Hot Flash (8 page)

She took the list and scanned it quickly, then turned to her computer. Within minutes, she’d printed out a list and handed it to me.

“These six are your best bets.”

I glanced at the list and the first item caught my attention. “Easel salesmen?”

“Go figure. They’re almost all men. Cute, too.”

“Sounds great. I just hope I can pull this off.”

“What are you worried about?”

“I’ve never set out to pick up men before. I mean I know I can do it, but I’m not really sure what to say.” It wasn’t like I could walk up to a cute easel salesman and say
wanna get married and pay my son’s college tuition?
Maybe I should mention monkey sex?

“You can ask them about their jobs. That always works. Men love talking about themselves.”

“I can do that. Any other tips?”

“Well, if all else fails,” Mandy said breathlessly, “you can always use my best line.”

“You have a best line? I don’t even have a not-best line. Tell!”

“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to use it unless it’s an emergency.”

“Got it. Only in an emergency.” Like my situation now wasn’t an emergency? Help! I need college tuition.

“And you need to be careful who you use it on. It can’t be used lightly.”

I made an
X
over my chest. “Cross my heart.”

“Remember, only use this on a guy you are seriously interested in.”

“Promise.”

She looked around, as if worried that someone would overhear, then came from behind her desk to whisper in my ear.

After she was finished, I leaned back in my chair and marveled at her brilliance. It was one hell of a great line.

You had to hand it to the Easel Boys, they certainly knew how to do a cocktail party right. And Mandy really knew her stuff, I thought, as I glanced around the elegantly decorated ballroom. It was filled with cute guys.

A string quartet played graceful music in one corner, while the back wall was lined with hot and cold appetizers and Julio, my favorite line cook, sliced roast beef and ham for easel salesmen as they came down the line. Several waiters hovered about the room, carrying trays filled with red and white wine for the Easel Boys’ consumption.

And I could say
Easel Boys
confidently. Besides me, there were two, count ‘em, two other women in the room. Who’da thunk there could be that many easel salesmen? I glanced up to heaven and said a silent thank-you.

I did some reconnaissance, checking out salesmen who looked interesting or appealing in some way. I came up with seven possibles, then recircled the room to make sure none of the seven wore physical matrimonial evidence (i.e., wedding rings). This reduced the number of possibles to three.

The first reminded me of a younger Mel Gibson. The second looked a bit like a middle-aged, Daniel Craig, the latest James Bond. The third looked like a CNN News announcer, but I wouldn’t hold that against him.

I felt positively giddy with female power. The skirt I was wearing looked awesome, I had killer shoes, and an adequate amount of bodacious bosom was revealed by my blouse. Not only that, but I was armed with a sure-fire plan and, should it fail, I had Mandy’s emergency line.

I approached the first guy as he left the serving line. “Hi, I’m Jill Morgan Storm. I was wondering if you could help me?”

I stuck out my hand for him to shake and he cooperated after moving his food-laden plate into his left hand. “I’d be happy to help.”

He looked proud and pleased to be asked. This was going to be easier than I’d imagined. “I’m thinking of a career change. Are you an easel salesman?”

He nodded.

“Do you like it?”

“Love it. Are you in sales?”

“Sort of. I work for the hotel.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a sous chef.” I searched for something to say that would get him to start talking in longer sentences. “I never realized there were so many easel salesmen. Who do you sell easels to?”

“Just about everyone. My company sells a full line of presentation and display easels to distributors, office supply companies, advertising and marketing companies, hotel conference centers, and even artist supply companies.”

“Wow.” That was so much more than I wanted to know.

“We also sell other items, such as dry-erase boards, interactive marker boards, chalkboards.”

“I see.” I did see. As he continued yammering about different presentation products, my eyes began to glaze and I saw that he was a total bore and the only thing more boring I could think of was to actually work as an easel salesman.

But if I only had to tolerate him coming home once a week, maybe I could deal with it? Maybe I could change the subject? “So, are you a Las Vegas native?”

“Nah, I’m from Omaha. Here for the convention and to get in a little slot machine action. How about you?”

“Oh, I don’t gamble.” I especially didn’t gamble on the easel salesmen all living out of state. How was I going to date them? “Don’t any of you guys live in Las Vegas?”

“Yeah. There are sales reps from all over. In fact, the number-one salesperson from this region is standing over there by the bar.”

I turned my head where he indicated, and happy days, It was my second choice easel sales rep, Mr. James Bond look-alike. Maybe he’d be more interesting than this guy. “Thanks,” I said as I headed toward my next victim … er … possible.

Feeling much more brave this time, I walked up to him and said, “Hi. I hear you’re from Vegas.”

“That’s right. How’d you know?” He smiled and I rather liked the way his eyes seemed to smile, as well.

“A guy over there said you were. I’m Jill Morgan Storm and I wonder if you can help me?”

“Nice to meet you, Jill. I’m Anthony Winston. I’d love to help, but first, can I get you a drink?”

This was more like it. “What are you having?”

“Oh, this is just a Coke,” he said. “I don’t drink much.”

Better and better.

We chatted for a while and it went according to plan. He hadn’t launched into a spiel about his products. And he seemed genuinely interested when I mentioned I was the hotel sous chef.

“Do you have any specialties—” he was asking when another easel boy joined us. “Hey, Tony. Who you chatting with?”

I automatically checked for the matrimonial evidence and a thin gold band flashed,
not eligible
.

“This joker works at 5N with me. Jerry, meet Jill,” replied Tony. “She’s the chef.”

“Here to look after us salesmen?”

“You could say that,” I replied. “I like to make sure all our patrons are well fed.” I wanted to get back to my
tête-à-tête
with Tony and turned away, but Jerry didn’t seem to take a hint.

“The appetizers are great. I really liked those little pinwheel thingies. Did you make them?”

“It was my recipe.”

“They’re good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Go away
.

“Tony, you were going to tell me about selling easels.”

“You asked the right guy,” interrupted Jerry who punched Tony on the arm. “He’s the region’s best.”

“Really.” I looked at Tony through my lashes. “I always did like the best.”

Tony blushed and Jerry laughed.

“I can see I’m butting in,” said Jerry.

I didn’t say anything, thinking he’d finally gotten the hint, but Tony opened his mouth to object. Quickly grabbing one of the stuffed mushrooms from Jerry’s plate, I stuffed it in Tony’s mouth. “Try this.”

Jerry yanked his plate behind his back and looked at me as if I’d stolen candy from a baby. “Well, um, nice to meet you.” He backed away toward a group of men standing near the string quartet.

“Do you like the stuffed mushroom?” I asked innocently.

Tony took the napkin from around his Coke and blotted his lips. “Very good.”

Now that I had him back to myself, I wasn’t sure what to say. And I could tell from the way he was looking at me that I’d better get to the point soon. Unfortunately, every word of my plan evaporated from my brain and I was unable to think of a conversational gambit. Surely I didn’t need to use Mandy’s emergency line, yet? So I asked the only other thing I could think of. “Are you single?”

“Divorced.”

“Me, too.”

He had really nice hazel eyes and I liked the way they seemed to glitter with interest, as if he really saw me, not just the hotel sous chef.

Two other salesmen came up and clapped him on the back, congratulating him for making number one. While they chatted about selling easels, I continued watching Tony. He seemed very nice, like someone I’d really enjoy spending one week out of four with.

Unfortunately, he seemed very popular. I began to feel a little desperate, as if I’d never get his attention again. But he must have been feeling the same way, because he said, “Excuse me. I need to ask Jill a question.”

He separated himself from the others, took my arm, and walked me toward a dark corner of the ballroom. I liked him more and more.

“Thanks for going along with me,” he said. “Those two guys are my chief competitors and they really get on my nerves.”

“My pleasure.” Now I truly was at a loss for what to say. I’d asked about his job, his marital status. What else was left but Mandy’s line?

It was definitely an emergency.

My forehead beaded with nervous perspiration. Could I say something like that? I appeared to be at risk of losing my best tuition candidate, so I opened my mouth to force the words from my mouth:
If you play your cards right, I’ll let you be my love slave
, but he spoke first.

“Say, I know this is fast, but would you consider having dinner with me some time?” he asked.

What a relief. I might talk a good game, but I don’t have the steel
cojones
needed to carry off a line like Mandy’s.

I smiled at Tony. This I could handle. I peeked up at him through my eyelashes. Maybe even a dimple or two. This I could do. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Survey Comments:

My husband’s job requires 40 percent travel. This means he’s actually gone 70 percent of the time.

Since he isn’t home often, when he arrives I want everything in place to make him feel happy and comfortable. I want “home” to be a place he longs to return to.

I’ve found that preparation is every bit as important as participation. I start three days before he’s due home. I do everything, from cooking ahead to cleaning beneath the refrigerator to bikini waxing. Once he walks in the door, I’m not distracted by household chores. This is the true secret to our successful and blissful relationship. My motto: Always Ready!

Good luck!

Pre-date rituals can be more important than the date itself.

Think about it.

You know how excited you get when you’re about to go out with a really cool guy? Your blood seems to rush more smoothly through your veins.

There’s a high-pitched buzz of excitement in your head, making you feel more clever, more attractive, more everything.

You’re happy.

Are those birds chirping in the trees?

Your heart seems to expand.

The entire world is painted in rosy hues.

Jokes are funnier. You laugh more.

And the reason you get so excited is because this guy might be
the one
. The guy you’ll want to spend the rest of your days and nights with.

At least, that’s how it is with me.

But the majority of first dates end up being duds.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s the odds.

How can you expect to find Mr. Perfect without discarding a lot of Mr. Grosses along the way?

I’m looking for a knight in shining armor who will sweep me off my feet and pay my son’s college tuition. What I generally get is a toad in dirty underwear who expects me to do his laundry and prepare sumptuous meals for him because I’m, like,
a chef
.

After rejoining the dating pool, I’ve learned to enjoy preparing for a date because sometimes it’s the only pleasure that lasts.

If it sounds like I’m jaded, I am.

Almost all of my female friends, I’ve noticed through the years, spend at least three hours getting ready before a first date. Some spend days. They’d spend weeks if they had that much notice, but most guys don’t think that far ahead.