Bombshell

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“Not before coffee,” I warn her, signaling the waiter.

She lets out a little squeal. “I’m serious! He’s so perfect you’re going to wet yourself!”

A sour-faced woman with two little kids seated at the next table flashes us a look of distaste, but Wanda doesn’t notice.

“Tell me this isn’t the ‘project’ you mentioned for your—?”

“Fantasy matchmaking! Yes! And this guy has the biggest hard-on for dark-haired voluptuous sex kittens, Ruby. He’s the man for you! At least for one night.”

I clutch my forehead. “Okay, that’s way too much perkiness this early in the morning. Can we bring it down a couple notches until I catch up on the coffee?”

The waiter mercifully comes over to take my order, and soon we’re surrounded by delicious breakfast foods as well as fortifying caffeine. Wanda can’t stop talking about this guy. In the midst of her excited babble I piece together the following:

1. He’s from out of town, visiting for a couple weeks.

2. She met him at a party in Sausalito (i.e., super swanky).

3. He’s obsessed with 1950s pinup girls.

“You know I hate blind dates,” I remind her.

She holds up one finger. “No, no, no, this isn’t a blind date.”

“It sure sounds like one.”

“It’s a fantasy date.” When my expression doesn’t change, she presses on. “See, on a blind date you’re looking for something permanent. It’s like an audition for domestic life. You spend the first ten minutes obsessing over how his initials will look on the monogrammed towels, or how his nose will look on your baby’s face. This is totally different.”

“Because it’s just a hookup?” I ask, spearing a home fry.

“Because you already know the most important thing about each other: you share the same fantasy.” She takes a sip of cappuccino and licks the foam from her lips. “It’s the ideal setup for one night of no-strings-attached, totally uninhibited, completely fucking mind-blowing anonymous sex.”

The woman cutting up her toddler’s pancakes at the next table pauses to shoot us another scowl.

“That lady said a bad word, Mommy.” One of her rug rats, the one with jam smeared across his forehead, stares at us with wide-eyed awe.

“Yes, she did,” his mother agrees, her jaw tight.

Wanda smiles sweetly, then turns her attention back to me.

I lean toward her, lowering my voice self-consciously. “The whole thing sounds kind of sketchy. How much do even you know about him? I could end up dismembered.”

“I can’t reveal my sources,” she says. “I’m not even going to tell you his name—hence the anonymous part. But I will tell you this: he’s a perfect gentleman, well-bred with impeccable manners. Plus, he’s unspeakably hot.”

“If he’s so awesome, why would he be willing to go along with this?”

She gapes at me, indignant. “Men completely get this whole setup. It’s only women who struggle with it. Guys understand the power of isolating an encounter for maximum eroticism. Just because he’s open to a new, exciting experience doesn’t make him a sleaze.”

“Yeah. Okay. I see that.”

She stabs a strawberry with her fork and waves it at me. “Besides, you seriously need to get laid.”

“Hey!” I glance around, none too eager for the entire room to know I’m sexually deprived. “I’m fine being alone for now.”

“You are so far from fine, it’s not even funny. That little prick Derek messed with your head.”

She’s talking about Derek Ensler, this outdoor enthusiast I dated last year. Rock climbing was his religion. His idea of a romantic weekend away involved freeze-dried meals, backpacks and bouldering. Totally not me. When we broke up I burned every polar fleece item I owned. He ditched me for his personal trainer. Not the happiest chapter of my dating history.

“I’m over him,” I grumble, reluctant to rehash that mess.

“I know, but he left tangible scars. He’s almost as guilty as The Stick when it comes to damaging your self-esteem.” She chews the strawberry thoughtfully, then adds, “I think one night with a stranger who gets just how sexy you are would jump-start your confidence and kick you into high gear.”

I sigh. “Will you accept ‘I’ll think about it’?”

“No.” She laughs when she sees my pouty expression. “Okay! For now! But you’re going to say yes. I can feel it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her right now, but there’s no way I’ll ever agree to her scheme. A blind date’s bad enough, but a blind date with a guy who expects me to fulfill his every fantasy? After outdoorsy Derek and the ego-deflating setbacks at work, I’m barely ready to inch my way into the shallow end of the dating pool. Yet here’s Wanda, urging me to do a backflip off the high dive. As much as I’d like to support her new venture, I can’t be her lab rat this time. I’ll let her cool down a little, and if it comes up again I’ll give her a firm no. For now, let her think she’s worked her magic.

Chapter Five

Gioioso

“We’ve been courting Gioioso for way too long. We’re tired of dating, it’s time to commit.” Felicity looks unusually severe in her dark tailored suit. She paces around the conference room like a panther sizing up her prey. “This meeting is our big shot, and I don’t intend to blow it.”

It’s Wednesday morning, and Felicity’s gathered three creative teams around the table to brainstorm: Dylan and Luke, Carrie and Matt, Simon and me. Felicity is unusually tense, which in turn makes all of us twitchy. Also, she happens to be right about Gioioso. If we don’t land this account at the big pitch in two weeks, we’ve wasted months courting a client we’ll never work with, and that represents dollars we’ll never get back.

“So, what do we really know about Gioioso?” Felicity looks around expectantly, eyes wide.

Dylan, always confident in that jovial, frat boy way that makes me cringe, pipes up first. “Plus-size clothing for women, very upmarket.”

“And very Italian.” Carrie swings her blond bob flirtatiously. “Gioioso means ‘joyous.’”

“Also sometimes translates as ‘buxom.’” Luke’s eyes flit to me with a crooked smile.

Yes. Buxom. I got that from the Google Translate page, too. Cheerful fat girls. Just my thing. I notice Carrie shooting a furtive glance my way. She and Matt exchange a quick smile. Looks like I’m the elephant in the room. I sometimes wonder how I got hired here at all. Maybe it was a diversity mandate; they had to fill their fat-girl quota.

Carrie, always eager to get in on a private joke, adds slyly, “They have an extensive line of plus-size undergarments.”

Just in case anyone wasn’t already thinking about that fucking picture, now they are. Thanks, Carrie.

Felicity turns to Simon and me, eyebrows arched in expectation. “Thoughts?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking...” My throat seizes up the way it always does when I try to speak in front of a group. I clear it and start again. “The plus-size market needs a fresh approach. Most of the comparable clothing lines in the U.S. have a distinctly dowdy look. Totally unsexy.”

“It’s hard to make a size sixteen look remotely appealing, let alone sexy.” Felicity looks around at everyone, as if challenging us to disagree.

“Exactly.” Dylan, who backs up everything Felicity has ever uttered, nods solemnly.

Simon’s dark eyes dart to me quickly before focusing on Felicity. “What I think Ruby meant to say is that one possible concept here could be ‘big is beautiful.’”