Bad table manners might be something Ella could overlook in the right guy. Maybe no one had taught him any better growing up, and it was something that could be fixed with a gentle reminder. But his personality was no better than his manners.
“Don’t see how you do it every day,” he was saying as he cut into his steak, causing blood to flow out all over the plate, making her stomach turn.
“I’m sorry?” she said, trying to draw her eyes away from the gore in front of her. She liked red meat as much as the next person, but just something a little less likely to “moo” during the meal.
“Trapped in a room with twenty screaming and whining brats all day long, five days a week, with no break. You must have nerves of steel.”
“You don’t like children?”
“They’re OK as long as I don’t have to deal with them for long.”
Ella blinked. “Your profile said you were the divorced father of two.”
“Yep. My ex-wife was the one that wanted them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids,” he rushed on to say quickly, as if he could sense her outrage and wanted to cut it off at the pass. “But I never really saw myself ever having kids. It was something she wanted and I did it for her. I see ’em every other weekend and by Sunday I’m completely stressed out and ready to drop them back at their mom’s. Don’t all of those kids drive you nuts?”
“Sometimes, but that’s true with any job,” Ella said, wondering why Serena hadn’t called her yet. She was incredibly glad she had insisted on meeting her date at the restaurant and had her own means of escape. After the date with the guy who turned out to be married and was looking for a little thrill on the side, she and her best friend had devised a method for getting her out of bad dates. Serena would call halfway through the meal. If Ella was having a good time, she would remember she accidentally left her cell phone on and turn it off. If she wasn’t, she could answer and get out of there.
So far, Ella had never accidentally left her cell phone on.
The waiter came by to check on them and Ella waved away any mention of dessert. “I’m going to have to call it an early evening,”she said with an apologetic smile to her date. “Papers to grade, you know how it is.”
“In kindergarten?” He frowned.
“They have tests and homework too,” she said gently. “Just the check, please,” she said to the waiter. “Separate.”
Her date shook his head. “Stay and at least have an after-dinner drink.”
“No, it’s a school night,” she said. “I have to get up early.”
“Well , this was a waste of time and money.” He crossed his arms across his chest and sulked, a position she saw almost daily. But not from a grown man.
“Excuse me?” She looked around for the waiter, hoping to see him rushing towards them so she could leave.
“Get dressed up; shell out money for an expensive dinner like this just to get the brush off. I’m surprised you didn’t have a friend call you with a fake emergency halfway through, like a lot of women do.”
“First dates are all about seeing whether or not you are compatible,” Ella said in the soothing voice she usually reserved for a child about to have a temper tantrum. “I’m afraid we’re just not compatible.”
“God damn waste of time.” He grimaced.
“Then I suggest you stop dating so you don’t waste any more of it,” she said as the waiter walked up with the bill . “Have a good evening.” She paid her half plus a generous tip for the waiter (Bachelor Number Three was definitely giving off non-tipper vibes) and made her escape.
Just as she stepped outside, her phone went off. With a sigh, she answered.
“Oh, my God, Ella, you’ve got to get over here! Your cat/dog/ bird/hamster died!”
“Yeah, thanks for calling,” she said. “You’re about thirty minutes too late. I’m already getting in the car and leaving him behind.”
“But Bachelor Number Three was going to be your soulmate,” Serena said with a dramatic flair. “The website said so.”
“Yeah, well , I’m done with internet dating. And agency dating. And every other dating. Just dating in general.”
“You always say that and then you always try it again. You’re an incurable romantic.”
“Or an incurable masochist.”
“Why don’t you come over? There’s an ‘I Love the 1980s’ marathon on television and a bottle of wine in my refrigerator that is just begging to be drunk.”
“That’s the point. I don’t want to get drunk, I just want to go home and soak in the bathtub in peace.”
