Page 22 of The Frog Prince

But none of that happens. The day sails along, far too quickly for my tastes, and before I know it, it’s five thirty and I’m home (not even traffic to slow me down!), changing for my date with Tom Lehman.

If my dread could be visualized, it’d look like something contestants onFear Factorhave to eat. Spoiled. Slimy. Maggot-infested.

*

Stepping out ofthe shower, I try to give myself a pep talk. Tonight may not be that bad a date. It could be fun. Tom may be less of a pompous ass in real life than he is on the phone.

And yet, as I towel off in my bedroom, I know I’m about as excited as I was last March when I went to the dentist for my second crown and discovered that a root canal was needed, too.

Standing in front of my closet, I try on virtually everything dangling from a hanger. Most of the things I want to wear don’t fit, and the things that do fit make me look huge.

No female likes gaining weight, and for me, those extra ten, fifteen pounds equal failure. It’s not that I care if I look chunky-ish for Tom, but the extra weight reminds me I’ve lost control, and good girls never, ever lose control.

Eventually I settle on black jeans and a long, lacy black sweater I wear over a black silk camisole. The soft sweater covers my hips and butt, but the open lace weave shows off my slender collarbones.

I pull on a silver necklace, silver bangles for my wrist, and with the flat iron I go over my hair, flattening it straight. I use more makeup than I have in a while, darkening my eyes, lining my lips, using blush to contour imaginary cheekbones.

The doorbell rings. Butterflies fill my stomach. I look in the mirror, study my now serious face.

I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know how to do this. This is a date, my first real date in years, and I’m petrified.

But I can do this. I can, and Aimee and Olivia and everybody say he’s a good guy, a really nice guy, so I open the door bravely.

Tom enters my narrow entry hall and checks me out, his gaze sweeping up and down before he gives me a nod of approval. “You look hot.”

The guy’s word choice isn’t my favorite, but I’m trying to be flattered. I haven’t felt pretty, much less “hot,” in ages, so I smile. “Thanks.” I try to find a compliment for him even as I suppress a whisper of disappointment. He’s… okay. Medium height. Nice features. Dark hair. Except at the back of his head, where he’s bald. I shouldn’t be disappointed. He could be a wonderful guy. I just need to give him a chance. “You look great, too.”

I get my coat, lock up the house, and as we descend the front steps, I see his car, a small BMW model, waiting in the driveway (Cindy would love that), headlights on even though the engine’s not running. I reach for the passenger door, but Tom stops me.

“Don’t you even think about it,” he says loudly, firmly. “That’s my job, sweetheart. A woman should never have to open her own door.”

“I don’t mind opening my own door.”

He presses between me and the car. “A man should take care of a woman.”

It’s a nice idea, I want to tell him, and there’s a part of me that would love to be taken care of, but it’s beginning to seem like a fairy tale.

Inside the car, Tom fiddles with the music, the dashboard electronically bright. He’s changing CDs, flipping through his extensive collection before settling on something that reminds me of Norah Jones.

Mood music.

It’s going to be that kind of evening all night long.

I buckle up, tell myself to lighten up, and then we’re off, gunning up the hill.

“So what do you like to do in your free time?” Tom asks, shifting gears hard and fast.

We tear around the corner. I grip the edges of the seat. “The usual.”

He shoots me a side glance. “What’s that?”

“Read. See movies. Hang out with friends.”

“What kind of movies?”

“Comedies. Drama—”

“Chick flicks, right?”

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