Curves for the Single Dad

Melanie blinked slowly, so slowly I thought maybe she was having a stroke or an epileptic fit. Three blinks later she’d finally regained her composure.

“Oh. You have a child?”

“I do.” The words came out slowly because usually that was a point in my favor, since most women assumed I was after a mother for my child. But I got a sense Melanie wasn’t like most women in that regard. “Is that a problem?” If so, that would make the post-date powwow with the TFL girls a lot easier. For me.

“Yes, it is actually.” She finished the last of the wine in her glass and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the cloth napkin. “I’m sorry but there’s no need to continue this date any further. I had a particularly bad experience with my own stepmother and I have no desire to put another child in that position. It was really great to meet you, Chris. I’m a huge fan of your work.” Then she stood, dropped the napkin on the seat of her chair and walked away.

Wow. That was easier than I thought. The appetizer had been ordered and my own beer was still more than half full, so I pulled out my phone and started taking notes on Date One, who, unfortunately would make an excellent victim for my story. I tried to capture every detail, from the dark oak of the bar with the brass footrest up front, to the plush cushions of the chairs and the ultra modern flatware that were at odds with all the traditional décor of the Carriage House. All of the details went in my notes where I would decide later, what stayed and what was junk.

“You know, you’re very pretty, but you looked much thinner in your photos.”

My fingertips froze in their rapid typing at the rude words spoken a few tables away. It was the kind of comment you read about in online comments or in a book, but you never actually believed a real life human could utter. Until you heard the words yourself. Asshole.

“Yeah well, your hair doesn’t look quite as thick and lustrous as it did in your picture, but I’m mature enough not to bring it up.” I smiled at the familiar voice of the woman I seemed to have made a terrible first impression on. Tara Beechum.

My ears were piqued even as my fingers had started to move again, though much slower this time around. Curiosity got the better of me.

“I mean, it’s not a big deal. Not really. I’m willing to date a big girl if she has the right…personality.” His tone left no doubt what personality traits he was referring to, and when I looked up, the blond dick was leaning forward to leer at Tara’s cleavage.

Her amazing cleavage.

“That’s too bad,” she told him and pushed her seat back so she could stand. “Because I don’t date assholes who are too insecure about their own premature balding to be a decent human being. Have a terrible life, Kyle.”

It was magnificent, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away from the jerk, her head held high.

“That was a damned impressive verbal takedown if I do say so myself, and you can trust me, because words are kind of my thing.” She came to an abrupt stop, giving me a long moment to simply take Tara in. Usually she was dressed in her work uniform or jeans, but tonight she had on a deep green dress that hugged her impressive curves and showed off just enough cleavage to make my mouth water. Her hair was half up with the rest falling around her shoulders in touchable waves. Those lips, usually pale pink, were a deep shade of red. She’d done full date makeup with all kinds of eye shading that turned her pretty features into striking ones. “You look beautiful, Officer Beechum.”

She blinked once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth blink, Tara straightened and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Jacobs. You clean up nicely too.” She started to turn away, and before I could think better of it, I was talking again.

“Want to join me? Fried ravioli appetizers are on the way.” Her cop’s eyes missed nothing, especially the balled up napkin on the seat across from me, and I nodded. “My date panned out about as well as yours. Sit. Please.”

“That would be nice, thank you.” Tara took the napkin and folded it into a neat square that she set right on the edge of the table, and sat with a relieved smile. “I guess you heard?”

“Hard not to, but I’d say you got the better of him in that exchange.”

“You think so?” She seemed nervous, almost guilty, which meant I really must have rubbed her the wrong way to still get the Mr. Jacobs treatment.