* * *
DrBananaPants: We are going to sit on a bench and spend a grand total of five minutes together and not a second more.
* * *
LibraGrl: I just looked up the name of the restaurant. It’s called The Cove. I’ll meet you there at six thirty.
I don’t actually want to share a meal with Ben, but I do want to make two things abundantly clear to him from the start. The first is that he is not in a position of power between the two of us. The second is that I like to eat while I think.
I ignore his twelve other texts where he tells me that he’s not going to meet me at The Cove and that he will be sitting on a bench in Riverside Park at six instead. He can text me all he wants. I am not losing this battle.
Ten
Ben
Alec: You’re going for supper with her? Don’t you hate each other?
* * *
ObiWan: Yes and yes.
* * *
Alec: Hmm … maybe she doesn’t hate you. It sounds like she pushed pretty hard for a date. You know what they say about opposites attracting …
* * *
ObiWan: I assure you there’s NO attraction between us. I’m going to meet her, have a quick appetizer, go over what we’re going to talk about on the show, and get the hell out of there.
* * *
Alec: If I were you, I wouldn’t be in such a rush. It’s not every day guys like us get to sit at the same table with a gorgeous woman like that.
* * *
ObiWan: She might as well be a man. Honestly, there is no spark whatsoever. Besides, even if there were, she’s an ASTROLOGER.
* * *
Alec: So what? She’s hot.
ObiWan: You date her then. That is if you don’t mind betraying everything you believe in for a chance at sex.
* * *
Alec: Dude, I’d betray my own grandmother for a chance at sex.
* * *
ObiWan: Well, that’s where you and I differ. Gotta go. I don’t want to be late for my non-date.
This is ridiculous. Possibly even more so than my accidental modeling gig. I’m currently on my way to some stupid restaurant to meet a woman I can’t stand because she refuses to answer my texts. I hurry down the busy Broadway sidewalk as the sky grows darker, my sense of dread growing with each step.
The Cove is trendy and loud — the kind of place I avoid like the plague. I walk in and glance around, spotting Serafina at a table for two in the corner. She waves at me in a way that says I won, which she most certainly has not. Just because I didn’t feel like acting like an adolescent, doesn’t mean I lost. It just means I’m an adult. She should take notes on how it’s done.
I weave my way through the tables, taking measured breaths and telling my heart rate to slow down, but it’s really no use. Alec was right. Serafina Lopez is gorgeous. And strong. And, as much as I hate to admit it, she’s smart. Completely wrong-headed, but intelligent, nonetheless. When I get to the table, she smiles. “Hi there, thanks for coming.”
I sit down across from her. “What can I say? I’m a gentleman.” I decide to leave the burden of conversation on her shoulders. After all, she’s the one who insisted we meet in person.
“The seafood paella is supposed to be incredible here,” she says with a small smile. She looks almost unsure of herself, which throws me off a little. I need her to stay in full battle mode so I can do the same.
“I’m just having an appetizer, then I have to run.”
The waiter walks up to our table with two glasses of water. “Hi, I’m Nathan. I’ll be your server this evening. Can I bring you something to start?”
He glances back and forth between us to see who’s going first. I gesture to Serafina to go ahead. “I’ll have a glass of Viognier, the house salad, and the paella for my main.”
“I’ll have a pint of Stella and the crab-stuffed mushrooms,” I tell him, handing him my menu.
“And for your main?”
“Nothing, thanks,” I say.
Nathan’s smile fades and he grumbles, “Not again.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is the third time this week that I end up serving the couple that’s about to break up. Of course, that always results in a huge argument and no tip.”
“Why on earth would you think we’re about to break up?” Serafina asks with curiosity etched across her brow.
He shakes his head as though he’s breaking bad news to her. “I’ve seen it a hundred times. Whenever a guy only orders an appetizer after his date orders a full meal, it means he’s breaking up with her but is doing it in a public place so she won’t freak out at him. If I were you, I’d walk out right now.”
Then he looks at me and adds, “Spoiler alert: she’s going to freak out. Sorry to ruin your great plan, but I just can’t have another food fight, broken dishes kind of evening, okay, buddy? It’s not fair to me, it’s not fair to her, and it’s not fair to the other people trying to have a nice evening out. Do it somewhere else.”
“This is a business meeting,” I tell him, while looking over the top of my glasses. It’s a power move that I learned from my multivariable calculus professor.
A look of embarrassment crosses our waiter’s face. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
As soon as he leaves, Serafina and I exchange amused glances. She says, “How much do you want to bet he’s a Leo? Leo men have a tendency to jump to conclusions.”
“I don’t know anything about Leos, but he did go from A to Z without any stops in between.” We both laugh, before I remember we hate each other, and that I want to get out of here as soon as humanly possible.
I pull a pen and a small notepad out of my jacket pocket and flip it open. “Okay, so we should get started.”
Serafina nods as she takes a laptop out of her bag. Then she sets her cutlery aside and puts it down in front of her. Without realizing it, I let out a “Huh.”
“What?” she asks, raising one eyebrow.
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something,” she says. “Are you surprised I brought a laptop with me? I bet you thought I’d pull out some tarot cards and do a reading to determine what we should talk about on air.”
I let a grin escape my lips. “I was thinking a Ouija board. Maybe summon Dick Clark for advice.”
Glaring at me, Serafina opens her computer. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am a businesswoman — an extremely successful one at that. I probably make more in one month than you make all year.”
I stare at her for a moment, quickly multiplying my annual salary by twelve months. I suppose it’s possible. There are a lot of desperate people out there, and desperate people are easily parted from their hard-earned cash. Rather than getting into a pissing match over money (especially since I may lose), I tilt my head and ask, “Before or after taxes?”
She snort laughs. Not particularly attractive, but oddly cute in its own way. Not that I should be noticing.
Nathan comes by with our drinks. “This round is on me for accusing you of planning a cowardly break up.”
“Thanks,” Serafina and I both say at the same time.
“Your appetizers will be right out.” He walks away, leaving us to our awkward conversation.
Serafina lifts hers in a toast. “To our blossoming television career.”
I pick up my glass and lightly tap it against hers. “May it be over as quickly as it started.”
We each take a sip, then find ourselves staring at each other for seconds too long. Boy, she is really pretty. I force myself out of whatever weird hypnosis has taken over by giving my head a sharp shake.
She turns her gaze back to her computer screen and says, “Radial velocity would pair well with a talk about my dating app. I’m going to come up with a whole thing about gravitational pull so when you talk about the tug of war between a planet and the star it orbits, I’ll come in with my stuff about opposites …”— she glances up at me and pauses, then quickly looks back down befo
re finishing her sentence — “attracting.”
Eleven
Serafina
“You have salad dressing on your nose,” Ben tells me rather rudely.
“I like the smell of ranch so I like to leave a little bit on the tip of my nose to enhance my enjoyment.” I wipe it off, totally negating the veracity of my claim.
Ben laughs. “I like a woman with a sense of humor.” As soon as the words leave his mouth his eyes pop open so wide, he looks like he’s about to have a seizure.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Banana Pants, I’m not going to think you like me just because you gave me a compliment.”
He clears his throat nervously before taking a big gulp of his beer. “I … just … well … that is to say …”
I love knowing I have the power to make a brilliant specimen like Dr. Ben Williams lose his ability to speak. Instead of sitting back and letting him suffer, I say, “Waltraut did ask for three ideas, and so far we’ve only come up with one.”
“Yes, but it’s a good one, at least my end of it is.” He arches one eyebrow as though challenging me to a verbal dual.
En garde! Monsieur Snooty Pants.
Instead of slaying him outright, I mumble, "Ad astra per aspera." Then I wave our waiter over to order another drink.
“You speak Latin?” he asks in a super-insulting fashion.
“What, you think only astro-nerds know Latin?”
“I’m sorry,” he says somewhat contritely. “I did ask that in a rather offensive manner.”
“Did you know they put that saying on a plaque to memorialize the astronauts who died on Apollo One? ‘Through adversity to the stars …’ It gives me chills to think of it used like that,” I say.
“What did you mean by it?” he asks with a glint in his eye.
I exhale a great gush of air before answering, “If I can stand working with you for long enough, I’ll see my app reach the stars. But, of course, you knew that …”
He’s grinning like a darn fool. “We both have an agenda for doing this show,” he tells me. “While yours is entirely selfish, mine is to open people’s minds to the possibilities of our infinite universe.”
“You’re such an ass. I’m willing to bet you weren’t even given a choice if you wanted to go back on Wake Up America! It’s my guess your bosses are making you do it.”
His lack of answer confirms my suspicion.
“As to the other ideas we need to pitch,” I continue, “I suggest we do a Decorate for Your Star Sign segment. You could talk about the interiors of rockets or something.”
“I’m sure America couldn’t care less about decorating rockets and, frankly, neither could I.”
I shrug my shoulders. “It’s not my fault that your part of the segment would be boring.”
“How about if we talk about energy wave theory? I can discuss NASA’s efforts in pioneering safe and efficient space travel while traversing electromagnetic waves. You could talk about the best mode of transportation for your star sign.”
That’s actually a great idea, but I’m not going to tell him that. Instead, I say, “Fine. We’ll pitch Waltraut all three segments and let her decide.”
When my paella arrives, I ask our server for an extra plate, then I dish half of it up and hand it over to Ben. “I have more than I need.”
He looks like I’m handing him a plate full of poisonous rat pellets, but ultimately takes it. “Thank you.”
We’re halfway through my entrée when two women around my age approach our table. They stare at Ben like he’s the Second Coming. The taller of the two says, “Hi, are you Dr. Ben Williams? My friend didn’t think you were, but I told her I’d know you anywhere.”
“I’m sorry, have we met?” Ben sounds so nervous you’d think he just got caught plagiarizing his thesis or something.
His fan clearly takes his answer to mean that he is who she thinks he is because she gushes, “I saw you on television this morning. Those pants made my day.”
“Thank you,” I insert into the conversation. “I picked them out for him to wear.”
Dr. Banana Pants’ somewhat excitable admirer turns to me and announces, “That segment was the highlight of my week. At least until coming here and seeing the man in the flesh.” She’s back to drooling after my dinner companion.
Ben looks intensely agitated. His face has turned a bright pink, and his jaw is so clenched you’d probably need a crowbar to pry it open. I decide to have a little fun. “Dr. Ben, are you single or are you seeing somebody?”
“I … I … I’m … why does it matter?”
“I was just thinking that we could do a fun segment where I match you up with a viewer based on her star sign.” I tell his admirer, “I’m adding a dating feature to my app. You aren’t by chance a Leo, are you?”
“I’m a Libra,” she tells me. “But I did some research after your segment and found out that Libra women do well with Gemini men.” She looks at Ben from under her long flirty lashes.
“As flattering as this attention is,” Ben says nervously, “I’m not currently on the market.”
“You’re married?” she asks disappointedly.
“No, just not on the market,” he tells her.
After signing a cocktail napkin for both women, they eventually walk back to their own table. Ben looks relieved and furious at the same time. “If we’re going to work together, you need to know I won’t put up with being put on the spot like that.” He sounds like a stern father about to ground me.
I’m a bit taken aback by his anger. “I was just brainstorming out loud. Plus, she was totally cute and super into you.”
“Well, don’t do it again,” he says with a set jaw.
“Dude, relax,” I tell him. “I just figured a good-looking guy like yourself might enjoy the social aspects of being a national television star.”
“Oh, really? Would you like it if that were a couple of men interested in you?”
Hmm, probably not, but since he’s being so rude about it, I’m not going to admit it. Before I answer, he continues. “Are you going to put yourself out there to date total strangers?”
“Not unless the retired crowd is interested in dating me. Men our age aren’t usually watching morning television.”
“That’s sexist,” he says derisively.
“It would only be sexist if it weren’t true,” I tell him. “But if men in their thirties were morning show people, I’d totally do it.” I think about my sad personal life and once again get excited about my dating app.
“Sure you would,” he says, oozing sarcasm.
“You don’t know me, so don’t pretend you do.”
“I just find it hard to believe any woman would be willing to date some random stranger just because he saw you on TV. It sounds stalkerish.”
“Everyone you don’t already know is a random stranger. That’s how dating works. You meet someone new and learn about them. Then you decide if you want to go out with them again,” I say, before adding, “I’m surprised you don’t know this.”
His face turns slightly red, then he runs his tongue over his teeth. “Okay, fine. You’re also a dating expert who knows the secret to happiness, and I’m a closed-off shut-in who has no idea about the opposite sex.”
I stare at him, wondering if there’s some truth to what he’s saying. Nope. He’s way too good-looking for that to be the case.
He holds up both hands in front of him like he’s getting ready to catch a basketball. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here to discuss the show, which we’ve done. Clearly, it’s in both our best interests to keep our future interactions as brief as possible as we seem incapable of having a civil conversation.”
“Um, okay,” I say with more than a hint of derisiveness. “I thought we could find some common ground, but apparently that’s not possible. Look, we don’t have to be friends, but we do have to work together. We can either make the best of it or we can always be at odds. I think life will be more pleasant if we try to ge
t along.”
After a lengthy silence, he answers, “For that to happen, you can’t make me look like a fool again. I will not wear any more clothes that you pick out for me and I will not allow you to try to set me up. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” I tell him. Meanwhile his supercilious tone is almost more than I can stand.
Ben pulls his wallet out of his pants pocket and drops a fifty on the table. Then he stands up and says, “You can text me to let me know which segment Waltraut picks.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask as though we’re playing out the scene our waiter earlier accused him of planning.
“We’ve completed what we came here to do. I see no reason to prolong this meeting,” he states plainly.
“I’m not done eating.”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “So eat.” Then he turns and walks away.
Try as I might to be conciliatory to that man, I will not stand for rudeness. No sir, If Dr. Banana Pants wants war, I’m happy to accommodate — starting with pitching Waltraut the very segment he’s so opposed to.
We Libras like calm and balance, but if you get on our wrong side, you’d better watch out.
Twelve
Ben
Email from: [email protected]
To: [email protected], cc: [email protected]
* * *
Text Wars: May the Text be With You ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 3) Page 6
