Meg Cabot - Boy Meets Girl

But Mitch. Mitch made me scampi. Shrimp scampi.

And it was good. The scampi, I mean. Really, really good. He says he went to cooking camp as a kid (Cooking camp! Apparently no one in his family was very thrilled with the idea . . . they wanted him to go to soccer camp with his brother Stuart. But Mitch says he was more interested in scoring pies than goals).

Anyway, he’s in the kitchen now, making dessert. He won’t tell me what it is. I sincerely hope it involves chocolate.

But that’s not why I’m freaking out. The dessert thing, I mean. And the-having-a-guy-cook-for-me thing.

No, it’s the fact that he just told me that he USED TO BE A PUBLIC DEFENDER.

It’s true. He only came to work for his father’s company because his dad had a heart attack, and then bypass surgery, and he begged Mitch to keep an eye on things at the firm while he was recovering.

Apparently, a large part of the recovery process for Mr. Hertzog is playing golf with his buddies in Arizona.

But whatever. The point is, Mitch isn’t really a soulless corporate drone. He has never embraced big business and is in fact looking forward to getting back to work down at the criminal courts.

Where he apparently defends those who can’t afford to pay for their own lawyer.

And the thing is, Mitch could get a job anywhere. He doesn’t HAVE to be a public defender. He does it—well, probably for the same reason I became a social worker . . .

To make a difference.

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP FROM LIKING HIM???? More than liking him, even.

He got me fired . He got me fired because he doesn’t like his brother’s girlfriend.

And I still totally want to jump his bones. I KNOW! There is something severely wrong with me.

Seriously. Because—oh my God—he’s so perfect. I mean, he COOKS, and he VOLUNTEERS, and he WANTS TO HELP PEOPLE. . . . God, even his apartment is perfect. I mean, it’s clearly a GUY’s apartment, and it’s a little messy—baseball caps stuffed in amongst the paperback mystery novels on the bookshelves; University of Michigan basketball season schedules lying around on the coffee table; a copy of Playboy peeking out from beneath the couch where he obviously recently shoved it.

But it’s a beautiful apartment, one he inherited from his dead grandfather, two bedrooms (he uses one as an office and a guest room for when his nieces and nephew come to stay, he says) and two bathrooms—1800 square feet with a balcony overlooking the East River. He owns, which is good, because the rent on a place like this would be five grand a month at least. Maybe even more, because there’s a health club in the building. The maintenance alone has to be at least fifteen hundred a month.

And he’s got three TVs, one of them at least a 42-incher (for watching the games, he says).

And okay, all the furniture is brown: brown couch, brown armchair, brown place mats on the dining-room table, even brown sheets (I peeked on the way to the bathroom) on his bed.

But I could fix that. I mean, I watch Trading Spaces, I know how a few well-placed slipcovers can brighten up a space. . . .

OH MY GOD, WHAT AM I THINKING?

Professor Wingblade would be appalled. I mean, he always told us we have to develop a relationship based on trust and mutual harmony before we can—

OH MY GOD, HE’S GOT TIVO!!!!!! I just found the remote, wedged in between the sofa cushions. TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who had TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who owned his own TV. I mean, I bought the one Dale and I—

Wait. I need to get a grip. Yes, Mitch seems like he might—in spite of the whole getting me fired thing—be a great guy. And yes, he has a great apartment.

But, even though he used to be a public defender, right now he’s making five hundred dollars an hour defending corporate giants from the likes of little Mrs. Lopez, who has never hurt anyone (who didn’t deserve it, anyway).

And he’s so cavalier about the whole thing, he got me fired. FIRED!!!!

Besides which, I have a lot of problems right now. I can’t be jumping into a romantic relationship with someone I’ve only just met. I need to find a job, and an apartment, and a sense of purpose to my life. Professor Wingblade said that you can never truly love anyone until you learn to love yourself, and the truth is, I am finding it very hard to love myself since I got fired. Not that I define myself through my work. It’s just that . . . without my work, who AM I? What is my purpose here on earth? I want to make a difference and help people, but no one will seem to LET ME. So if I can’t do what I was put on this earth to do, WHY AM I EVEN HERE????

And seriously, supposing something DOES develop between Mitch and me. How am I going to introduce him to people? “Oh, this is my boyfriend, funny story: He’s the one who got me fired?”

Um, that will not exactly endear him to my social set, if you know what I mean.

But, oh my God, he has such really nice lips! Mitch, does, I mean. What’s a public defender doing with lips like that? It’s not FAIR!!! I was looking at Mitch’s mouth all through dinner, when he was telling me about the year he took off to travel around the world. And his lips really are very beautifully shaped. They look like they’d be really . . . strong. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s weak lips. But no need to worry about Mitch’s. I have a feeling those lips of his could make a girl forget all about being destitute and homeless . . . and quite a few other things, as well—

Damn. The Praying Mantis. I forgot about the Praying Mantis! Are they dating? Are they just friends? What is up between the two of them? Why didn’t I remember to ask over dinner? God, if he’s seeing her, I will just have to KILL MYSELF. How can I compete with an Ingres-like praying mantis in designer duds, especially when I can barely afford control-top pantyhose?

What the hell. I don’t want to have a relationship with a lawyer. Do I?

Oh my God, I just peeked into the kitchen, and he made braised pears in chocolate sauce for dessert . Braised pears in chocolate sauce with VANILLA HA¨AGEN-DAZS for dessert—

HOW IS ANY WOMAN SUPPOSED TO RESIST THIS MAN?

Journal of Kate Mackenzie

Oh my God! This is HORRIBLE!!!! I was right! I was right! About his lips, I mean! They are VERY strong!

This is AWFUL. His lips are so strong, I am practically melting into the couch. Oh, WHY did I kiss him? WHY WHY WHY???? I do NOT need to be falling in love right now—particularly not with a lawyer!

It’s all my fault, though. We were just enjoying our braised pears in chocolate sauce when suddenly something, I don’t know what, came over me. I think it was when he was talking about his nieces and how he was teaching them to speak Japanese (for instance, that bacca means “stupid”) and one of them asked how Japanese people could understand each other when they were all speaking this foreign language, and then one said to the other, “Because they were BORN speaking it, ya bacca!”

And something inside of me just snapped, and I HAD to jump on him and start kissing him, I just had to, Praying Mantis be damned!

And oh my God, he looked so surprised. But kind of happy, too.

And I was right. I was SO right. He has really, really strong lips, and he kisses like he means it, and we must have been kissing for like half an hour, because all the ice cream melted. But that’s not all that melted, because I swear to God I think I am now one with my control-top panty hose, which I had to wear because the dress I borrowed from Dolly is so tight my stomach was pooching out in front, and now I think got so hot from all the kissing that my skin has become grafted to the Lycra, and thank God Mitch excused himself when he did, or there might possibly have been a small thermal nuclear reaction in the vicinity of my crotch, and now if I can just peel these stupid things off without him coming back while I’m doing it, maybe he won’t ever know I was wearing control-top hose in the first place.