Breakfast At Bethany's. Kathleen O'Reilly

at the start of every good story. Today there was something else. A different kind of burn, deep inside him.

      A severe case of lust could do that to a man.

      THAT EVENING, Beth spent two hours wheeling and dealing on eBay, before sending an IM message to Cassandra. The temporary money pinch she was in was improving and the man shortage was definitely improving in spades. Hallelujah!

      Beth says: “You there?”

      Cassandra says: “Yes.”

      Beth says: “Are you alone?”

      Cassandra says, while inhaling the soothing scent of lavender: “If I’m entertaining, I’m not going to be sitting at the computer.”

      Beth says defensively: “I thought I’d ask. It’s Friday night. Why are you sans a date?”

      Cassandra says casually, too casually: “I felt like being alone.”

      Beth says: “You heard, didn’t you?”

      Cassandra says, shrugging: “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

      Beth says: “Benedict.”

      Cassandra says: “Eggs.”

      Beth says: “You know exactly what I mean.”

      Cassandra says: “Yes, I heard.”

      Beth says: “What are you going to do?”

      Cassandra says: “There is no rope painful enough to hang him from, so that’s out. There’s no river wide enough to ensure that he’d drown—so that’s out.”

      Beth says: “Still feeling hostility for the former boyfriend, huh?”

      Cassandra says: “Of course.”

      Beth says, because she’s an optimist and a romantic: “He’s going to show up. You know he will.”

      Cassandra says: “I’ll handle it when he does. Are you going to the Christmas gala?”

      Beth says: “It’s family stuff. I have to go. You?”

      Cassandra says: “Much too boring.”

      Beth says: “Lots of cool guys. You should go. And now to transition to all about Beth: Got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow.”

      Cassandra says: “Stop the presses. Who’s the latest?”

      Beth says: “Personal ad person.”

      Cassandra says, while holding up thumb and forefinger: “Loser.”

      Beth says: “Hey, I resemble that remark.”

      Cassandra says: “No, you don’t. We’ve had this discussion before.”

      Beth says: “You’re right. This is the new, improved, no longer directionally challenged me.”

      Cassandra says: “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”

      Beth says: “You betcha.”

      DONALD HUGHES WAS a nice guy. He had a decent job—civil engineer for the city—was attractive and funny. In short, he was the ideal man. Beth kept checking him out during the play, casting quick glances just to see if he truly existed, or if she was overcompensating on his behalf and he was truly a wuss. No, he seemed to be real. A couple of times he caught her peeking, and smiled. The last time, he actually reached over and held her hand. It was the most romantic thing that had happened to her in almost eight months.

      The play was very nice, but slightly depressing in that genuine Tennessee Williams manner. Afterward, he took her to a restaurant where she actually ordered dessert and coffee.

      “I loved your ad. As soon as I read it, I thought, that’s the kind of woman I want to meet.”

      “Thank you,” she said, trying to look confident and modest all at the same time.

      He launched into a discussion of wines. Boring. Then he started in on politics. Boring. After the discussion on the current state of the education system, her cell phone rang.

      Uh-oh. Technically, she should have turned it off. But what if she got an important call?

      She looked at the caller ID, but it wasn’t familiar. Not that it mattered, because the discussion was really going nowhere. She wrinkled her nose at Donald. “Just a minute. Let me get that.”

      “Beth, it’s Spencer James.”

      She hung up.

      He called back. However, she wasn’t mad enough to not answer.

      “Don’t hang up. You need to look more entertaining. You just look bored.”

      “Where are you?” she asked, realizing that the hair on her neck was now standing on end.

      “Second table to the left, just at the edge of the kitchen.”

      She looked. He lifted a discreet hand.

      She hung up.

      The phone rang. Donald looked at her with confusion. “Are you having problems?”

      “No,” she said, laughing in that you-really-don’t-want-to-know manner.

      “You could turn your phone off,” said Donald, full of wisdom.

      Beth debated. In fact, her finger wavered over the power button. But when she glanced at Spencer, he shot her that arrogant look he did so perfectly. The phone rang again. “Just a minute,” she said sweetly to Donald. “What?” she snapped at Spencer.

      “You look bored. Smile at him. You’re never going to get a man panting after you if you look like you’d rather be filling out your 1040 form.”

      Beth smiled in an absolutely enchanting manner—at Donald. “Happy?” she said into the phone.

      But he had hung up.

      DONALD DROPPED HER OFF about an hour later. He wanted to see her again, and she said okay, mainly because she knew it would be stupid not to give him a chance.

      He kissed her, two and half stars on the Von Meeter kissing meter, and then left her alone. A true gentleman.

      That made her sigh, but immediately after kicking off her shoes, she picked up her cell phone and dialed.

      “Don’t you ever follow me again without telling me,” she exclaimed, even before Spencer said hello.

      “I wanted to see where he would take you, watch the interaction between the two of you, see if there were electrical currents.”

      “Of course there were currents. A gazillion megawatts of currents. And if you hadn’t been there spying over my shoulder, there would have been even more. Enough to light up Lake Michigan.”

      “Hmm. I didn’t get that impression. Let me write that down. ‘Currents. Gazillion megawatts of currents. Lake Michigan.’”

      Beth never liked to be mocked, but she was capable of fighting dirty, too. She began taking off her skirt. “Look, Mr. James, I’m aware that you’re used to doing things your way, but this is my life. I’m not going to be part of your own personal reality TV series.”

      Neatly she hung up her skirt on the hanger.

      “I’m a journalist.”

      “I don’t care if you’re Superjournalist—” he swore at that “—you have to ask my permission.”

      “All right. Tonight was more of a trial run, anyway. When do you want to do the interview? Is now good?”

      Beth pulled off her blouse and hung it up right next to her skirt. “No. I’m getting ready for bed.”

      “Well, throw on a robe. You had a cup of coffee. You’re not going to sleep for another two hours.”

      “Wait