Chapter 8
EIGHT
JOSH
If nothing else, tonight is doing wonders for my creativity. I scribble another note on the back of one of the questionnaires, grinning to myself as the woman across from me drones on about her eight kids.
“Are you even listening?” she asks, her tone sharp.
“Yeah, sorry.” I set my pen down and focus. “Did you say they go to school?”
“Oh no, they’re all homeschooled.” She plays with the straw in her glass, swirling it in a way I assume is meant to be seductive. Unfortunately it results in liquid splashing over the side of the glass.
“That must keep you busy—planning lessons and whatnot.”
She laughs, tapping my hand. “No, silly. The trainer takes care of that.”
I blink, trying to process. “Trainer?”
She giggles, stirring the straw again. “Of course.”
I frown, struggling to follow. “Not a teacher?”
“Well, I guess you could call her that. She teaches them tricks and whatnot. But really, she’s responsible for making sure—”
“Hold up. Tricks?” I lean forward. “Are we talking about human kids or…?”
She blinks at me. “Well, they’re my children, but no. They’re Sphynx cats.”
“The hairless ones?”
She nods, beaming. “You’ll love them. They’re so—”
The airhorn blasts, signalling the next move.
Thank God.
Crazy Cat Woman winks at me. “Make sure you preference me, stud.”
I force a weak smile, standing and heading to the next table.
Well, that’s too weird, even for Hollywood.
A quick glance tells me I only have one table left before I reach the end of this bizarre night and my real goal—Molly.
I settle into the chair at the next table, offering a hand to the woman across from me.
“Hi, I’m Josh.”
“Elena.” She gives me a demure smile. If I had to describe her to a costume department, I’d say stereotypical librarian—complete with horn-rimmed glasses and a string of pearls.
She holds out a hand expectantly.
“Uh, here.” I tear my sheet off the clipboard and hand it to her.
She glances down and frowns. “It’s handwritten.”
“Yeah, I was a last-minute addition, so I’ll need it back—it’s my only copy.” I flip her sheet on the clipboard to read her answers. “Says here you like football. What type?”
She places my questionnaire on the table and gives me another warm smile. “What kind do you like?”
“I mean, if I’ve got a choice, soccer’s my preference. The games are interesting, you know?”
She giggles prettily, and I find myself relaxing.
“You like children?” Elena asks, leaning forward.
“Of course. Kids are hilarious.”
Her smile freezes. “Hilarious?”
I rest my arms on the table. “Yeah. They’re like tiny drunk dictators running around unpoliced. What’s not to love about them?”
“Unpoliced?”
“Well, within reason. I mean, you can’t force a kid to wear shoes if they don’t want to. But you can bribe them.” I add a wink.
Shit. Lolly’s winking disease must be catching. Is this the first sign of neurological decay? Is this how serial killers start?
Elena shakes her head, giving me a disappointed pout. “Oh, Joshua.”
I wince, suddenly feeling thirteen again. No one, and I mean no one, but my mother calls me Joshua.
“Children require discipline, structure, and boundaries. Without those core principles, they turn into unruly hooligans.”
Hooligans?
Elena leans forward, playing with her pearls. “You want us to have well-behaved children, don’t you?”
“I…”
What the fuck is happening right now? When did I agree to have kids with this woman?
I clear my throat. “I mean, sure? If by ‘us’ you mean society in general, then yeah.”
She reaches across the table, laying a hand on my arm, her fingers tracing slow circles over my skin.
“But, Joshua, can’t you see how beautiful our children would be?”
The airhorn blows.
“Tiha’na Ahlemna,” I mutter, pulling my arm free and practically launching myself out of the chair. “Bye, Elena.”
“Talk soon, Joshua,” she calls after me.
I hotfoot it over to Molly, waiting impatiently as the man at her table takes his sweet time leaving. ]
“Just remember, put me first, doll.” The guy winks at Molly, and the smug look on his face makes me want to slap him into next week.
She gives him her generic polite smile—the one reserved for donors she can’t stand. It warms my heart.
“Have a great night, Ricky.”
I pull the chair out and drop into it with a huff. “This shit is wild, Pahe.”
“Tell me about it.” She nods at the clipboard. “Have you read my sheet?”
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at her. “Should I?”
“Please do.” The corners of her mouth lift slightly.
I pull off Kid-Crazy Librarian’s sheet and glance through Molly’s.
“You know, I’m not into dino erotica, but Transformer porn is pretty addictive.”
Molly snickers.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a dominatrix, but I like what I see, Mistress Archer. I bet Ricky loved that one.”
Her snicker turns into giggles.
“Wait, you too wrote llamas?” I hold up a hand for a high five. “Llama-mia, I think we’re soulmates.”
She slaps my palm, now full-on laughing.
I tap the sheet. “You wrote this as a dummy submit, right?”
She nods, still chuckling. “I got sent the link, and I thought I’d fill it out as a joke before sending it to Bess. It accidentally submitted instead.”
“Ouch.” I glance back at the sheet. “You know, we have a surprising number of similarities.”
“Really?”
I pull off my sheet and hand it over. “Have a look.”
She reads my answers, laughing at my nonsense. “You really did put down llamas.”
I shrug, grinning at her amusement. “They’re adorable and sassy. What’s not to like?”
Kind of like you.
“Your perfect date is baseball, a movie, and lots of food?” She glances up, giving me her famous eyebrow lift. “That’s a long date.”
“Baseball to judge smack-talk, a movie because I could never date a screen-talker, and food because I want the conversation but also want someone who actually eats—salad pickers aren’t for me.”
Molly grins. “A screen-talker?”
“You know, those people who talk in a movie.” I clutch at my chest, putting on a high-pitched voice. “’Oh no! Don’t go in there! Stop! Stop!’”
She shakes her head, handing back my sheet. “We’re ill-suited then. I’m a total screamer.”
“That’s what she said.” I wink.
Fuck. Definitely catching.
Molly groans. “Damn, I walked right into that.”
“You really did.” I lean forward, smirking. “But seriously, I can get over the talking in a movie. I mean, I’ve put up with your brother.”
“Ugh, he really is the worst. The. Worst. At least I only do it occasionally. It’s like Sam thinks he’s another character.”
“Makes it easy when we need to do director commentary—I just sit him in a room and press record.”
She laughs, her head tossing back, hair flying. I watch her breasts bounce, and my cock immediately stirs.
Ahlemna, I’m going to hell.
I shift in my chair, trying to focus on her smile instead. It’s her “joy” smile—the one she only gives out when she’s actually happy.
Fuck. I’m a useless sap. Maybe I really am romance crazy.
“Who’s your top pick of the night?” I ask.
Her face falls, lips twisting into a grimace. “You.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I keep my tone light, fighting the urge to fist-bump the air in triumph.
She laughs, but it sounds exasperated. “Do you know how hard it is to find love?”
“If this were a movie, that could be your tagline.” I lift my hands, pretending to show a movie title. “’In the greatest city in the world, love shouldn’t be this hard to find.’”
“This would be one of those movies where I have to move to the country or something, right?”
“Christmas is only five months away. And if you miss that boat, I’m sure you could easily pull off an Easter miracle.”
“Is that a sub-genre of movies I’ve somehow missed?”
“God, I hope so.” I chuckle, imagining the movie. “Picture it: Chars gearing up for its annual chocolate onslaught. She’s a chocolatier. He’s…” I frown, drawing a blank.
“He’s a baker,” Molly offers, leaning forward, her eyes dancing. “They’re business rivals—pitted against each other. He’s got the hot cross buns, she’s got the chocolate eggs.”
“But what’s the conflict?” I ask.
Molly’s brow furrows as she considers how to torture our characters. “They’re competing for something.”
I snap my fingers. “Best Easter window display. The prize from the city is ten thousand—which is just what’s needed to pay off his—”
“Her,” Molly interrupts.
“Her,” I correct, “debts.”
“Why does he want to win?”
I glance around, pretending to think. “Renovations. He wants to expand the distribution of his baked goods. He wants to go international.”
“Yes! A down-on-her-luck businesswoman versus a ruthless baker. Who will come out on top?”
“We end with the bakery and chocolatier combining and—”
“Chocolate hot cross buns!” Molly claps her hands together excitedly.
“You, Pahe, read my mind.”
We beam at each other across the table.
“So, about that dat—”
The airhorn blares, cutting me off. Lolly waves from her perch on the table, getting the crowd’s attention.
“We now have round two. Those seated on this side”—she waves at our section—“go and take a seat at the table of those seated on this side.” She waves at the far end of the room.
“As for the rest of you, stay where you are. We’re starting round two, and then you’ll decide who will be your final date! Don’t forget to grab your new clipboards from the registration table. We’ll begin in five minutes.” She does a little fist pump, yelling, “Let’s get Speedy!”
“Oh Lordy.” Molly stands, looking pained. “This is what I imagine hell to be.”
“No, Pahe. Hell is less painful.”
She chuckles, heading for the registration table.
The next round goes much like the first—plenty of crazies, a few desperados, and a couple of women I’d probably date in another life if Molly wasn’t here.
The final horn sounds, and I hand in my paper. Only one name graces my preference sheet—the one that matters.
Molly.
Make this count.