Page 32 of The Yes Factor

“Can’t! I told you Stella doesn’t give out last names. How am I supposed to find a ‘Brad’ on Facebook? It’s a mystery, an old-school blind date. Come on, it’s fun!” She’s clapping her hands like one of those performing sea lions at Sea World, which is exactly how this date is making me feel.

* * *

I’m walking in my three-inch heels at a fairly brisk pace as I review the game plan in my head. I told Liv on the drive over that I was only going through with this if she promised to tag along and rescue me if things got weird. I mean, we don’t know anything about this guy and after watching a rerun of Stella’s show, my faith in her is dismally low, as are my expectations for this date.

I check myself out one last time in the reflection of the restaurant glass, which I know is lame, but I can’t help myself. I still want to look good, even if this is one big joke. The red dress I’ve accessorized with a vintage bag looks sexy and put together, but not like I’m trying too hard. I don’t usually use this bag because it’s got a rock hard resin shell and is on the small side, kind of like a pearlized crystal ball, but Liv thought it was perfect. I take a deep breath to remind myself that I’m not like those women on Who Wants to Date a Millionaire!.

I slow down as I approach the restaurant entrance and look around hesitantly for what I imagine a millionaire who’d use a dating service would look like: an old, fat, white guy with bad plastic surgery who’s channeling the swagger of a thirty-year-old despite his eighty-year-old chicken neck. I spot just the man as he feebly tosses the keys of his sparkling white Bentley to the valet. I smile at him, swallowing the lump that’s suddenly risen in my throat, when suddenly from the open doorway of the restaurant, I hear a deep, smooth voice call out, “Rebecca?”

I stop in my tracks, looking around to see who’s calling my name. When I hear it a second time, I walk into the restaurant and see a fairly attractive man smiling and waving at me as if we’re old friends. Maybe we went to high school together? I glance around the restaurant one last time to make sure he’s actually addressing me and when he smiles and nods, I head in his direction.

Assuming this is the Brad B., I’m relieved to see he’s mid-forties, around five foot ten, not too heavy, almost athletic, with a full head of hair (a plus). Then not so relieved to see that he’s wearing an ugly navy and white gingham shirt (a negative—screams preppy good ole boy) paired with the most ridiculous fishing vest I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine what he keeps in all of those pockets! I inwardly scold myself to not be so judgy. I can overlook bad fashion choices—things like that are fixable. His smile and youthful energy make me feel more optimistic, despite my doubts about this whole evening.

I extend my hand. “You must be Brad. I’m Rebecca. But, everyone calls me Bex for short.”

He laughs good-naturedly and says in a subtle Okie accent, “Bex! No wonder you looked confused when I called your name. I’m sorry if that was awkward. Stella told me Rebecca, so…” he tapers off and I can tell he’s embarrassed.

Perching on a high-backed chair at the posh bar, I jump in to save him because it’s not his fault he called the wrong name. I guess Stella’s bio of me was just as short, although there was clearly a picture of me included.

“Don’t worry about it, Brad.” And then I give him a playful look. “You don’t go by Bra for short, do you?” What am I saying? Why do I feel so nervous? Fortunately, for me, Brad laughs off my weak joke and hands me the menu.

“Wow, it all looks delicious. I want to order one of everything.” I try not to drool looking at the menu. I absolutely go weak in the knees for Cajun food.

The bartender asks if we’d like to dine at the bar and Brad and I both answer at the same time, “Sure!” We look at each other and laugh.

“Did you have a reservation for a table? I’ll tell the hostess to cancel it and that you’ll be dining at the bar.” The bartender has a casual, friendly style which puts me at ease.

“Thanks, that’d be great. Yes, the reservation is under the name Brad Blunderwood.”

Okay, so Blunderwood isn’t exactly the sexiest last name and Bex Ophelia Blunderwood would leave me as B.O.B. or technically R.O.B…but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

“We’ll start with a dozen oysters on the half shell and the grilled blackened alligator appetizer. Does that sound all right with you, Bex?” I nod and relax back into my chair. We take a moment to discuss the cocktail menu, which is even better than I hoped for, and as Brad continues his easy chatter with the bartender about our food choices, I see Liv saunter into the restaurant as planned. She’s trying to look inconspicuous, but that’s nearly impossible for Liv. I give her credit for trying, but wearing sunglasses inside isn’t helping her attempt at incognito. As she takes a seat on the other side of the bar I can tell she’s looking to me for a sign. I give her a subtle nod and smile to let her know everything is A-OK. I’m only ten minutes into this date but I actually have a good feeling. Maybe it’s just the relief that he’s not eighty, but Brad is so much better than I expected.

We’re polishing off our first round of Hurricane Camilles (which I imagine are as strong as the real one) and finishing up the last of the oysters when I get a text alert. I know it’s Liv, because this was part of The Plan, so I excuse myself to the ladies’.

I waltz into the bathroom with a sly grin on my face and Liv practically jumps me as soon as the door shuts behind me.

“You little minx! You like him!” she says in a singsong voice.

“I know this is crazy and totally not what I was expecting. But, I do!” My excitement is contagious seeing how Liv’s smile grows as wide as mine. I don’t know if she looks so happy because she’s happy for me or if it’s because she’s about to burst out with an “I told you so,” but it doesn’t matter. I do feel good.

“Okay, give me all the deets and make it quick. I’m dying to know! And, PS, why is he wearing a fishing vest? Where’s the canoe?” She blurts all of that out in one breathless stream of consciousness.

“Right? I know. We can work on that. No biggie.” I wave the fishing vest issue away as if it were a bad smell. “Okay, so, his name is Brad Blunderwood.”

Liv cringes slightly.

“I know, you don’t have to say it. He travels a bunch and owns a boat in Marina. He doesn’t have any kids and, uh, I don’t know…What else? I don’t know. We’ve just been chitchatting. He’s a super nice guy with a great sense of humor and a weird last name! But, I like him. Time for the main course!”

Liv looks at me like she has no idea what I’m talking about. “What’s the main course?”

“Crawfish étouffée, what else would it be!” I slide past her to push open the bathroom door, then look back over my shoulder to give her an over-the-top wink. “And there may even be dessert!”

* * *

So, when I said dessert, I really was talking about Key lime pie. But after Brad paid the bill and invited me across the street to see the view from his penthouse suite at the new swanky Spade Hotel, I couldn’t resist, thinking that a different kind of dessert might be in store.

I didn’t want to tell Liv I was going to his room, so when I texted her to let her know I was hopping over to “the rooftop” at the Spade to watch the sunset, she responded immediately.

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