“Who are you, Josie? Manifest? You always say that's a bunch of bullshit.”
“Eh. Maybe lack of orgasms with anything not plastic is destroying my brain.”
“You're going to end up marrying a doctor,” Laura teased, knowing Josie hated the idea. A nurse, she worked hard at the hospital, but the MDs were the bane of her existence.
“No way! I want children with common sense and no God complex!”
“Too bad. They'll be your children. Missed the boat already.”
“That's what I mean? I need a father for my children who is nothing like me so those poor kids have a chance. But no doctors!”
“You're cursing yourself.”
“Give me a good plumber any day. Or a truck driver.”
“Truck driver?”
“My uncle Mike is a long-haul truck driver. He's gone all week. The only way some man is going to put up with me long-term is if he's gone 5 out of 7 days a week.”
“You have a point.”
“What about you, Laura? What kind of guys are in your future?”
“Guys? As in plural?”
“Hey. Maybe you're like Lays.”
“Lays?”
“The potato chips? Betcha can't eat just one.”
“You are a sick, sick woman.”
“And you picked me for your best friend, so what does that say about you?”
“I'm reassessing.”
“You're stuck with me forever. I know all your secrets.”
“The only major secrets I have involve binge eating, Josie.”
“Fair enough. You are pretty boring, aren't you?”
Laura stared at the screen. Boring.
Josie was right. She was.
“Let's unboring you.”
Then Josie, with a flourish, pressed the “Submit” button.
“Thank you for joining—your profile is now live!” the screen read.
“Oh, no, Josie, did you really just do that?” Laura sputtered as she grabbed the mouse.
“What?” Josie batted her eyelashes. “Live a little. See who replies!”
She grabbed her heavy, over-full Vera Bradley purse that they had discovered at a local thrift shop for $3.99 and fingered her car keys. “Gotta go, Laura. And don’t you dare delete that.”
Laura laughed. “You know me too well.”
“No kidding,” Josie muttered. Her face turned serious. “Really, Laura. You need to get out there. Some guy is being deprived of your awesomeness. And besides, your budget needs the break.”
“My budget?”
“Yeah. What are you spending on batteries for Bob?”
Confused, Laura shook her head. It was like Josie spoke a foreign language sometimes. “Huh?”
“Your battery-operated boyfriend. You know—BOB.”
And with that she snickered, running for the door as Laura threw a section of a fashion magazine at her. Josie’s evil laughter filled the apartment as she ran down the hallway, the sound fading once she hit the stairwell. “Have a good day at work!” she hollered from the street.
The coffee machine gave its death-rattle gasp that signaled the pot was done, and Laura went to drink it greedily, needing sustenance to kick her brain into gear. With enough caffeine, she could date anyone. Hmm, maybe she should do a search for baristas on that site. Free lattes would be a nice perk.
Dylan Stanwyck couldn’t believe what he saw when he logged into the online dating site. Four months of weeding through so many crappy profiles had jaded him. Finding the right woman would be like coming across the proverbial needle in a haystack, but in this case he didn’t want to face any pricks.
And yes, women could be pricks. So far he had been inundated with requests to chat, and he knew exactly why. Being a firefighter who competed in weightlifting competitions for fun, along with the occasional mini triathlon, made his pictures look quite nice.
The problem with the women who were responding to him was that they were also the type to be drawn to appearances only. It seemed so shallow of him to think it, but sometimes being built the way he was could be a curse.
Curse of the Jersey Shore chicks. Because that was the type who seemed to seek him out, like moths to a flame. A trashy, Snooki-like flame of ho-dom. When he met up with these women he found himself in some alternate universe, where they licked their lips and offered themselves up in the alley behind the nice tapas restaurant where he liked to take dates. A few goat-cheese stuffed dates and pitchers of sangria later and he was being humped up against a slimy brick wall next to the trash cans.
And when he turned them down...
He still had scars from one woman’s long, overdone nails raking his neck as she screeched, “You don’t know me!” over and over, as passersby gawked, took pictures they probably uploaded to Reddit, and mercifully called 911 when it became evident he required police assistance.
So when this new profile for Laura appeared, he peered at the description and leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. Cute. But not too cute. A little sassy. He liked sassy. He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair. Time to get a haircut, dude. You look like a survivalist. And smell like one, too, he thought as he studied her picture and caught a whiff of himself. His morning run was done -- 3.8 miles logged on his online fitness program -- and he reeked.
She looked like a 1940s pinup girl. A little plumper, with soft curves to her shoulders, and a fuzzy, lime-green sweater accentuating her breasts. Her jaw line seemed firm and gentle all at once, and what appeared to be naturally-blonde hair was swept up off her face in a pony tail.
His mom would call her a “corn-fed farm girl” and those lips— lush and grinning a half smile that seemed to say “Kiss me, Dylan.”
Smart, too. A financial analyst? Sounded suitably bland and yet signaled she was smart enough to carry her own in a conversation about something other than Kim Kardashian or Fifty Shades of Grey (Really—why had every date for the past two months mentioned it?). A real woman. What a refreshing change.
So he continued reading:
“Luscious, curvy financial analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I’m a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”
Something fierce and hot inside him came to life. From that description it sounded like she...seriously? No way.
“Mike! Hey, Mike! Get in here!” If there were a chance— any chance at all, here, then he had to act fast. Someone this amazing was about to get inundated by messages from needy weirdos.
And he needed to be the first.
His roommate wandered in. Where Dylan was all muscle and brawn, Mike Pine was tall and sleek, a marathoner’s body of long, lean tissue. Dylan’s dark, thick, Italian, looks made him popular with women, but Mike was the golden boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes—the long-distance runner with a soft heart, the guy women turned to and poured their hearts out, Mr. Sensitive to Dylan’s Mr. Conquest.
Dylan tapped the screen. “Take a look at her.”
He smiled smugly as Mike’s eyes raced across the screen. They’d been waiting for a long time. Too long. His roommate’s expression told him everything he needed to know. Score! It might finally be time.