"Oh, um, just a fan, you could say."

  His eyebrows form double peaks as though he's always pointing something out with wry interest—or devilishness. "You don't see many dudes who write this stuff, not that I'm paying attention."

  "No, you don't," I confirm, especially not this particular dude.

  He takes my books to the counter. "I'll leave these up front if you want to continue browsing," he says helpfully.

  "Oh, um, I think seven books is enough."

  "Always good to stock up. There's a new one by S.L. Parvell," he says with a wink, referring to an erotica writer.

  What happened to innocent boy next door? I suppose looks can be deceiving.

  "I'm good." I stick with the sweeter, cleaner romances; they contain sex, but I prefer to leave a little to my, ahem, active imagination.

  "You sure?"

  For a moment the look on his face makes me wonder if he's asking if I'm a good girl (unlike the naughty leading ladies in Parvell's novels) or confirming that I don’t want any more books. I nod vaguely and he smirks.

  "My name is Tristen, by the way." He holds out his hand and I unsheathe mine from its mitten, wipe the little balls of cotton and sweat on the side of my coat, wrinkle my nose in apology, and give it a shake. It doesn't fit like a glove (I notice these things) and it's a little clammy, but mine is too.

  "I'm Navy."

  "Navy? What kind of name is that?" He asks. Again, I'm not sure if he's curious or what.

  "An old name," I say, leaving it at that.

  "Nice to finally meet you, Navy." I don’t think it's supposed to start snowing until tonight, but if you'd like to go out and grab some dinner—"

  Say what? Hold on. I'm being asked on a date by number four on Kat's list of guys she wants me to date, the Book Boyfriend? How is this possible? Am I experiencing heat stroke? I consider taking off my outer layer, but then I might scare him off with my crazy hair.

  Do I want to have dinner with a guy who likes books? Yes, please.

  "That'd be great," I say, tucking a greasy, stray piece of hair behind my hat. I really need to shower.

  He rings up my books and tucks them in a bag. "I should be done here at six or so. Sometimes the person who works evenings and restocks is late. I'll text you when I'm free."

  I swipe my credit card to pay at the same time we exchange numbers, and then he passes me my bag and receipt.

  When I step outside, an Arctic blast sends the receipt skittering down the sidewalk. I dash after it and nearly slip as I capture it beneath my boot. I glance down and notice he only charged me $9.95. The seven books should tally up to at least a hundred dollars with tax, which I'll gladly pay to support the bookstore and authors. I'm a booklover and consider it my contribution to the arts even though I can't deduct it at tax time.

  Maybe there was a problem with the barcode reader, but it's too cold for me to turn back. I'll ask him later. Knowing I have a date with my Book Boyfriend puts a smile on my face and a skip in my step, though not an actual skip because I don't want to slip on the frozen slush.

  I stop by the supermarket, not getting quite as much chocolate as I originally planned, but fill my basket with brownie making ingredients, grilled cheese staples, and Kat's favorite smoothie stuff since there's a storm coming.

  By the time I get home, my smile is frozen in place, along with a little bit of saliva. I thaw in the elevator and hurry down the hallway, my bags swishing and knocking against my legs.

  The water runs in the bathroom, telling me Kat's home. I unpack the groceries and then my books, but where I thought I'd purchased seven books, despite the error on the receipt, there are a couple more: the Parvell book I said I wasn't interested in and the one by C.K. Flynn that I didn't intend to purchase. I scratch my head; there must have been a mix up or something.

  Kat hums, decompressing in the tub after her training immersion and doesn't holler for me to tell her about last night.

  I write a blog about the lackluster date with Omar, despite my attempts to spice things up. Well, as spicy as a girl who can barely get past a jalapeno can manage. However, if his family is in the hot sauce business, maybe I didn't turn the heat up enough.

  I opt for transparency and tell The Book Boyfriend Blog readers how I wanted to curl up into a book-reading ball for the better part of the weekend, only emerging from my cocoon for chocolate. Then I leave them with a tasty little tease:

  In a surprising turn of events, the Book Boyfriend, the friendly and helpful clerk at my local indie bookshop, asked me out on a date. The Hottie in 7G, the Man-bun-barista, and the Gym Stud may not have worked out, but perhaps I saved the best for last. What do they say, fourth time is the charm? No, I guess that isn't what they say, but who cares. I have a date with a nerd like me. Yippee!

  I hear a splash and then Kat yells, "Navy, why didn't you tell me? Why do I have to find these things out on your blog?"

  I laugh and go to the bathroom door. "Because you were relaxing. I didn't want to bother you."

  "You're such a goofball." Her wet feet slap on the tile floor, the towel whooshes around her, and then she pops her head through the crack in the door. "You went from rejection to redemption. Hmm. Where are you guys going?"

  "He's going to text me."

  "What are you going to wear?"

  "Not sure."

  "Do you think he's into the sexy librarian thing? You could totally rock that look. A vintage skirt, some pearls, a low bun. Yeow."

  "I don't know," I inhale deeply, bob up and down, and then it turns into a hop and we're both squealing. "Maybe he's the one," I whisper.

  Spencer was some sexy stuff, Bash was a dud, and Omar was as sweet as can be, but not into me. I've kind of gotten interested in the idea of having a date on Valentine's Day or maybe even getting to know someone. The girly girl in me, the feminine vixen, the betrayed teenager, and person who entered college with a broken heart thinks being asked out, having someone show interest in me is pretty damn exciting.

  At six, I'm dressed and ready in a fitted sweater with a scarf draped around my neck, I couldn't do pearls even though Kat practically choked me with them. I wear wide leg jeans since it's cold, and a pair of spikey-heeled boots that might cause me to break my ankles. Kat swipes on some lipstick, which I instantly smear.

  "Hold still. You're impossible," she says. "But beautiful, as always."

  "You really think so?"

  She nods. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not friends with ugly people."

  I laugh. "Of course you'd say that."

  "It's true. Name one of my friends who's ugly?" she asks.

  Tori is stunning. Marc is the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on. Lydia is ethereal…the list goes on. "No, but you also tend to see the beauty in others."

  "Because I see it in myself," she says practically stabbing me with her lifted eyebrow as if to say I better do the same if I know what's good for me.

  "So you think he might be the one," I ask.

  "You just never know."

  "I kind of hated you for this dare, but I'm glad you helped me."

  "I may have given you a nudge, but you've been doing the heavy lifting."

  I flex my arm. She grabs hold of it and pulls me into a hug before stepping back and surveying her handy work. We exchange a warm fuzzy kind of look that best friends share.

  "What are you doing tonight?" I ask.

  "Believe it or not I think I'll take a page from your book and stay in, chill, maybe read or—"

  "Since when do you read?"

  "I read…sometimes."

  "More like binge watch shows on Netflix."

  "That too," she says, picking up my phone and checking the time—half past six.

  I explain that Tristen said sometimes the person who comes in after him is late and I repeat this an hour later when he still hasn't texted.

  We settle on the couch and watch an entire episode of Gilmore Girls when my phone finally dings.

  Meet me in twenty. There's a link for an address.

  "Okay, gonna run."

  Kat squeezes my hand, and I exit the hall to the sweet, buttery and chocolate scent of cookies baking. Maybe Mrs. Hess plies her dogs with baked goods.

  I spring for a cab to take me to the restaurant not wanting to risk my demise in the boots. The neon sign hanging over the entryway says Chester's Buns and Shakes. The outline of a big-busted woman winks and her electronic arm points to the word shakes.

  Music pumps when I step inside. The pearls would have been out of place. However, so am I, at least with a sweater on.

  The woman at the hostess desk looks pointedly at me, as if to confirm this fact, or rather, her bare nipples aiming in my direction boldly indicate that I don't belong here.

  I check the address on my phone, and sure enough, it's correct. Maybe my Book Boyfriend has a rowdy sense of humor and this is a practical joke.

  Just then, Tristen waves to me from a table. I stalk over, on unsteady feet, unsure if I misunderstood. I'm not the kind of girl who reads S.L Parvell and I'm certainly not the kind of girl who bites into a hamburger at a topless restaurant—not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not me.

  "Hey, you made it. I thought maybe I gave you the wrong address," Tristen says.

  "You didn't give me the wrong address?" I ask.

  "No, isn't this place great?"

  I steel myself with the assurance that I was asked on a date by a nice young man and will see it through. Gosh, that sounds old-fashioned. I can be progressive. I am a feminist. I pass no judgement. There are hundreds of restaurants in Manhattan and these women choose to work here. It's not objectification, but an empowered choice to serve hamburgers and hotdogs while topless. I take a seat.

  "So," I start, but Tristen doesn't hear me as he ogles the employees.

  I cringe when one calls, "Hot plates coming through."

  I grimace when a few college age guys at a nearby table leer and say, "More like hot tits."

  I keep my mouth shut. I'm sure these women can handle themselves. I fan myself, reaching for the water the waitress brought over before I arrived. They must keep it warm in here for the girls since the outdoor temperature hovers somewhere in the low twenties.

  Tristen finishes his beer and I ask, "Do you come here often?"

  "A few times a week. My ex works here," he says, pointing to a girl with shiny, jet black hair and boobs that could give someone a black eye.

  Oh. Not sure how to respond I add, "Were you waiting long?"

  "Long enough to get buzzed," he says with a belch.

  Our waitress, with giant, jiggling breasts comes over. "Ready to shake?" she asks.

  My expression of discomfort must translate to obvious bewilderment.

  "That means are you ready to place your order," she says, cocking her hip, her breast just there, at eye level.

  After a brief look at the menu I ask, "Do you have any specials?"

  She leans over the table, brushing my shoulder with her boob and taps the plastic specials sign. "We're just out of the fried pickles. Those always go fast."

  I croak out my order for a simple burger and fries and loosen my scarf.

  I. Can't. Even.

  Chapter 28

  Something Else

  I'm the only female in the room with a shirt on. In addition to keeping the servers warm, perhaps they keep the temperature turned up in here so hapless women who find themselves in Chester's Buns and Shakes will tear off their tops in a fit of heat exhaustion.

  I survey the surrounding tables and see a garden variety of men: guys in their mid-twenties at bachelor parties, a few one-tops with smarmy, oily grins, dudes talking sports, and college guys out for kicks. Then there's my Book Boyfriend who, while in the bookstore, appeared to be a cute, innocent nerd dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. However, here he appears more like a questionable character in the theatrical version of this dating dare.

  I clear my throat. "So, um, what kinds of books do you like to read?"

  He shrugs lazily. "High-fantasy occasionally, but mostly I work at the bookstore because it's a low stress job. I get bored and pickup whatever book is closest to the counter."

  "By the way, you didn't charge me correctly for the books earlier.

  His gaze follows a server as her tractor beam boobs hold the attention of nearly every male in the room. "What was that?" he asks after she passes by, returning his attention to me. Sort of.

  I repeat my concern.

  He grins magnanimously. "Think of it as a complimentary hit against the trappings of capitalism."

  "What about the bookstore owners?"

  "Screw those assholes. They don't give me paid sick days. And believe me, I get sick a lot. Well, hungover, but same thing."

  "And the authors? That's how they make their living."

  "Rich assholes. Whatever. It doesn't matter."

  I'm about to argue all of this when a pair of cymbals crash together from somewhere behind me. The thudding bass of club music pumps through the speaker system. A nearby table of guys erupts into cheers as the girls—all of them like a conga line of topless babes—do their very best Marilyn Monroe version of Happy Birthday. Meanwhile, a woman dressed as Marilyn, blond wig, patent beauty mark, voluptuous breasts, and a daringly short skirt brings up the rear.

  "This is my favorite part," Tristen says.

  The Marilyn lookalike scales a podium and does a strip tease for the birthday boy.

  As we know, I'm no prude, Spencer can attest to that. However, this is too much. I can't look.

  Our meals haven't arrived and I worry the kitchen help are also topless—inviting my curiosity about the health codes Bash mentioned—when Tristen says, "I'm going to pop out for a smoke. Be right back. Keep my food warm, babe."

  Babe?

  He shuffles away and a mondo pair of cantaloupes stare me down. "Did you want some more water?" the server asks.

  I dry swallow. "Yes, please." I'm tempted to interview her about her reasons for working here, when my phone vibrates.

  I assume Katya's checking on me and I prepare a desperate text along the lines of Rescue me, please, but it's from Carrick. What are you doing tonight?

  Are we at the point where he casually asks me what I'm up to or is he doing reconnaissance and I need to arm myself? I type. On a date. Then erase it and then retype, but before I can rethink it, I hit send.

  During the delay in his response, which I assume he's doing since his text bubble dots blink, two big plates, mine piled high with French fries, arrives.

  I stuff several in my mouth, still stressed about my surroundings, Tristen's presence and absence, and Carrick's text, which continues with Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you.

  Halfway through my burger, I'm annoyed Tristen still hasn't returned and that I'm somehow still here. I'm ready to leave and text Carrick back Actually, he stepped out for a smoke. I add a cringing emoji.

  His answer is immediate. So… not such a hot date?

  Oh, you could say it's hot. I stealthily snap a picture of one of the topless servers with enormous surgically enhanced globes that defy gravity.

  He texts They're not the way I remember them and you should probably make it clear to your date that sending me sexy texts doesn't mean anything. You don't want to piss him off. He adds the winking emoji.

  A smile brims on my lips despite the fact that I'm not sure what kind of relationship we could ever expect to resurrect.

  Then he adds If you’re taking a survey, I prefer the natural look.

  Good to know.

  In all seriousness, if you need an exit strategy I've got 'em. Let's see, your grandmother clogged the toilet and she needs your plunger, stat. Or you forgot you promised your nephew you'd help him with his science project, or you're worried you left the coffee maker/curling iron/oven on.

  His text bubble blinks again. Or you have to meet up with an old friend and have a drink. Or pie. I could go for some of that chocolate cream pie. Or I could meet you wherever you are and make this night even more interesting.

  I sigh and my smile is as big and crazy as all the guys' leering at the topless servers. Shouting comes from the kitchen and then Tristen crashes into his chair, coughs—not bothering to cover his mouth—and starts griping about staff rules.

  I only follow about half of what he's saying, but glean he met his ex-girlfriend during her break, hence the excuse to go out for a smoke, and they had an argument.

  "I told her I'd take her back if she stops blowing Brody—that's my roommate."

  I search Tristen's face to be sure I haven't entered a modern day high-fantasy alternate reality theatrical production. He gives me a dopy shrug.

  Where I thought we'd get literary and talk about Yeats and Austen, I find a guy who steals books. Where we might have recounted our favorite book hangovers, here's a guy who considers a beer hangover worthy of a sick day. Where I wanted to compare book to film adaptations, this dude asked me to meet him so he could make his topless girlfriend jealous.

  Palm. Forehead.

  Now I get it.

  I lean in and whisper conspiratorially, "Tristen, which one is she?"

  "Who?"

  "Your girlfriend."

  "Well, I dated her," he says, pointing at a brunette. "And her." He gestures to a girl with twin tankards of beer barely concealing her breasts. "And that's Starr."

  "The one who won't take you back?" I ask.

  He nods glumly.

  I get to my feet and call, "Excuse me, Starr." Several pairs of eyes land on me and there's a discernable hush in the room. She walks over, her eyes narrowed, and boobs swaying to the beat of the music.

  "He's not worth it," I say, irritably. Then turn to Tristen and add, "And don't invite women to a topless restaurant to make your ex jealous. It's rude." I toss down my napkin and stalk out of Chester's to a chorus of Oohs and hear someone say, "Harsh, bro."

  The cold air burns my lungs. I pull out my phone. Where do you want to meet for pie?

  In under a half hour, a perfect slice of chocolate cream pie rests temptingly on the table between Carrick and me. As I wonder who's going to take the first bite, he reaches for the fork and a dense morsel of rich dark chocolate, topped with a dollop of fluffy cream and chocolate shavings appears an inch from my mouth.