Rolling her eyes, she turns her back on me. “Oh, lighten up, Finley. This whole being really rich thing has made you not really fun. And this talk is supposed to be about you, not me. Now go get dressed. We need to head downstairs in about ten minutes. We don’t want to leave them all waiting.”
“All? I thought you guys narrowed this down to a handful? How many guys are showing up to this thing, Farrah?” I demand, stomping my foot.
Ignoring me, she strides purposefully out of the bathroom, leaving me alone and silently fuming. This conversation may be over for now, but I have full intentions to finish it later tonight. After I fire Dax.
I SMOOTH DOWN the front of the long, flowy, floral-print dress I’m wearing and inhale a deep breath as the doors to the elevator open. Flanked by Farrah on my right, who’s dressed ready for a night on the town in her tight red minidress, and Fiona on my left, who is carrying an organized binder with all of the chosen participants’ information in one hand and a Burberry umbrella that she now carries with her everywhere in the other, our security team — which still includes Dax, for the time being — leads the three of us out into the elegant and spacious hotel lobby. Immediately, we’re submerged in a sea of gorgeous men, ranging in age from eighteen to forty, who are mingling amongst themselves while they waited and partaking liberally of the open bar. Over a hundred of them. And they all look like they’re here for the casting of America’s Most Beautiful Man.
The second my heels (ones Farrah bought and insisted I wear) clank against the white marble floor, all conversations come to a screeching halt as if our presence has been announced with heralding trumpets for the arrival of the Queen Mother herself. Every eye in the room hones in on us, and my stomach lurches up into my throat, blocking off any further breathing from taking place. I’m going to fucking kill Farrah.
Bodies part like the Red Sea as we make our way through the room, my heart thudding angrily against my ribcage the only sound I can hear. When I dare to steal a glance over at Farrah, it takes everything I have not to smack the smug grin and flirty expression off her face as she makes eye contact with nearly every guy we pass. My nostrils flare and my face heats up as the overwhelming desire to spin around in these stupid red-soled ankle-breakers and retreat to the safety and sanctuary of my temporary bedroom washes over me.
“Just wave and smile, Aunt Finley,” Fiona whispers, as she nudges my hip with her shoulder. “They’re all here to see and meet you. You’re the star of the show today.”
I look down at her precious little face, and the anger at her mother that was just bubbling inside of me subsides as I watch her pageant wave and proudly show off her snaggletoothed smile. Once again, I’m reminded of the love and effort my niece has put into this whole thing, and no matter what kind of fiasco it turns into, I don’t want her to think I’m unappreciative. Hell, maybe she’s right. Maybe I should keep more of an open mind about all of this, because there’s a good chance that Mr. Sexy Eyes will never surface.
Using more effort than should be needed, I force my mouth to turn up into something I hope resembles a friendly smile, but choose to forego the royal wave. Baby steps.
“Right over there is where we’re set up.” Farrah points toward a set of grandiose double doors labeled ‘Grand Ballroom,’ and once again, I battle the urge to smack her. So much for low-key.
“Farrah, what is this?” I hiss under my breath, as Matteo opens one of the doors and ushers us into a gigantic space that has been decorated to look like… a fairytale-themed prom?!
Complete with a DJ, spinning disco ball, banquet table covered with finger foods and a bowl of punch — that’s hopefully spiked — and a photo backdrop set up to look like a carriage in front of a vine-covered castle wall, I can only assume Fiona was in charge of decorations.
“What do you think of my design, Aunt Finley?” she squeals, confirming my suspicion, while spinning around in circles on the dance floor. “The lady let me pick everything out myself, even the menu!”
“It’s awesome, squirt,” I find myself replying, as I continue to stare at the elaborate decorations, wondering what in the hell I agreed to. “Looks like we’ve got enough food to feed an army though.”
She stops twirling and nods proudly. “Well, we’ve got seventy-seven guys confirmed to come, and I’m pretty sure at least two or three of them are in the army.”
Farrah sidles up next to me, rubbing her hands together as she waggles her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “I hope they wear their camisole uniforms. Those are hot.”
Both Fiona and I stare at her incredulously, causing her to throw her hands up in the air and shout, “What? I like a man in uniform. Sue me.”
“I should sue you for butchering the English language, is what I should do,” I mutter, turning away from her and heading toward where a table marked ‘Registration’ is set up on the far right side of the room.
The two of them follow close behind and Fiona immediately gets to work, setting her umbrella to the side as she removes the pictures and papers from her folder and stacks them in alphabetical order. Meanwhile, Farrah pulls a mirror and lipstick out of her clutch to darken her already pouty red lips. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she should be the one meeting all these guys, since she’s obviously way more into this than I am, but Fiona begins barking orders before I can get the words out.
“All right, Mummy, I’m going to need you to stand at the door and check in the blokes from the queue on this paper,” she explains, handing her a clipboard with a list of all of the guys who are supposed to be coming to meet me. “You’ll then send them over here to me, where I’ll make sure their picture matches what they submitted whilst asking them a few introductory questions to get a good first impression. If they pass my initial inspection, I’ll walk them over to that table over there,” she points across the big open space to where a single, small round table, draped in shimmery pink and purple material, sits in the opposite corner of the room, providing some sort of privacy, “where Aunt Finley will be.”
Fiona shifts her focus to me, and continues, “I’ve told everyone they’ll get approximately five minutes with you, but if you know sooner that it’s definitely not a match, you can end it whenever. Matteo will be off to the side and will escort them out the side door to receive their parting gift. If you really like one of them and want longer than five minutes, feel free to grab some food and chat, or dance, or take fun pictures together. We’ll wait until you’re finished to bring the next one in. At any point, if you think you’ve found The One and you’re ready to leave with him, just let me know, and you guys can go up to the room Mummy reserved for some one-on-one time to snog or shag or whatever else you want to do, and we will let the rest of the guys know you’ve made your match and they can go. Got it?”
My brain swims with so many questions, like what parting gifts and how does she know what snogging and shagging are, but like an idiot, hypnotized by the hope filling her bright blue eyes, I nod, and answer, “Got it.”
“Brilliant. Now, let’s find you your bloody Prince Charming, Cinderella.”
Finley
“HI, I’M FINLEY.” I hesitantly offer my hand while introducing myself as the first victim, I mean candidate, approaches the table.
“Samuel,” he replies, nearly crushing my fingers as he shakes my hand, then takes the seat opposite of me.
“Nice to meet you, Samuel. Are you from the area?”
“Yes.”
I wait to see if he’s going to elaborate, maybe about how long he’s lived here or what area of town he calls home, but all I get is a blank stare.
“Awesome. I just moved here a couple years ago to go to school. So… what do you do? Student? Work?”
“Musician.” Again, I wait for more to follow his initial response, but only get silence.
Swallowing hard, I nod my head and wonder if he’s just nervous or if he’s always got this much personality. I don’t want to dismiss the first guy in less than a minute,
so I keep on with the questions, hoping he’ll warm up.
“Cool. I, uh, I really like music.” Oh, my God, did that really just come out of my mouth? I sound like an idiot. “What instrument do you play?”
“Drums.”
Ooh, I wonder if Mr. Sexy Eyes plays an instrument. I remember how his large hands felt when he caught me as I fell in his lap. I’d be willing to bet his large fingers know how to strum the strings on a guitar… among other things.
“Drums, oh that’s cool. Are you currently in a band?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, of course you are.”
I glance down and see it’s now been two whole minutes. This is brutally awkward, more so than I ever could’ve imagined. I’m not even halfway through the first date and already wanting to bail on Single-Syllable Sammy. He’s definitely easy on the eyes; I’ll give my sister and niece that. A longhaired musician with tattoos covering his arms and striking green eyes, he’s the poster boy for the bad-boy rocker most girls love to try to tame. But bless his heart, that’s about all he’s got going for him.
Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I glimpse over at Fiona, who gives me a megawatt grin and a thumbs up, eliciting a muffled groan from me. I do not want to crush her tiny, fairy-tale-believing soul, so I decide to give it one more shot. Even though I just noticed his bizarrely long fingernails that are more than a little creepy.
“Nice,” I remark, taking a drink of the punch Matteo brought over for me before we started. Nope, definitely not spiked. Dammit. “So what kind of places do y’all play at?”
“Bars.”
Clearing my throat, I stand up abruptly and look over my shoulder at Matteo, shooting him a distressed plea for help with my gaze, then turn my attention back to Samuel. “Right, so… it was really nice to meet you. Thanks for coming. Matteo back there will show you the way out.”
His eyes cut to the hulk of a man I sense moving in close behind me. “Uh, was that five minutes already?”
So he can talk!
“No, but I think we’re all good here. I’m sure you’ve got somewhere else you need to be on a Saturday night…” I chuckle uncomfortably, “…like with your band… at a bar.”
He nods and laughs. “Yeah. Cool.” And then he leaves. Thank God.
The door doesn’t even shut behind him before Farrah and Fiona are flying toward me, both of them with arms crossed over their chests and confusion written all over their faces.
“Aunt Finley, that was absolute rubbish,” Fiona reprimands, the British accent coming out even stronger when she’s mad and shaking her finger at me. “You’re supposed to be talking to them, trying to get to know them!”
“I know, squirt, but I need someone who actually knows how to carry a conversation for that to happen. He was a dud.”
“A dud?” Farrah chimes in, flailing her arms in the air for no apparent reason. “Were you looking at the same guy that I just saw leave this room? He could’ve spoken Pig Latin and he still wouldn’t have been a dud!”
Inhaling a deep breath, I blow it out while counting backward from five, before responding, “I’m not sure what in the hell Pig Latin has to do with anything, but the guy had no personality, Farrah.”
“Well, maybe you asked bad questions,” she spits. “Maybe you need to try harder with the next one.”
I laugh, because there’s really nothing else I can do. “Yeah, sure, Far. I’ll simply try harder. Send in the next victim. Maybe he’ll actually be able to construct a three-word sentence.”
She pivots on her toe and clomps off toward the door, with Fiona following closely behind. I collapse back onto the uncomfortable plastic chair and close my eyes, wondering why no one has created a time machine yet. I’m deathly afraid of flying on airplanes, but right about now, I think I’d take my chance in Doc Brown’s DeLorean if it could simply propel me to tomorrow and out of this ludicrous, nonsensical mess.
Please, someone save me.
But my pleas fall on deaf ears, because before I know it, the door swings open and a guy wearing painted on jeans, boots, a cowboy hat, and a belt buckle bigger than my head walks in. And I’m pretty sure those are real spurs on his heels. Oh, good God.
After a few brief minutes of talking to Fiona, the cowboy makes his way over to where I am, his boots echoing loudly throughout the ballroom with every bowlegged step. I suck in a deep breath and plaster a smile on my face then stand to greet him.
“Hi, I’m Finley. It’s nice to meet you.”
He treats me to a wide, face-splitting grin that makes his eyes almost disappear into his cheeks as he shakes my hand. “Howdy, little lady. I’m Tex. And ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“Um, thank you.” I think?
As we both take our seats, I opt to let him start the conversation this time, hoping maybe that will bode for a better conversation than the first guy. But after thirty seconds or so of him just staring at me with that goofy grin on his face, I finally speak.
“So, Tex, tell me a little bit about yourself,” I prompt, almost scared of the answer.
“Well, uh, gee… let’s see. I’m originally from Texas. That there’s how I got my name,” he explains the obvious. “Been cattle ranching up here in the California for a couple years now, I reckon. When I’m not working the cows, I like to ride horses, shoot guns, and,” he winks, then allows his gaze to drop down to my chest, as he adds, “roll around in the hay as often as I can, if you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I do know what he means. And I’m really not interested in any of those things. Especially the hay part. Unless it involves Mr. Sexy Eyes, of course. I can definitely see getting dirty with him.
“Wow, sounds very… outdoorsy.”
“Oh, yes-sir-ee-Bob. Love to be outside with my animals as much as possible. Don’t even own one of them boobtube thingamajigs. Damn things just rot your brain,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Looking for a woman who wants to ride with me all day then ride me all night. Nothing sexier than a lady who knows how to use a crop.”
Right. This is another big, fat no. I twist slightly in my chair and catch Matteo’s eye then give him the come-save-me look again. Thankfully, he understands and moves quickly.
“Well, Tex,” I say, pushing up from my chair and extending my hand, “thanks so much for coming. Good luck with your animals and finding your crop-wielding woman. Matteo here will show you the way out.”
Confusion washes over his face as he looks over at the man who is waiting to escort him out. “But… that’s it? We ain’t gonna talk more? I still gotta tell you about the baby goats I just got. I know you’re gonna love them.”
I shake my head and scrunch up my nose. “No, sorry. I’m really not much of an outdoorsy girl, unless it involves frozen fruity umbrella drinks in my hand while I’m laying out at a pool or on a beach. And I can’t live without my TV, so it’s definitely not going to work for us, cowboy.”
Accepting defeat like a gentleman, Tex tips his hat at me and smiles. “Well, good luck to you, sugar britches. You’re quite a looker. Gonna make some man mighty happy one day.”
I wish that man was my Mr. Sexy Eyes.
“Thank you,” I say, as he follows Matteo out. Then I prepare myself for the next guy that I’ll be saying no to in the next five minutes.
Date number three, a professional hockey player, ends when he asks me my views on open marriage. Date number four, a research assistant, gets the boot when he asks if I can fully fund the production of his latest invention. And date number five, a marketing executive, doesn’t make it past the first minute when he asks if I’ve brought my investment portfolio for him to review. And he had such potential when he first sat down and I noticed he wore the same watch as Mr. Sexy Eyes. Shame.
A dozen more misses pass in front of me. Several are normal but there’s just no chemistry like a cute artist named Max and a bartender named Rory. However, most are absolute no’s from the word go, including a poet with cats named after the band me
mbers of Creed, a captain in the Army that cracks his knuckles nonstop, but at least he has on his camisole — camouflage, dammit Farrah — uniform, which I’m sure made my sister happy. Then a personal trainer who promised to help firm up my “soft, cushy” parts, and a fireman, who after assuring me he knows exactly how to use his hose, asked if my kitty needed to be rescued. Ummm… that’s a big, fat no.
Once Freaky Firefighter Fred leaves, I call out to my niece and sister, “Hey, guys! Can we take a quick break? I need to go to the bathroom and grab a snack.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Fiona answers, with a wave of her hand. “I need to shuffle around the schedule and bring in some of my favorites. This first batch was Mummy’s picks.” She slashes an I-told-you-so look at Farrah, and then glances back down at her list. “But I’ve got a couple that I think might light your knickers on fire as soon as you see them.”
“Can we please not discuss my knickers?” I shout back. “Like ever.”
Farrah snickers as she saunters over to join me at the food table, snatching a mini grilled cheese sandwich. “What about your superpower hoo-ha-dilly?”
I glare at her through slit eyes. “Don’t even start with that shit again,” I mutter under my breath. “And what were you thinking with some of those guys? The cowboy? Really? Do you even know me at all?”
Shrugging casually, she finishes chewing the bite in her mouth, then retorts, “Yes, but great goobly-woobly, did you see the way those Wranglers hugged his ass just right? That thing should be made into a bronze sculpture. Or maybe even a silver one.”
“No, Farrah, I didn’t,” I growl, refraining from asking what kind of tooshie earns a gold rating. “I was too busy listening to him talk about how he wants a woman to ride him and spank him with a riding crop after he shows her his baby goats, to ask him to do a damn modeling show for me so I could check out his ass.”
“He likes to be spanked and he has baby goats?” Unmistakable excitement sparkles in her dark eyes as her lips curl into a wicked grin. She tosses her napkin in the trashcan then spins around and takes off through the exit door of the ballroom, yelling, “Wait up, Tex! Don’t leave yet!”