Jennifer Probst - Searching for Perfect

“No, no. I work on rocket ships. Well, I work on prototypes. Research stuff. I don’t own one.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I like to fly places. How about a jet? Do you own one of those?”

He tried to focus, but the conversation was heading into twilight zone territory and a full minute hadn’t even gone by. “Uh, I’m sorry, I don’t. I have a car.”

She lit up. “I love hot cars. Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Hummers. Did you see that movie The Fast and the Furious ? They had some really hot cars.”

“No, I missed out on that film.”

“Do you smell that?” She crinkled her nose and glanced around. “Is that cologne?”

“I guess some guy put on too much.”

“Ick, I hate when that happens.”

“Me, too.”

Unfortunately, she refocused on the original bizarre conversation. “A man’s car tells a lot about him. People cite that horoscope junk all the time, but they don’t realize that the choice of vehicle really defines a person.”

“I don’t think I realized how important it was.”

“What type of car do you drive, Ned?”

“A Tesla. It won the award for the safest car in America and has zero emissions. The cutting edge of efficiency and cost savings.”

She sighed. “I drive a Mitsubishi convertible Eclipse in cherry red. I don’t think I can date or respect a man who drives an economy vehicle. We just won’t have the compatible energy needed in a relationship, especially in the bedroom.” She gave him a sunny smile. “Nice to meet you, though.”

Ding.

Already a little shaken, Ned rose and made his way to the next table. A tall brunette with glasses studied him carefully and waited for the timer to begin. “I’m Sandra. I’m an elementary school teacher, divorced, no children, and live by myself.”

Ned relaxed when she paused. This, he could handle. An intelligent, direct conversation to discover if there was any chemistry or connection. “Hi, I’m Ned. I work as an engineer and I’ve never been married.”

“Do you have issues?”

He laughed, enjoying her sense of humor, and then realized she was frowning at him and dead serious. “Oh. Probably. Doesn’t everyone have issues?”

“I don’t. You have a stain on your shirt.”

He swiped at it and blocked it with his arm. “Sorry. I was rushing out of the lab and running late.”

She pointed a finger at him. “You’re a workaholic.”

He shifted in his chair. “I do work a lot, but I’m looking to change that. Do you—do you enjoy your job?”

“Not really. The Common Core stuff wrecked everything, the sixth graders are hormonal and impossible to control, and they want to take away most of our benefits.”

“I’m sorry. Are you thinking of switching careers?”

“In this economy?” She looked at him as if his lab coat had suddenly caught fire. “No way. I have to deal with it, so I made a schedule to keep conflict to a minimum. Get pregnant in eighteen months so I can extend my leave to a full year. Have the second child exactly fourteen months later, so they’re close in age. But I don’t want to deal with any workaholics. My father was one, and my parents ended up divorced. Have you always been selfish?”

“Huh? No, if I had a family, I wouldn’t work as much. Let me ask you—”

“Sorry, I’m not taking a risk with you. I think our time is up.”

Ding.

At table eleven, he knocked over his partner’s cocktail and stained her pretty red dress. At table twelve, he met a catalog model who dismissed him immediately and gave him a lecture on the perils of skin cancer from sunbathing. He drained his bad wine, but there was no time to get another because those five minutes dragged on endlessly and melded into another session more horrifying than the last.

Finally, at table fifteen, he scored.

Debra had a sweet smile, long red hair, and a milky white complexion. He introduced himself. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ned. Meeting people is so hard nowadays, we’re reduced to embarrassing ways to find one another.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes, I agree. Though I’m surprised you would have any problems.”

She laughed and ducked her head. “Thanks. So, instead of asking a bunch of inane questions for five minutes, I composed a few fun ways to see what personality types we are.”

“Very creative.” He’d read about this in Cosmopolitan magazine and completed dozens of surveys regarding the type of man women truly craved. His skin tingled with excitement. “Ask away.”

“Wonderful!” She drew out a stack of index cards and shot him a playful expression. “Question one, what type of first date would you take me on to impress me?”

Yes. He knew this one cold. He tried to keep the triumph out of his face. “I’d take you to the New York Public Library in Manhattan and find out what type of books you like to read. Then have a picnic in the park afterward.”

Disappointment gleamed in her brown eyes. “Oh. A library is free, Ned. And a picnic is cheap. No limo? Broadway play? How about the revolving restaurant on top of the Marriott Marquis? Are you afraid to spend money on a woman?”

What was she talking about? Cosmo always said a man needed to be romantic. Unique. Money didn’t impress; thoughtfulness and originality did. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. How about your next question?”

She perked back up and slid to her next note card. “If you were to compliment one part of me, what would that be?”

This one he knew! Marie Claire talked about it constantly. “Your smile,” he said.

Her lower lip kicked out. “Are you kidding me? Do I work out at the gym twenty-four-seven so you can comment on my teeth?”

His ears roaring, he blinked in sheer confusion. This could not be happening. The last time he took Connor’s advice and commented on a woman’s body, he’d gotten a drink thrown in his face. “I didn’t think women liked when men did that.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous, we live for it.”

Ned made a mental note to go back to bodily compliments. “Do I get one more shot?”

“Last one. This is the most important. If we got in a fight, how would you apologize?”

Finally. There was no way to get this one wrong. “I’d tell you straight out I was sorry and that I’d work on fixing what I can so we don’t have the same issue in the future.” Hello, Self magazine. Communication and stating a verbal apology was a number one priority with women.

Debra stuffed her cards into her purse and gave him a look. “Why the hell would I care if you’re sorry? Actions speak louder than words. I want jewelry. Sorry, Ned, you’re just not for me.”

Ding.

By the time he hit table twenty, he was aggravated, tired, thirsty, and disillusioned. Most cared about his appearance, money, or man toys, and all he wanted to do was get serious and leave all the junk behind. Despite weeks of reading women’s magazines, he’d flunked every five-minute session.

Finally, he reached the last date. The woman seemed nice enough, but he’d been here before. No more. This time, he was running the date his way.

“Hi, I’m Bernadette.”

He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, and narrowed his gaze. “Hi, I’m Ned. When will you be ready to be married and have kids?”

The woman jerked back. She seemed shocked, but he bet she was just pretending. He hadn’t met a female without an agenda this whole night. “Umm, I’m not sure. I want to be in love with the right person. Then marriage and kids can come later.”

Hmm, good answer. Ned raised the stakes. “How long? A month? Two? You’re already past thirty, and statistics show once your eggs reach thirty-five, your fertility starts declining, and chances of a healthy baby decrease by forty percent.”