Blind Date. Cheryl Anne Porter

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      1

      “IT’S FRIDAY EVENING, Meg,” she said to herself, “you’re alone in your apartment, your date tonight is with a department store, and—wait for it—you’re talking to yourself. How sad is that?” She grabbed up her handbag, turned the light off in her spacious bedroom, and walked down the narrow, carpeted hallway toward the living room. At least she lived in a great place. The Mediterranean-style courtyard apartment complex, with over two hundred units, was the address for young singles in Tampa. “Okay, so maybe I’m not totally pathetic.”

      At least she looked good, dressed in her new V-neck, white T-shirt and stretchy, hip-hugging khaki pants. She wished Wendy could see her in them, but her friend had left today for a wedding in Dallas. On the other hand, school was out for spring break. Finally. That meant no precious little third-graders to teach for a whole week. Bless their hearts. And tomorrow night she had a date-that-wasn’t-a-date. A date who also wasn’t Carl “the high school football coach and big, fat cheater” Woodruff. So, life was good.

      However, it would be even better if, instead of going out with Maury’s great-nephew tomorrow, she’d see Mr. Hot and Shirtless from the dressing room debacle two evenings ago. That man was causing her to toss and turn at night with torrid dreams of anonymous sex in a fitting room. Meg felt the tightening of desire tense her tummy muscles. “Great. One look from the guy in the tight jeans and the oh-my-God chest and I’m signing up for sex with him in elevators, airplanes and swimming pools.”

      Sighing over what could not be, Meg sorted through her designated junk drawer in the tiny wet bar in her living room. Spying what she was looking for, she grabbed up the small can of pepper spray—blame Wendy’s talk of serial killers—and dropped the defensive weapon into her purse. “Wait. Car keys.” Rooting through her purse for those, Meg grimaced in sympathy for Wendy, who was at her younger sister’s wedding. “Younger. That hurts.”

      It didn’t especially fill Meg with joy, either. Here she was, already twenty-five—practically middle-aged—and she had yet to fire some guy’s jets to the point of a white dress and ring.

      Meg found her keys and zipped her purse closed, wishing she could do the same thing with her bridal and hormonal thoughts. Apparently there was nothing like a wedding to make a woman rethink her whole love life. “What love life?” She checked her wristwatch. “Yikes. Nearly seven. Time to shop.”

      Holding her purse by its straps, like a bunny by the ears, Meg made for the sofa, where earlier, she’d stashed the department-store bag that held the new red dress she intended to return. Somehow, it hadn’t looked quite as stunning at home. As she reached for the bag, though, she caught her reflection in the large, framed mirror behind the sofa. Straightening, she checked out her “studied casual” look. After all, a girl never knew who else might be at the mall on a Friday evening. Like maybe some exciting man exchanging a shirt he’d just bought?

      Meg turned this way and that checking her makeup…her teeth…her outfit. She fluffed her hair—and stared in shock. “When did my hair start sticking out on the sides like that?”

      She tossed her keys and purse onto the sofa, tucked her long, layered hair behind her ears and checked out the effect. “Sucks.” She freed her hair and ran her fingers through it, muttering, “It’s not my hair. It’s my ears. Dad’s ears. God, I could fly with these things, like Dumbo—”

      The phone rang, cutting off her words. It was probably Mom, who had telepathically heard her daughter say something mean about her bank president father’s ears. Meg reached over to the end table to retrieve the phone and hit the talk button. “Hello.”

      The voice at the other end of the line—definitely not her mother’s—raised Meg’s hackles and reminded her she really needed to get caller ID. “Hello, Carl. What do you want?”

      She listened for a moment, and decided that was all she could take. “You know what Carl? It’s a little late to say you miss me. What happened to your other friend? You know, the one you had that nice little date with the other night? Yes, I am still mad. And no, I don’t think I’ll forgive you. In fact, I don’t even want to talk to you….” She paused for a minute, waiting for it to sink in. It didn’t. “No, Carl, you can’t come over and discuss this with me,” she said, trying again. “There’s nothing to talk about. Besides, I have plans.”

      Shopping by one’s self could certainly be called plans. “No, Carl. Do not come over. I will not be here. I swear I won’t. What? Yes, you actually are that easy to get over. Shocking, isn’t it? Oh, but I do mean it—I’m over you. No, I won’t be here. Do not come over. And now I’m hanging up. Goodbye.”

      Though she could still hear him talking, Meg angrily pressed the end button and plunked the phone back onto its base. “Take that, you cheating—”

      An abrupt knocking on her front door cut off her unflattering sentiment. Instinctively, she headed for the door but stopped after one step and stood there, thinking. She looked at the phone and then the door. Could Carl have been standing right outside when he called on his cell phone? A cutesy trick like that was just like him, she decided, now striding stiffly toward her entryway. “Well, I’ll give him an earful he won’t soon forget. A real tongue-lashing, by God. And not the good kind, either.”

      Muttering, her anger building, she stepped onto the tile squares of the minuscule entryway. Why it couldn’t be the nice, gorgeous, shirtless guy from the department store standing on the other side of the door when she opened it, she’d never know. Talk about your six feet of hunk with blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Yeah, right. In my dreams. But who do I get? Stupid Carl and his little cell-phone trick.

      Meg twisted СКАЧАТЬ