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He’d been using the same headshot for the past twenty mysteries—and it had been taken in the early ’90s.
Her dad had aged well. There was no need for him to use a dated pic. She was particularly glad he’d chosen this recent photograph for the dating site. She knew it wasn’t uncommon for people to grab old pics that displayed them in their best light, even if that light had faded fifteen years ago.
There he was, the distinguished Connor Ryman, his salt-and-pepper hair a little windblown, standing at the edge of Gas Works Park on Lake Union. The park was in view from all their condo windows. It afforded a stunning view of Seattle’s skyline, including the iconic Space Needle, across the water. Her father leaned against a rail near the water and smiled at the photographer. He wore a black fleece jacket and white button-down shirt. His blocky black glasses gave him an air of sexy intellectual nerdiness. The salt-and-pepper hair blowing back from his face revealed a countenance that was still youthful and handsome. Miranda, while prejudiced, thought her father could safely lie about his age as so many did when creating these profiles.
But he didn’t.
That wasn’t Dad.
He kept things simple. There was the one photo (there was an option for more, but she doubted Dad would make use of that) and beneath it, a headline that asked:
What’s your story?
Clever. A tie-in to his writing. If Dad didn’t use a pen name (Alfred Knox), she would have urged him to use one on here. He was famous, but not in a way that his face was immediately recognizable, like an actor or something. He could wander around Whole Foods without being hit up for an autograph.
She thought about what he’d written beneath the query, and that’s when it hit her. She shook her head. “Oh no, Dad. You can’t use that.”
“Why not? Why reinvent the wheel?”
“It might draw in a stalker, and I don’t think that’s what you’re going for.”
Her father, who’d always been a little lazy (“I make six figures a year; why should I work more than an hour a day? I meet my deadlines.”) had simply cut and pasted his author bio from his latest book. It detailed his publishing history, translations, film rights, awards, and ended that he lived in Seattle.
Miranda stood up. “Get up!”
Her father cocked his head.
Miranda motioned impatiently. “Get up! Let me at that keyboard.”
He chuckled and sighed. They traded places.
She highlighted the author bio paragraph and hit Delete. Her fingers poised over the keyboard, she said, “You don’t want to intimidate people. You don’t want to attract the wrong ones, right? What you want to do is come across as someone who’s a catch, because you are, but someoneapproachable. Check your fame. Just keep it simple. Bear in mind, what do you have to offer that guy out there that you hope to meet?”
She began keying in the profile paragraph.
Great-looking mature gentleman seeks a like-minded soul to explore restaurants, theater, and hikes in the Cascades with. Most comfortable in jeans and T-shirts. Loves to laugh. Has a good sense of humor. Family man, not looking for casual hookups, but the possibility of something…more. Tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine. We can write our own story from there.
Dad hovered at her shoulder, reading when she was done. “It’s not that good,” he said laughing. “Kind of cornball.”
“You don’t want it to be slick, Daddy. You want guys to feel free to chat with you. Sure, you could write it so it sounded like a marketing expert wrote it, but that wouldn’t do the trick. Trust me—this, with your handsome pic and your stats, is all you need. They’ll come runnin’.”
“Sure. They’ll be beating down the door to get to this ‘mature gentleman.’ Don’t you know that the gay world is rife with ageism? Thirty is over the hill. I’m ancient in gay years.”
“And you know that how?” Growing up with two gay dads, Miranda was very comfortable herself in the gay bars of Capitol Hill, and she knew firsthand that, yes, ageism did exist in the bars, but no more than what she saw when she ventured out to her own straight bars. A good-looking man was a good-looking man, period. Her dad’s kindness, wit, compassion, and sense of adventure would charm anyone; she was sure. “Ever heard of DILFs?” She waved her hand as her stomach lurched. “No, no. Forget I asked that. Just trust me on this, Daddy. You’ll get responses…and maybe even some good ones. What have you got to lose?”
“Oh, my dear, I hope that question doesn’t come back to haunt me.”
“You always told me, ‘Leap and the net will appear.’ This is no different. The worst is you end up going back to the drawing board. And then we can try another approach, another site. Whatever.”
“I guess.”
She met his gaze. And she was surprised to see a mix of terror and sadness on his face. His hand rested on her shoulder, and she reached back to cover it with her own. “We don’t have to do this, you know. There’s always time. Maybe wait until after the holidays?”
“Actually, there isn’t time. You say that because you’re a kid in college. To you, there’s all the time in the world.I’mnot getting any younger.” Her father leaned over her and hit Return to send his profile.
A pop-up appeared.Your profile has been successfully created.
He grinned. “If I didn’t do it fast, I never would have done it. I would have second-guessed myself to death.”
