Page 2 of Ask Me Something

I observed the men file in and take their seats. The women assessed them with quiet whispers, practically giddy with anticipation over the potential to meet the man of their dreams.

“Remember, ladies, you only get one chance to make a good first impression,” Ms. Texas advised us.

Like I needed a reminder about the importance of a good first impression or the fact that I wasn’t the kind of girl known for making one. Initially, I came off as unfriendly, but the truth was wrapped around my wrist in the form of a hair band. I snapped it discreetly: once, twice and a third time, telling myself that I wouldn’t let my anxiety control me.

“The gentlemen are getting their nametags and sheets together, so only five more minutes, ladies,” our MC of Love offered up.

For a moment it was so laughable that someone like me was here trying to make a good first impression that I knew I had to fire off a text to Brian.

“About to start. Lady in charge said to be sure to make a good first impression.”

“Your specialty. Remember no RBF.”

“Haha, very funny.”

RBF was an acronym for Resting Bitch Face. I had it. I couldn’t help it. And I’d refused to believe it until he’d essentially proven it to me years ago. Our professional relationship wasn’t without its challenges, considering I wasn’t always the easiest person to manage. But the one thing I could always count on was him being honest with me even if it meant telling me I had a resting bitch face.

“I’d wish you luck, but I wouldn’t really mean it,” he texted back.

I wondered if he’d intended it the way it sounded. We were always flirting like this, with neither of us actually making a move beyond the platonic.

Bracing myself, I downed one final gulp of my tea before Ms. You-Can-Find-Love-In-Five-Minutes told us to stand in front of a chair along the line.

The bell sounded, and we each took a seat in front of prospective mates with the clock ticking.

Raising a brow at the man across from me, I tried very hard to keep my face from sliding into RBF. My mind wandered to why Brian was up in New York in the first place. He hadn’t mentioned it when we’d spoken yesterday on the phone.

Crap. I was still thinking about Brian, and the man in front of me at the small table had been talking for two full minutes. I shifted my focus to him.

He wasn’t unattractive. And that was pretty much the only description I could give as he finished up.

“That’s me in a nutshell. How about you?” he asked.

Er, okay. “My name is Sasha—”

“Yeah that’s on your nametag,” he teased.

Before I could help it, my eyes narrowed. I watched him shift uncomfortably. Oh, hell. I’d gone from resting bitch face to full-on active bitch face. “Right, sorry. I’m nervous,” I fibbed, trying to recover. I took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-two, and I work a lot of hours in the advertising field. Um, I moved up here from Charlotte, North Carolina, last year.”

“Do you like your job?” He appeared genuinely curious.

“Yes, absolutely.” There should be no reason why I shouldn’t enjoy it. My career was exactly where I’d always dreamed it would be. So what if my level of anxiety had increased with it? It was to be expected, right? The higher the paycheck, the larger the responsibility, my dad had once told me.

“That’s good. Not many people can say that. I’m currently between jobs and trying my hand at Broadway auditions.”

Uh, yeah. I could officially add that statement to my virtual list of instant turnoffs. Be nice, I reminded myself. “Is there any particular part or show you’re interested in?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “My dream would be one of the monkeys in the Wicked production.”

For a moment, I entertained the idea that I was on some type of reality television show where I was being punked. I even looked up for the hidden camera or for some celebrity to come out. Who the hell said their Broadway dream was to be a monkey? After thirty seconds, it became obvious this was for real, and even though my mind was saying, I’ve got nothing, my mouth mercifully managed, “That’s nice.”

Thank God I was literally saved by the bell. But as I scanned down the long line of nineteen more men, the panic started to well up.

Catherine caught my eye and gave me a wink. She was enjoying herself. Undoubtedly she would make a great impression in the small allotted time. We might both be polished and professional career women who were single in the city, but that was about it when it came to the similarities between us. Her blonde hair was soft and framed her heart-shaped face flawlessly. My chin-length hair was black and cut in a chic bob. She was fair with blue eyes and classic features, whereas I had my biological mother’s brown eyes, olive skin and full lips from somewhere else in my family gene pool. Despite being the editor for Cosmo Life magazine, Catherine was down-to-earth and genuinely sweet. Sweet would never be a word to describe me. I snapped my band under the next table three more times, willing myself to stay calm. I could do this.

Five guys later, I was ready to feign a minor medical emergency. The next candidate, however, interrupted my thoughts on what appendicitis might look like. He was very attractive. Since his eyes were running over me with frank interest, I could tell he might be thinking the same thing.

“I’m Bradley, and you must be lost. A woman like you definitely doesn’t need a speed date to find a man,” he theorized.

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