Pitch-perfect. His brown eyes soften slightly, and his head tilts to the left in that sympathetic look reserved for funerals or sick puppies.
In a condescending tone, he says in response, “Julia, I’ve told you before, you shouldn’t be working yourself so hard.”
My spine stiffens, and I sit upright. He wanted my attention, well now he’s got it. For the record, I love my job. Not many people can honestly say they love what they do, but I can. I run an event planning business that used to belong to my father until he had a health scare and retired a few years ago. He had been grooming me since college so that one day I could take over the company, and I’m proud to report that it’s doing better than ever. Maybe it’s the independent woman in me or my strong-willed personality, but I take offense to Dick’s comment.
I put down my fork and sweep my blunt blond bangs away from my forehead. They cascade right back into place as if I hadn’t done a damn thing to move them. Carefully, I forge ahead. “And what does that mean, exactly? How can I not work too hard when I own the company? The fate of my employees rests on the sole fact that I do work hard to ensure they get a paycheck every other week.”
He puts his hands up in defense while chuckling. Ugh, I instantly regret selecting option number two; I should have just played dumb when I had the chance. “Julia, that’s not what I meant. I simply meant that when you work too hard, you don’t get to enjoy the other things in life. Like this.” He motions his hand between us to drive his point home that he means “us.”
Is he shitting me? There is no “us.” I’d rather watch paint dry than be here on this date with him. Thankfully, the waiter comes before I can respond, and he asks if we need anything else. Dick doesn’t even ask me; instead, he tells the waiter to bring the check. Normally, this would bug the hell out of me since it’s another pet peeve to add to Dick’s ever-growing list of cons, but tonight I’m glad he did it because it means I’m that much closer to never having to see him again.
After he signs the check, which he makes a big deal out of since the final tally of our dinner is somewhere above the hundred-dollar mark, I stay silent and just put on a tight smile while we walk to his car. The drive back to my house is even worse. He blasts Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” over the speaker system the whole way home.
Seriously?! I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.
And it’s right then that I have a moment of clarity. An epiphany, if you will.
Why am I putting myself through the torture of another date that never goes anywhere? I’m not a conceited person by any stretch of the imagination. I think I’m halfway decent in the looks department, pretty goddamn funny, and successful enough in my own right that I could afford several dinners that this prize just paid for on my behalf like he was doing me a favor.
The answer sneaks up on me just as he pulls into my driveway. I don’t need to put up with guys like Dick over here, ever. In fact, I don’t think I need to bother with men at all. Maybe what I need to do is take a complete and total break from dating. They do say when you’re not looking for love is when you’ll find it magically appearing on your doorstep. He’ll appear with a pretty red bow on his beautiful, perfectly coiffed head. Mind you, nobody knows exactly who “they” are, so this theory is still up for debate. But still, I think it’s worth a shot.
“So, are you going to invite me in?”
I turn in my seat to face Dick, who is trying his damndest to grin in a sexy way. Instead of being sexy he looks more like an overeager twit.
“Thanks for the date, Dick.” Still funny. “But yeah, um, I don’t think so.”
He actually has the nerve to look surprised. “Come on, Jules. The night doesn’t have to end so early. I can make it worth your while.”
Rule number one that I should put out as a disclaimer for everyone who meets me: never, under any circumstance, call me Jules. Anger infiltrates me to the point that I’m this close to smacking him upside his head for calling me that, especially since he knows I hate it with a passion.
I have to take a deep breath and exhale before I say anything back. “Listen closely, Dick. On what part of this date, or the one before it, did I lead you to believe you were going to ever get inside my pants? Did you think that just because I agreed to a second date that I was a foregone conclusion? A sure thing? Better yet, did you think because you paid for dinner that it gives you the right to assume I’d let you inside my home to have your way with me?”
His mouth drops open to say something, but I’m on a roll now. “You are a pretentious, overeager asshole. There is no scenario in the world where this date ends with you in my bed. I’d much rather pleasure myself with my battery-operated boyfriend for the rest of my lonely existence than have you attempt to find my G-spot.”