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One
“You’re kidding.” Carla Walker glanced at her friend suspiciously. “What did they put in that margarita, anyway? Truth serum?”
Nancy Listten’s dark eyes brightened, but her attention didn’t waver from the mariachi band that played softly in the background.
“I’m serious,” Nancy replied. “This happens every vacation. We now have seven glorious days in Mazatlán. What do you want to bet that we don’t find a man to flirt with until day six?”
“That’s because it takes awhile to scout out who’s available,” Carla argued, taking a sip of her drink. The granules of salt from the edge of the glass felt gritty on the inside of her bottom lip. But she enjoyed the feel and the taste.
“Exactly my point.”
Nancy took off her glasses and placed them inside her purse. That action said a lot. Carla’s friend had meant every word. She was dead serious.
“We spend at least two days trying to figure out who’s married and who isn’t.”
“Your idea isn’t going to help,” Carla insisted. “The next two men who walk in here could be married.”
“But imagine how much time it’ll save if we ask. And”—Nancy inhaled a deep breath—“have you noticed how picky we are? We always act like our choices are going to improve if given enough time. We’ve simply got to realize that there’re no better candidates than whoever walks through that door tonight.”
“I don’t know…” Carla hesitated, wondering if there was something wrong with her drink, too. Nancy’s idea was beginning to make sense. “What if they don’t speak English?” That was a stupid question, and the look Nancy gave her said as much. They each had a phrase book, and Carla had watched enough Sesame Street when babysitting her nieces to pick up the basics of the language. She groaned inwardly. She’d begun this vacation with such high hopes. They were in one of the most popular vacation spots in the world. Men galore. Tanned, gorgeous men. And she was going to end up introducing herself in Sesame Street Spanish to the next guy who walked through the door. Even worse, the idea was growing more appealing by the minute. Nancy was right. For two years they’d ruined their vacations looking for Mr. Perfect. Not only hadn’t they ever found him, but as their time had grown shorter, their standards had lowered. The men they’d found marginal on day one looked like rare finds by day six. And on day seven, frustrated and discouraged, they’d flown back to Seattle, having wasted their entire vacation.
“I think we should establish some sort of criteria, don’t you?”
Carla nodded. “Unencumbered.”
“That goes without saying.” Nancy gave her a classroom glare that Carla had seen often enough to recognize. “They should walk in here alone. And be under thirty-five.” Nancy’s eyes sought Carla. “Anything else?”
“I, for one, happen to be a little more particular than you.”
“All right, add what you want.”
“I think they should order a margarita.”
“Carla! We could be here all night if we waited for that.”
“We’re in Mazatlán. Everyone orders margaritas,” Carla countered. Well, a tourist would, and that was what she wanted. No serious stuff, just a nice holiday romance.
“Okay,” Nancy agreed.
Their eyes focused on the two entrances. Waiting.
“Have you noticed how all the cocktail lounges are beginning to look like furniture showrooms?” Carla commented, just to have something to say. Her hands felt damp as she studied the entry to the nightclub.
“Shh…someone’s coming.”
A middle-aged couple walked through the door.
They both relaxed. “We’d better decide who goes first.”
“You,” Carla returned instantly. “It was your idea.”
“All right,” Nancy agreed. She straightened, nervously folding her hands on her lap.
Carla pulled up the spaghetti strap of her summer dress. Normally a redhead couldn’t wear pink, but this shade, the color of camellias, complemented the unusual color of her hair.
“Here comes a single man.”
Two pairs of intense eyes followed the lumbering gait of a dark-haired Latin American who entered the lounge and took the closest available love seat.
