Perfect Strangers

“How so?”

“For starters, you’re gorgeous. Everyone stares at you, even men.”

“Thank you, but I don’t see the difference.”

“Okay, I’m not trying to be coy now, this isn’t like when someone tells a supermodel she’s beautiful and she goes all bashful and says something outrageously false like, ‘Oh, I’m just an average girl. I’m totally plain without all this makeup.’ I have no illusions about my looks. I’ve got a great head of hair, my teeth are good, my figure is generally in proportion, but—”

“I think you’re stunning,” James interrupts. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the first time I saw you. In fact, I’ve never been as attracted to a woman before.”

I allow that to wash over me for a moment. I let the sheer pleasure of those words to settle over my shoulders and wake up a sleeping swarm of butterflies in my stomach who flit ecstatically all around.

Here’s the thing: if he’d said, “You’re stunning,” as a statement of fact, I could refute it with facts, like the list I was about to give him of all my physical shortcomings.

But you can’t argue with “I think you’re stunning,” because then it’s a matter of personal taste.

After a rough throat clearing, I offer a weak protest. Because maybe I am fishing for compliments, just a little bit.

“I’m almost old.”

He shoots back with an irritated, “The finest bottle of wine is almost old. And by the way, that age bullshit is an American thing. In Europe, women are considered sexy at all ages. For that matter, in all shapes and sizes, too. Beauty and desirability have nothing to do with the number on your birth certificate or scale. The United States of Advertising has made everybody insecure about their looks.”

It’s very possible I’m going to swoon like I’m a heroine in a bodice ripper. Instead I reply, “The United States of Advertising. I like that.”

“I like it, too. Anne Lamott coined the phrase in her book, Bird by Bird.”

My shock is so great, I have to restrain myself from falling face first onto the floor. “You’ve read Anne Lamott?”

He says drily, “Try not to sound so surprised. I’m quite capable of reading a book.”

“But that book—I mean, the woman is practically my idol. I love her work.”

“Me too. In fact, there are a lot of books I love.” His tone grows warmer. “Looks like we found something we can talk about when we’re busy not getting personal.”

The swooning threatens to encroach again. This man is terrible for my blood pressure.

“First things first,” I say, struggling to remain cool. “We were supposed to be talking terms. Oh, and you were supposed to tell me what my ass looks like to a man.”

James chuckles. “Over dinner. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“And Olivia?”

“Yes?”

His voice turns husky. “Be ready to tell me everything you want me to do to you in bed.”

The line goes dead in my hand.