Page 1 of Wrong Number, Right Valentine

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BANKS

My interfering boss set me up on a Valentine’s Day blind date.

And I was going because he was right, I hadn’t been on a date in a while, and I needed to put myself out there. A blind date on Valentine’s Day was a little odd, but I pushed that thought away.

I backed up to a few days ago when the boss and I were having an informal meeting over lunch.

We usually did this at the beginning of each month to map out our plans for the next thirty days. We had a long-term strategy, but Foster, my boss, liked to drill down to months, weeks, and even days. Sitting in his large office, one of us on the sofa, the other in a comfortable armchair, we’d eat and discuss our plan of action.

His phone had beeped, and it was a reminder to book a restaurant for him and his husband for Valentine’s Day. It must have been my shocked face and my mouth shaped like an O that had him questioning whether I was a romantic.

I’d screwed up my face and said I wasn’t sure of the definition. One person’s romantic was another’s indifferent. I definitelywasn’t into the commercialization of the day and avoided hearts, chocolates, flowers, and dinner dates when the price of a meal was ten times what it would be the following day.

Cynic was perhaps the best way to describe me.

“You should try a dating app, Banks.” He patted me on the shoulder. “That’s how I met my husband.”

I’d shrugged, and he said no more.

But talking wasn’t the problem because he had obviously done something about it and set me up with some guy!

What the everloving…!

And how did I know what Foster did?

Because of a voice message that was on my phone when I finished work today, February 14. I’d worked a half day, as I had to renew my driver’s license on my way home. The message had been timestamped last night but just populated, which would not be a big deal if the person on the other end wasn’t calling about today.

“Foster gave me your name, and I’m so pleased you agreed to come Valentine’s Day.” There was a pause and clearing of the throat before he continued. “Sorry, come isn’t the right word. Glad you accepted to be here on Valentine’s Day.” The guy ummed and ahhed for a bit. “I’m not very good at this, but I’m so grateful.” There was a long silence. “In case you don’t know the address, it's 1739 Harrisville Avenue. You can’t get lost.” He cackled.

It was a red flag when someone said that because I was sure to get lost. Not that I had any intention of accepting the date when I first heard the message.

“But Sizzle and Chill is famous, and any passerby will give you directions.”

A tapping erupted through the phone suggesting he was drumming his fingers on a hard surface.

“Please be here at three. Oh, and wear comfortable shoes, though you probably guessed that much.”

I wouldn’t have. Was he suggesting a hike? Maybe an escape room? A marathon? Caving? Kickboxing? My mind came up with a list of activities that I couldn’t do in what? Flip-flops? Slip-ons? Slippers?

But he’d said to meet him at one of the most popular restaurants in town. Perhaps we’d eat our starters, race outside, and perform an activity that would leave me sweaty and exhausted and return to the restaurant for the main course. I’d be on the floor by that point because it’d been a while since I did much exercise.

I was tempted to arrive really early and wait across the street to work out what we’d be doing that necessitated comfortable shoes.

Standing in front of my mirror an hour before I had to meet the guy, I was conflicted about what to wear. Casual pants, jeans, or dress pants? I went with the latter as I liked how my butt looked in black. I paired it with a white shirt and a jacket which I could ditch if it was too formal.

Under my pants, I wore running shorts and a tee just in case, and black sneakers completed the outfit. I was prepped for anything the guy could throw at me!

I had to stop thinking of him as the guy. My date would be more appropriate. Or I could use his name. It’d been mangled and cut off on the message, but I’d caught “Reg.”

Pondering what his full name was, I’d only come up with Reginald. It sounded as though I should salute it, maybe bow or get on bended knee, and it would better with a “Sir” in front.

I slapped my brow. My imagination was running away with me.

“I’m coming, Reg.” I giggled as I rewound the message and listened to Reg tripping over the word “coming.” I’d very much enjoy coming at the end of the evening, though if our date evolved into any other energetic activity, the type that needed comfortable shoes, I might not be up for it.

Nah, I’d beupfor anything that involved coming.

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