Breakfast At Bethany's. Kathleen O'Reilly

ad needs revising. I can do that.”

      “What’s wrong with my ad?”

      “It’s not vibrant enough. You need to add some punch, some color.”

      Her newly installed gullibility meter started beeping. “How do you know about ads? I thought you were above computer dating?”

      He shrugged, calling attention to his well-defined chest muscles. He probably didn’t even have to exercise. She was really starting to hate this guy. “I’ve done my research for the story. Words are my life,” he answered. “What do you say?”

      “I want a guarantee.”

      “What do you mean?” he asked, because obviously he didn’t live in her new, improved, tough-as-nails world.

      “I want dates from this. Great dates. Or the deal’s off.” Then she leaned on the table, letting the candlelight reflect favorably on her cheekbones. All in all, it was a great moment. “Besides, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove that computer dating isn’t for losers?” Like me, she almost added. “That’s not interesting. You want to write something groundbreaking. An evolution in the courtship ritual. Maybe coin a new word for the dictionary.”

      A less refined man would be drooling, but even Mr. Savoir Faire couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes. “I’ll get you great dates. If I can’t write a good singles ad, then I’m in the wrong business.”

      Success. The night was looking up. Beth sat down, satisfied with her negotiation skills. Not bad for a beginner. Of course, you should never underestimate a Von Meeter when it came to negotiation.

      “Where do you want to start?” she asked, sipping her wine with a little more gusto. Maybe even chocolate mousse later—eight points. She’d never ordered dessert on a date before, but he wanted honesty. Food honesty was the most basic of all, except for sexual honesty, which was pretty much nonexistent.

      He placed his tape recorder on the table, a little digital thingamabob. “I’m going to tape the conversation, but I want to make some notes while we talk. We’ll start with the simple things. Tell me about yourself.”

      “I work at Java4U,” she said defensively, just wanting to get that out in the open.

      “Lack of education or motivation?”

      “Neither,” she said, her hands starting to get nervous. She didn’t like these what-are-you-doing-with-your-life? conversations, for obvious reasons. “I like people,” she added, which was her standard answer.

      “Very decent of you, but there are better opportunities out there for people who like people.”

      “You don’t like people, do you?” she asked, neatly switching the subject from her career or lack thereof.

      He cleared his throat and smiled with effort. “Why don’t we talk about something else? When did you decide to try computer dating? Do you have friends who have done this?”

      At first it was difficult, but he coaxed her into more. His reporter voice was calm and soothing. Trust-inducing. Very smooth. And so over dinner, she found herself responding, relaxing, and she began to talk.

      To vent, really. To explain in great, cathartic details about all the problems with the current singleton environment.

      As the waiter cleared away the last of the dishes, she started in on the biggest problem.

      “I never had trouble until my friends started getting married. Now we don’t hang out together, and I’m like this old piece of clothing that just doesn’t fit anymore. They look at me and don’t know what to do. I was the favorite shirt, but now I’ve got stains that won’t come out, and it’s not like anyone is going to wear me anymore. Instead I sit hidden away in the back of their closet. It sucks. Do you still have single friends?”

      He paused in his writing and looked up. “No. They’re all married.”

      “How do you go out, then? How do you meet women?”

      His pen started tapping on the table. “I don’t.”

      Then she noticed the black shirt, the innate sense of style, the perfect abs. God, all the signs were there. “Oh.”

      The pen hit the table. “What does that mean?” he said, the smoothness gone from his voice.

      She buried her fingers in her napkin. How embarrassing. “I’m not going to make judgments on anyone’s personal life.”

      He smiled tightly, his hands clenched together in pre-strangulation mode. “I like women. I love women. I was married to a woman.”

      He did have that been-there, done-that air about him. “Didn’t work out?” she pried, because she understood completely.

      “It lasted eighteen months. Seventeen of which were hell.”

      “Mine lasted two weeks,” she admitted. She had eloped with Kenny when she was a freshman in college. She had thought it was romantic to marry a musician. Quelle horreur.

      “You were lucky,” he said, and she noticed his hands had stopped clenching.

      “You sound bitter.”

      “I have a right to be,” he said, picking up the pen once more. His own little shield.

      “Want to talk about it?” Beth asked.

      “No.” The pen was back to scribbling. “Tell me about the perfect man. Most important quality.”

      And that was all for the personal life. Back to business. “He’s got to be smart. Brains are very important to me.”

      Spencer looked up, laying the pen on the table. “What about looks? There are lots of smart, homely guys. In fact, you put that in your ad and you’ll be married in approximately three to seven days.”

      She shook her finger at him. A man should never assume. “I said intelligence was important. You didn’t ask what the number two thing was.”

      “So looks are number two?”

      Those assumptions were really going to bite him in the butt. And he’d said he was a journalist. “No. A sense of humor is number two.”

      He continued to scribble on the paper. She tried to peek, but his writing was illegible.

      “Looks are number three?” he asked, without looking up.

      “No. He needs to have depth. I can’t stand those shallow men that only tell you what you want to hear.”

      The pen drooped. He met her eyes. “But don’t you think computer dating is in and of itself shallow?” He struggled for words. “The process sucks all the humanity out of that first spark of meeting. It’s premeditated.”

      He was a closet romantic: How I Unearthed my Lover’s Secrets. Fascinated, she balanced her elbows on the table and studied him. “But you’re a journalist. You of all people should know that words can be more seductive than the visual.”

      That made him laugh. “I’ve never gotten off from reading.”

      “I have,” said Beth, suddenly quite pleased with herself. Now who was the schmiel?

      Mr. Hotshot Journalist-Man was rendered speechless. His face turned primitive—eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, breathing shallow. All facts seemed to indicate that Mr. James was seeing her as a sexual being, not just a guinea pig.

      She would have been lying if she didn’t admit to feeling a little squishy herself—okay, a lot.

      There were many reasons why she wanted to shock him. Some of it was the simple biological response to the highly charged testosterone that was shooting from every solid inch of him.

      But there was more to it than just chemistry. She’d always felt like a bystander in life, not the ambitious one, not the