Kathleen O'Reilly - Breakfast At Bethany's

The waiter came by, and Spencer shook his head. Annoying toady. Then he checked his watch, but it’d only been thirty seconds since the last time he’d looked.

Finally he took out his notebook and began to jot down some ideas for his piece. Humiliating. Soft news. As the result of a misguided bet—Spencer had said the Cubs would win the pennant—he was now working in Tempo, that is, the lifestyle section. Fashion, gossip and food. Fluff.

It wouldn’t earn him a Scripps-Howard Award like the article he’d done on corruption in the Chicago unions, but his editor seemed to think the feature profile on the age of Internet dating would be picked up by the AP.

The impersonality of the personal ad. Not just for the lovelorn, it was now part of the mainstream. Singles didn’t congregate in bars like packs of blathering hyenas, they sat alone in their bedrooms instead, with just the dim light of the computer screen to keep them warm. In short, it was a lot like his own life.

Lost in his thoughts, he found the words began to flow. When the hostess arrived at the table, he almost told her off—until he saw the ash blonde standing next to her.

Pretty, somewhat shy, but with an innocence in her blue eyes. Ingenue—not that he believed in them anymore. They’d gone the way of the dodo, but still there was an artlessness and honesty there that made her unique.

The perfect subject. Inspiration sent his pulse racing. How hard could it be to convince her to let him write about all the excruciatingly painful details of her love life?

Then he stood up and held out his hand in a businesslike manner. She smiled back at him, an open expression in the cerulean eyes.

Absolutely perfect.

SPENCER JAMES WASN’T QUITE the SWM she’d been expecting. Age? He looked to be thirtyish, not the fifty-two-year-old that seemed more likely. Hair substance? Not balding. His blond locks looked inviting and thick, the streaks of brown giving it just the right touch to spoil the pretty-boy image. Much dishevelment potential there.

When he’d stood up, she’d gotten an eyeful of the bod. Muscles. Height. No paunch or spare tire visible. Good clothes sense. Black open-necked shirt and slacks. Casual, elegant.

After the waiter brought their drinks, Spencer started on the pre-dinner conversation. Refreshingly enough, he didn’t waste time with small talk, he simply began asking her questions. At first it was jolting, the way he fired them like a sharpshooter, but then she relaxed and began to enjoy herself. He didn’t seem to worry about pretenses or social niceties, he merely seemed curious, asking her multitudes of things, most pertaining to the dating process.

A newbie, she thought to herself. And so she did her best to educate him.

When he took a sip of wine, she took advantage of the momentary lapse to ask him some questions of her own.

“Do you live with your family?” she asked, wondering what his issues were. Every man that she’d met so far had issues, and this man in front of her was just too, too perfect.

He shook his head, looking puzzled. “No. Patricide is frowned on in our family.”

What an odd sense of humor. Only the tiny crinkles in the corners of his eyes gave him away.

“So, Spencer James, what do you do with your daytime hours?” Mentally she rolled her eyes. She’d be asking his sign next. So far she was enjoying herself too much, and the lust factor was running off the charts.

There had to be a catch.

“I’m a journalist,” he said, his fingers twisting on the wineglass. “In fact, I’m working on a story right now.”

Beth nodded politely, and reminded herself to keep quiet about the sixteen articles she’d sold to True Fantasies. She picked up her glass of chardonnay—according to the weight guide, 2 points—and gave him an “isn’t-that-nice?” smile.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to help?” he asked, his eyes sharper now. The smoky-gray was metamorphing into granite. Solid granite, not that faux stuff you found on countertops.

“I actually don’t know what I could possibly do to help,” she began.

But he cut her off. “Internet dating. I want to follow a subject through the bits and bytes of finding a mate via computer. It’s fascinating and the public would love to read about it.”

The lightbulb flashed and her heart sank into her toes. So there was a crack in his facade, after all. This was one big research project for him. He was probably married. “You’re not even single, are you?” she asked sadly.

“Actually, I am. But I’m not interested in experiencing the process myself. I really just want to write about it. Ascertain if Internet dating is used because of the lack of free time to investigate more accepted means, or if it’s still the modus of last resort.”

“You just want to study us poor, pitiful schmiels who are forced into it?” she said, blinking her eyelashes innocently.

“Exactly.” Then he grimaced, with a foot-in-mouth expression. Beth was cheered by that bit of token humanness. He seemed so detached about everything else.

“No, not exactly,” he corrected, but then he leaned in, all conspiratorial-like. “But I want to be candid with you. I want to know if the schmiel-factor is still there.”

Beth started to gather her things, feeling the blush high on her cheeks. “I’m not the right candidate for you.”

He stopped her with a hand to her arm. “You’re the perfect candidate.”

That was soooo exactly the wrong thing to say. Camel straws, dam stoppage, end-of-the-ropeness. She was no longer going to be stepped on and smile prettily about it.

She was going to grow teeth. No, fangs. Fangs were even deadlier. Beth smiled at him and tossed her head. “What do I get out of this?” Oh, that was good.

“I could pay you.”

Not enough, buckaroo. Not for a zillion dollars. “No, thank you.” She swung her purse onto her shoulder, narrowly missing his eye. Beth had great purse aim. He was just lucky she wasn’t really ticked off.

“I could help you,” he said, a hint of charm in his voice.

Now that was more interesting. She stopped. Her eyes wandered over him as if he were a six-foot Hershey bar. “How?” she asked, quirking a brow. Actually, quirking two, because she couldn’t do one yet.

“You want to meet men, right?”

She narrowed her eyes and nodded.

“Your ad needs revising. I can do that.”

“What’s wrong with my ad?”

“It’s not vibrant enough. You need to add some punch, some color.”

Her newly installed gullibility meter started beeping. “How do you know about ads? I thought you were above computer dating?”

He shrugged, calling attention to his well-defined chest muscles. He probably didn’t even have to exercise. She was really starting to hate this guy. “I’ve done my research for the story. Words are my life,” he answered. “What do you say?”

“I want a guarantee.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, because obviously he didn’t live in her new, improved, tough-as-nails world.

“I want dates from this. Great dates. Or the deal’s off.” Then she leaned on the table, letting the candlelight reflect favorably on her cheekbones. All in all, it was a great moment. “Besides, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove that computer dating isn’t for losers?” Like me, she almost added. “That’s not interesting. You want to write something groundbreaking. An evolution in the courtship ritual. Maybe coin a new word for the dictionary.”

A less refined man would be drooling, but even Mr. Savoir Faire couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes. “I’ll get you great dates. If I can’t write a good singles ad, then I’m in the wrong business.”

Success. The night was looking up. Beth sat down, satisfied with her negotiation skills. Not bad for a beginner. Of course, you should never underestimate a Von Meeter when it came to negotiation.