

  It’s early Friday evening, and in exactly one hour, give or take a few minutes, Nick Alfonso will be at my door. For the next two nights we will be sleeping together under the same roof, less than twenty feet apart from each other. We skirted around this issue all week, and then last night he finally said, “Any clean, cheap hotels close to your place?”

  This is how I answered him: “It seems kind of silly to waste your money on a hotel when I have a perfectly good guest room with its own bathroom.”

  Now that that’s been established, I’ve come up with the following ground rules.

  A. I will not sleep with Nick Alfonso until I’m sure our relationship is going somewhere.

  B. No matter how great his kisses are, I will absolutely positively NOT sleep with Nick Alfonso this weekend because it is way too soon and I definitely don’t want to blow our budding relationship with premature sex.

  And finally…

  C. I will not sleep with Nick Alfonso until I’ve lost twenty pounds.

  To reinforce all this, I write it down on a sheet of paper and tape it to a secure spot where I am confident Nick will never see it, but where it will be a constant reminder to me, lest I forget myself.

  I read through the bullet points again. I think A and B are pretty self-explanatory; C, however, is a bit trickier. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my body. I know I can never compete with the Shannons and Amys of this world, nor do I want to. I just want to look and feel my best and my best is probably about twenty pounds lighter. Of course, seeing that I’ve been trying to lose the same twenty pounds for the past ten years, I might never have sex with Nick Alfonso, but I have to set some kind of standards for myself.

  Nick arrives promptly at eight-thirty. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and has one small overnight bag. Along with a dozen red roses. I can’t remember the last time a guy brought me flowers, and although red roses seem a bit clichéd, I’m touched. I put them in water, and even though I know Nick must be tired after driving for three and a half hours on top of working all day, he still insists on taking me out to dinner. We go to a little Cuban restaurant that has the best ropa vieja I’ve ever tasted. Nick admits to not having had much Cuban food before, so I order for him and he eats everything on his plate, which really pleases me.

  We’re sitting at the table, drinking our cortaditos, when Nick asks me how the Trip Monroe article is going. I tell him about Frank Monroe’s voice mail.

  Nick frowns. “That doesn’t sound like Frank.”

  I tell him about my plan to meet up with Trip at the charity cocktail event, including how I finagled the ticket through my good friend Kimberly’s public relations agency. Although Kimberly certainly remembers Nick, he does not remember Kimberly, which is not unusual, given the age difference. Nick seems properly impressed by my tenacity.

  After dinner we go back to my place, order a movie on pay-per-view, and snuggle on the couch, where we basically have another make-out session. I’m not sure who broke it off first, Nick or me, but the fact that he didn’t push for anything more leads me to believe that he has also established a few ground rules of his own.

  I go to bed, well kissed, thoroughly aroused, and definitely alone. If this is not a recipe to make sure we have sex sooner rather than later, I don’t know what is.

  The next day we sleep till ten and I make us breakfast. We decide to drive to the beach and this is where I start to get nervous. I think my bathing suit is flattering. It minimizes my butt and maximizes my chest, but it’s not a tiny bikini and I don’t want Nick to be disappointed with my body. I wish I didn’t feel this way but I can’t help it.

  We get to the beach and set up our blanket and chairs near the water, and then comes the moment of truth. He pulls off his shirt and I slip out of my loose sundress and we discreetly eye each other’s body out the corners of our sunglasses while pretending to be interested in something else.

  Nick is a beautiful swirl of tanned pecs and hard abs. I, on the other hand, must be a cloudy haze of cellulite-puckered thighs and pale skin.

  I reach into my tote bag and pull out a tube of SPF-50 sunscreen. I wish I could use a lower SPF level and actually get a tan, but when one of your mothers is a medical doctor, you’ve listened to the dangers of skin cancer enough that you don’t dare take the risk.

  Nick takes the tube from my hand. “Turn around,” he orders.

  He rubs the sunscreen over the tops of my shoulders and down my back, pausing at the skin above my bathing-suit bottom. He finishes rubbing in the sunscreen then surprises me by giving me a playful swat on my butt.

  If Nick is disappointed in my body, he certainly isn’t acting like it.

  I take the tube of sunscreen and offer to do the same for him, making sure I get the tops of his shoulders and the back of his neck. And then (because I can’t help myself) I slap his butt right back. He laughs then sits down in his chair and I sit in mine.

  And then the second moment of truth comes.

  I pull a book out of my tote bag and prepare to do what I like best at the beach, and that’s read. And while this might not sound like a big deal, the thing is, I’m kind of a boring person and this is something Nick needs to know right away. I like nights like last night, where we stay in and watch a movie. I like hanging out in a beach chair, watching the clear Gulf water lap onto the shore while sipping a drink and reading a good book. Don’t get me wrong, I like hanging out with my friends and having a good time, but sometimes I just like being quiet too.

  Nick leans his head back in his chair like he’s settling in for a nap.

  My cell phone rings.

  “What are you doing?” Torie asks.

  “I’m at the beach.”

  “With Nick?”

  “No, I left him back at my place.”

  “Ha ha. Which beach are you at?”

  I freeze. I really don’t want Torie to crash my beach date with Nick. Torie in a bikini is not the kind of landscape I want Nick exposed to. At least not this soon in our relationship—

  Wait. Where did that come from?

  I have never once thought of hiding my more attractive girlfriends from a guy I’m interested in. Until now.

  Amy’s ugly friend remark has done more than just shake up my confidence. I hate her fo
r saying it, but I hate myself more for continuing to hear it over and over in my head. Maybe I need to go to one of those guys who hypnotize you to stop smoking. Only what I need is someone to wipe out the memory of that night at Captain Pete’s.

  But if Nick is going to dump me for someone more attractive, shouldn’t I know this right away, before we get more involved?

  “You still there?” Torie asks.

  “We’re at Clearwater Beach. Want to join us?”

  Nick raises his sunglasses to look at me. He’s curious, and not completely pleased that I’ve just invited someone to tag along on our date.

  “Hell no. I just want to know where you are,” says Torie. “So Kimberly and Jason and I are going to that pizza place we ate at a couple of weekends ago. Do you and Nick want to come?”

  “Let me call you back.” I click off my phone and turn to Nick, who appears to have gone back to his nap. “Want to go out to eat with my friends tonight?”

  “Sure,” Nick says.

  I call Torie back. “What time?”

  “Around eight.”

  “Okay, see you then.”

  The beach date was a complete success. I read over sixty pages of my current novel, Nick got in a much-needed nap, and we even took a swim, all without getting sunburned.

  Nick has that olive complexion that often comes with dark hair and dark eyes but I’m pretty pale, so a day at the beach is tantamount to smoking three packs of cigarettes on the cancer meter. But Nick did a good job with the sunscreen. Instead of looking like I’m radioactive, I now have a subtle, healthy glow. I spend some time thinking about what I’m going to wear and I decide on a yellow cotton halter dress that shows off a good portion of my back, and some strappy sandals. Tonight I’m a definite seven and I’m feeling pretty good.

  Nick and I are the last to arrive at the restaurant. Torie and Kimberly hug me and I introduce them to Nick. Our friend Jason is also here tonight.