“As someone who has recently broken a two-plus-year dry spell, I have to recommend it. The breaking, not the spell.”
“Do you think it was the breaking that was so good? Or the man you broke it with?”
“Probably the man.” Elisa smiled dreamily.
Haven wondered if being happily matched was a boon or a liability for a dating coach. On one hand, if Elisa could do so well for herself, it said something for her emotional intelligence. On the other, Haven suspected most single women would be more likely to confide in a dating coach who didn’t seem quite so smugly settled.
Elisa snapped out of her reverie. “The point is, you don’t have to find the perfect man to break the losing streak.”
“Sex is a lot of work. If I’m going to do it, it’d better be good.”
Elisa narrowed her eyes. “Sex is a lot of work? Are you doing it right?”
“Pumice stones and moisturizers and Brazilians and lingerie shopping and the good sheets and candles and—”
“It’s not an Olympic event, Hav,” Elisa interrupted. “You’re allowed to just do it. Like on the living room couch, drunk, and with the full complement of God-given body hair.”
Haven knew from personal experience that while guys might claim not to need things groomed and romantic and perfect, over time they would come to crave the fantasy version. Once the early, oblivious bliss wore off, Elisa would find that out, too.
“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Haven said.
Elisa crossed her arms. “Are we talking about ‘right’? Or are we talking about ‘looking good’?’”
“When it comes to men, there’s no difference.”
Elisa gave her a hard look. “I’m a dating coach. There’s a difference.”
“I’m an image consultant. There’s not.”
Elisa laughed. “Agree to disagree.” She shut the laptop and came around the desk as Haven stood. “You’re a hoot, girl.”
Elisa put her arm around Haven, and Haven rested her head on Elisa’s shoulder, glad Elisa thought it was funny. But she hadn’t been joking. When it came to men, image was everything.
* * *
MARK STEPPED INTO Mad Mo’s and was assaulted by screens and vintage neon signs, piped music and raised voices. Even years of having his ears blown out on a stage and in blues clubs hadn’t made him immune to the overstimulation. He had to pause in the doorway to get his bearings.
Mad Mo’s had been around since the 1940s, and it was the antithesis of the place where he’d had lunch with Haven yesterday. At Charme, everything was calculated and calculating, from the color scheme to the people who chose to put themselves on display there. Here—well, it had all happened through year after year of accidents. Someone had once given Mo a neon beer sign and then he had become a known collector of them. The art on the walls was a mélange of photos of Mo’s family, crayon pictures kids had drawn and postcards from every corner of the world. And the food was— It was just food, the fries spilling over the top of the burgers, pickle wedges stuffed wherever they’d fit. Haven Hoyt would have a heart attack if she saw this scene. She’d want to call up whichever of her friends was responsible for giving restaurants image makeovers and have them here before close of business.