Page 30 of The Merry Matchmaker

“Yes, I do. Frankie, I’m really into you. We could have a lot of fun together.”

“Yeah? Tell me your favorite band.”

“The Strokes.”

“That’s one of Stef’s favorite bands.”

“How about you? Do you like them?”

“No. I like the Backstreet Boys. Ever hear anything by them?”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“See? We don’t have anything in common.”

“We like different bands, and that means we don’t have anything in common?” he protested. “Oh, come on, Frankie. That’s ridiculous, especially since only last night we were having a pretty good time playing cards.”

Okay, that had been a bad example. She tried again. “People are at different stages at different times in their life, and when they’re years apart the stages don’t match up, especially as you get older. I’ll be ready for retirement long before you will.”

I’ll be a hag while you still look like a stud.It was a thought she didn’t particularly want to acknowledge, but there it was. And it was true. A woman got wrinkles, and people said she was old. A man got wrinkles, and people said he was distinguished. Men aged beautifully. Mitch was proof of that.

“Maybe I’ll retire early,” Brock said. “Frankie, you’re a beautiful woman. And full of life. I want to spend time with you. I think we could be great together.”

No, great had been her and Ike.

Brock leaned forward and ran his fingers along her arm, giving her the shivers.

No, no! No shivers with this man.

“Let’s give this a chance,” he said softly. “Go out with me again.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she began.

“Look, I’m not saying you have to jump in bed with me. But let’s hang out and see where this goes. You know, there are advantages to being with younger men. They last longer.”

She knew what he was alluding to, but she couldn’t help thinking in broader terms. If she were looking for someone to spend her life with, someone who would make it clear to life’s finish line with her, gambling on a younger man would be the safest bet.

And did she want to spend the rest of her life sleeping in that queen bed with only memories, eating breakfast at her kitchen table by herself?

Oh good grief, what a pathetic picture she was painting. It wasn’t as if she had no life. She hung out with her mom and her sister and daughter. And Mitch. She had a business to run. And when was the last time she’d sat down at her kitchen table to eat? Breakfast was always an English muffin with peanut butter that she ate at the bathroom counter while putting on her makeup. She wasn’t some sad, lonely thing.

“Give me some time to convince you,” Brock urged. “Dinners out.”

The pizza was good.

“West Coast swing at the White Owl. I hear they have a club that meets there.”

“You dance?”

Now there was temptation. Frankie had watched many a post on TikTok with dancers showing off their sexy moves. The dance that had started in the forties had come a long way.

“I do. Used to dance with my ex. I could teach you some great moves.”

She just bet he could. She could feel her resolution weakening.

“You deserve to be happy,” he said.

“I am happy,” she said. What did she look like, some lonely loser?

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