“My nipples will show!”
“That’s the point.”
“What?”
“Can you picture an online mail order bride? The kind on those dating sites where—”
“The kind that men who use PUA techniques frequent?”
“Exactly. Whore yourself up. With makeup, I mean. Go for it. Go overboard. He wants a hot woman? Give him one. Scare him off.”
Suzanne looked at her phone with an increasingly dubious expression. “You’re not punking me, are you?”
“I swear. Trust me.”
She picked up the mascara wand and applied three coats, until her eyelashes tangled in her eyebrow hairs. “Mascara done.”
“Now run the mascara wand through your eyebrows.”
“WHAT?”
“Really go for it. Trust me. He’s going to be the one on edge when you walk back out, all confident and done to the nines.”
“I’ll be done to the ninety-nines if I mascara-tint my eyebrows.”
“You know those Facetuning apps we make fun of? When people from our high schools use the makeup apps on their selfies and think no one will notice that their nose now looks like an eraser crashed into it and their eyes have the glow of an Avatar character?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re aiming for a real-life version of that, Suzanne.”
Two minutes later and she stared at a grotesque version of herself, hair pulled up in a rough updo, eyes like raccoon claws, eyebrows darker than Elvira’s, and lipstick so red she might as well join the pageant circuit.
“I look like a woman Donald Trump would date.”
“SUCCESS!” Kari shouted. “Take a picture and text me.”
Suzanne did.
Ten seconds later, she heard a low whistle from Kari. “Oh, Suzanne. You’re...breathtaking.”
“Yeah. I can’t breathe when I look in the mirror, either. Kari, what if a client comes here and sees me like this?”
“When did you start caring what your clients think?”
Good point.
“Open your shirt more. Show a little lace.”
Suzanne did.
“And add one more layer of lipstick.”
“I’ll need paint thinner to take it off if I do that.”
“Yes.”
Suzanne complied.
“You did it. Now go out there like you’re on the prowl. And use all the PUA techniques against him.”
Suzanne ended the call, shoved her phone in her purse, used the facilities, and went back to the table with a heavy heart.
Even if she was hardened and cynical, even if she knew Steve was using her for business information, it didn’t take away the sting.
Every date was a balloon filled with hope. Sometimes the balloon was filled with helium.
This time, it was full of shit.
And when it popped...
Squaring her shoulders, she looked for the table, her vision now obscured by so much mascara that everything in the restaurant looked like the woods from The Blair Witch Project.
As she bent her knees to sit, Steve said, “Cue your rescue text in five, four, three, two,—”
Bzzz.
He smirked, clearly expecting her to be embarrassed, pleased with himself for the barb.
She shrugged. “Can I help it if my friend has a bad case of premature emasculation?”
Steve paled.
She looked at the phone.
Check his Twitter stream, Suz. That guy’s a total ass.
Steve did a double take across the table and peered at her, cataloguing her face, examining her neck and breasts with a wolfish intensity as she tapped her Twitter app, remembered his handle, and—there it was.
A stream of real time texts over the last twenty minutes.
She’s about a five. Could be a seven if she tried harder.
White wine with beef? Amateur.
She served in the military. I spent six years at Boy Scout camp all summer and learned more about discipline than she seems to know. Maybe I’ll have to discipline *her*.
The tweets were all aimed at a handle called PUAsucksess, but good old Steve had forgotten to put a dot in front of them, therefore making them public. It was clear from his behavior that he thought those tweets were private.
She looked up, a slow burn, to find him grinning at her.
And then it happened. Kari totally called it.
The hand.
The hand reached out and tapped her knee, an exploratory touch.
You might say he was feeling her out.
Literally.
KINO, huh?
She reached across and gently poked his ear.
His grin faltered but he scooted his chair closer, eyes on her white wine.
Tinny laughter preceded his bountiful condescension. “Didn’t you learn about wine? I thought it was a prerequisite in law school.” Touch.
“No. I studied law in law school.” Poke. She poked his shoulder twice. He startled, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
“Surely you know that moving in certain business circles is all about cultivating the right taste,” he said. His palm went to her knee, staying there.
Oh, God. This was worse than that blind date with the guy who kissed his ferret on the lips.
“No.” She cut him off, fast. “Moving in certain business circles is about being good at business,” she replied, her hand going to his chest, palm over his heart.
His eyebrows shot up, eyes widening.
She grinned.
“But taste is taste,” he said, ignoring the comment, looking down at her hand and licking his lips. “It is cultivated and rarified, and white wine and red meat together is like—”
“A fish riding a bicycle.” She began randomly pushing on his chest, pecs, shoulders, neck and earlobe, like he was a human version of a sheet of bubble wrap.