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I go home so frustrated with myself that in a fit of annoyance, I do my laundry.
It’s only when I get home from work the next day and have already fed the fish that I remember to check my personal email account. There’s a message from MatchMakers Inc.
“Congratulations on making 1 connection! You matched with: Dara Milton, , and . Here is the contact information for your match(es),” and then a phone number.
My hands start shaking. I can’t believe I matched with the goddess.
And at the same time, I can believe it. She’s the only one I was really myself with, so I guess if she saw the real me and said yes anyway, I have a shot.
I start to call. Then hang up.
I start dialing again, then hang up again.
Texting would be better, yes?
Definitely.
Ten minutes later, I have written, edited, tweaked, and deleted fifteen text messages.
While I’m considering the tone of the message I want to send (Flirty, warmly friendly, or light-hearted? Businesslike or romantic?), my phone rings.
Holy shit, it’s Dara.
I fumble the phone until I can answer it. “Hello?”
“Hugo?”
It’s her. I get an instant hard-on.
“Or should I ask for Professor Conroy?” she adds, and by the tone of her voice I’m not imagining it: she’s flirting with me.
“I’ll answer to either one,” I say, completely aware that I sound like an idiot.
“Like that old joke, right?” she says. “’Call me anything you want, just don’t call me late for dinner’?”
I had no idea that Dad jokes sound sexy coming out of the mouths of beautiful women.
“I’m really glad you checked yes on me,” she says, now warmly friendly. “You were the only man I met last night that I wanted to spend more time with.”
“Me too. I mean—not that you’re a man. That you were the—”
“Oh, good. Listen, I’m finishing up at the gym and wondering if you’d like to go get some dinner with me.”
My jaw drops.
I have never been asked on a date by a woman before. I can’t speak for a moment.
“Or is it, in fact, too late to call you for dinner?” Dara says, sounding a little disappointed.
“No! It’s—no, it’s great, it’s fine. Where? When? How soon?”
Wonderful. Now I sound like a maniac. This is why women don’t go out with me.
She laughs, a warm delighted chuckle. “Do you like Thai food?”
“I love Thai food.” Actually, I don’t even know if I like it, but it doesn’t matter.
We make arrangements to meet at Thai This in an hour, and I cannot believe my luck.
