Blind Date. Cheryl Anne Porter

      At least she looked good, dressed in her new V-neck, white T-shirt and stretchy, hip-hugging khaki pants. She wished Wendy could see her in them, but her friend had left today for a wedding in Dallas. On the other hand, school was out for spring break. Finally. That meant no precious little third-graders to teach for a whole week. Bless their hearts. And tomorrow night she had a date-that-wasn’t-a-date. A date who also wasn’t Carl “the high school football coach and big, fat cheater” Woodruff. So, life was good.

      However, it would be even better if, instead of going out with Maury’s great-nephew tomorrow, she’d see Mr. Hot and Shirtless from the dressing room debacle two evenings ago. That man was causing her to toss and turn at night with torrid dreams of anonymous sex in a fitting room. Meg felt the tightening of desire tense her tummy muscles. “Great. One look from the guy in the tight jeans and the oh-my-God chest and I’m signing up for sex with him in elevators, airplanes and swimming pools.”

      Sighing over what could not be, Meg sorted through her designated junk drawer in the tiny wet bar in her living room. Spying what she was looking for, she grabbed up the small can of pepper spray—blame Wendy’s talk of serial killers—and dropped the defensive weapon into her purse. “Wait. Car keys.” Rooting through her purse for those, Meg grimaced in sympathy for Wendy, who was at her younger sister’s wedding. “Younger. That hurts.”

      It didn’t especially fill Meg with joy, either. Here she was, already twenty-five—practically middle-aged—and she had yet to fire some guy’s jets to the point of a white dress and ring.

      Meg found her keys and zipped her purse closed, wishing she could do the same thing with her bridal and hormonal thoughts. Apparently there was nothing like a wedding to make a woman rethink her whole love life. “What love life?” She checked her wristwatch. “Yikes. Nearly seven. Time to shop.”

      Holding her purse by its straps, like a bunny by the ears, Meg made for the sofa, where earlier, she’d stashed the department-store bag that held the new red dress she intended to return. Somehow, it hadn’t looked quite as stunning at home. As she reached for the bag, though, she caught her reflection in the large, framed mirror behind the sofa. Straightening, she checked out her “studied casual” look. After all, a girl never knew who else might be at the mall on a Friday evening. Like maybe some exciting man exchanging a shirt he’d just bought?

      Meg turned this way and that checking her makeup…her teeth…her outfit. She fluffed her hair—and stared in shock. “When did my hair start sticking out on the sides like that?”

      She tossed her keys and purse onto the sofa, tucked her long, layered hair behind her ears and checked out the effect. “Sucks.” She freed her hair and ran her fingers through it, muttering, “It’s not my hair. It’s my ears. Dad’s ears. God, I could fly with these things, like Dumbo—”

      The phone rang, cutting off her words. It was probably Mom, who had telepathically heard her daughter say something mean about her bank president father’s ears. Meg reached over to the end table to retrieve the phone and hit the talk button. “Hello.”

      The voice at the other end of the line—definitely not her mother’s—raised Meg’s hackles and reminded her she really needed to get caller ID. “Hello, Carl. What do you want?”

      She listened for a moment, and decided that was all she could take. “You know what Carl? It’s a little late to say you miss me. What happened to your other friend? You know, the one you had that nice little date with the other night? Yes, I am still mad. And no, I don’t think I’ll forgive you. In fact, I don’t even want to talk to you….” She paused for a minute, waiting for it to sink in. It didn’t. “No, Carl, you can’t come over and discuss this with me,” she said, trying again. “There’s nothing to talk about. Besides, I have plans.”

      Shopping by one’s self could certainly be called plans. “No, Carl. Do not come over. I will not be here. I swear I won’t. What? Yes, you actually are that easy to get over. Shocking, isn’t it? Oh, but I do mean it—I’m over you. No, I won’t be here. Do not come over. And now I’m hanging up. Goodbye.”

      Though she could still hear him talking, Meg angrily pressed the end button and plunked the phone back onto its base. “Take that, you cheating—”

      An abrupt knocking on her front door cut off her unflattering sentiment. Instinctively, she headed for the door but stopped after one step and stood there, thinking. She looked at the phone and then the door. Could Carl have been standing right outside when he called on his cell phone? A cutesy trick like that was just like him, she decided, now striding stiffly toward her entryway. “Well, I’ll give him an earful he won’t soon forget. A real tongue-lashing, by God. And not the good kind, either.”

      Muttering, her anger building, she stepped onto the tile squares of the minuscule entryway. Why it couldn’t be the nice, gorgeous, shirtless guy from the department store standing on the other side of the door when she opened it, she’d never know. Talk about your six feet of hunk with blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Yeah, right. In my dreams. But who do I get? Stupid Carl and his little cell-phone trick.

      Meg twisted the dead bolt and jerked the door open, already talking as it swung wider. “Look, I don’t think you’re one bit funny. I told you not to come over here, you big—” She came to an embarrassed stop as her disbelieving eyes and brain got together and made the connection. This wasn’t Carl. “Oh my God, I thought you were someone else—again!” she cried out. “What are you doing here?”

      The six-foot hunk from the fitting room incident stared at her in shock. “You!”

      “I know!” This was just too bizarre, and Meg’s mind wouldn’t process it. Feeling weak, as if she might faint, she jerked back and slammed the door in his face.

      “NO, DON’T—” Too late. Joe knocked hard on the freshly slammed door. “Hey, are you okay in there?” He waited. No answer. Well, now what? He stood in the breezeway, feeling the warm evening air wash over him. “Hello!” he called out again, concerned. “Are you all right?”

      While he worried, another part of his brain worked on the fact that it was her—the really hot woman from the dressing room. Man, she certainly hadn’t lost anything in the translation. But this couldn’t be right. Hell, if he played these odds in Vegas, he’d own the town.

      Looking for help, Joe turned around and peered over the iron railing to the pool, four floors below. He glanced at the lush, tropical landscaping with its lighted walkway meandering through the generous grounds and the park benches set at intervals throughout. There wasn’t a soul in sight. He turned to the door again and knocked. “Listen, if you don’t answer me right now, I’m going to get the manager to open this door. So if you can hear me—”

      “I can hear you” came a muffled voice from the other side of the closed door. “And I’m all right. I just wasn’t expecting you to be here. I thought you were stupid Carl.”

      Joe weighed that for significance. “Carl must have really messed up.”

      “Oh, he did. Big time.”

      Acutely conscious of how their semi-shouting match might appear to the neighbors, Joe stepped in closer and said, “Look, I think I can explain this if you’ll just open the door. You already know I’m not Carl, and I swear I’m not a stalker. Maury Seeger sent me.”

      A moment of silence ensued. “Are you a hit man?”

      Uncle Maury had obviously been spreading his Mafia stories. “No.”

      “Would you tell me if you were?”

      “Probably not. But, look, think about it for a minute. Didn’t Maury tell you to expect a visitor, one who isn’t a hit man?”

      “Yes and no. What’s your name and where do you live?”

      This was a test. “Joe Rossi, and I live in Denver.”

      “What do you do there?”

      “I’m