Page 3 of Champagne Fizz

I’ve always been into nerds, but Clark Kent here feels like The King of the Nerds. And let’s be real, Clark Kent nevertrulylooked like an actual nerd anyway. We could always see all those bulging muscles under his flannel alter-ego. This guy’s no different, and he probably knows exactly what he’s selling.

“Slay Your Business?” Kent says. “Really? You mean Sue Blade?”

My whole body perks up. He knows it?

“You listen to Sue Blade?” I ask, turning with a smile, but Clark Kent’s face scrunches up in disgust.

“Oh God, no!” He shakes his head like he’d rather eat slime, and all that momentary hope plunges like a rock into my gut. “I mean, I don’t have a vagina,” he continues. “So, I’m not the target audience. But even if I did, I can’t stomach that woman’s—”

“Brilliance?” I cut in, turning sharply to give him a piercing stare. “You can’t stomach her savvy? Her know how? Her ability to inspire and empower women all over the country? Cause what? You find her to be a little abrasive? Not feminine enough? She says what she wants and that makes you feel like a schmuck?”

And there I go … running my trap.

Congratulations Kendall, another hot guy wishes he’d never met me within the first thirty seconds. Gold star for trying!

I’m all fire and confrontation, but Clark Kent—

Smiles.

It’s that same sweet smile from before, the one that’s innocent and genuine and makes his face redden. In fact, he blushes like he’s embarrassed, and he’s the one who said something wrong.

What the heck is it about men who blush? It completely does me in.

And now, my lady-thunder-from-down-under has turned into a raging tsunami. Yes, Clark Kent here is nerdy, and hot, and adorable, but that doesn’t mean my body needs to go full-Hawaiian-luau.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, putting up his hands in a surrendering, peace gesture. “Obviously, you’re a big fan. I don’t even know you. I shouldn’t have said anything. That was rude of me.” He shakes his head and tries to save face. “How about we start over,” he offers. “What business are you in?”

Kent motions to the elevator and by extension the hotel. He must think I’m also staying here and that I have the kind of big-entrepreneurial cajones to afford this place.

I glance down at the canary-yellow business suit I’m wearing and wonder what business he might think I’m in. I know a yellow suit sounds like a clown’s outfit, but it’s surprisingly feminine—yellow pencil skirt, white blouse, matching tailored yellow jacket. Plus, it’s all about how you wear it. You should wear your clothes. Your clothes shouldn’t wear you. I’ve always rocked bright colors, and yellow is my power color (thank you, Sue Blade).

Maybe he’ll believe that I’m in fashion, or interior design—something design related. One doesn’t wear canary yellow unless they’re trying to make a personal-brand statement.

But I’m not one for complicated lies, so I skip the elaborate fib and decide to beef-up the truth. “I’m an expert negotiator,” I say, pointing up to the roof. “I’m about to negotiate my clients out of making a huge mistake.”

“Is that so?” Kent nods, impressed. “Bad investment? Real estate?”

“Nope,” I smooth back my wild mane of curly brown hair (which actually looks semi-decent today and not like a bad Bob Ross wig). “It’s something more personal and intimate.”

Kent’s eyebrow hitches at the word intimate.

Way too sexy, Mr. Kent. Way too sexy!

I smooth out my suit jacket and clear my throat. “I’m about to convince my clients that the last place they want to hold their wedding reception is that racy sex-bomb of a restaurant on the roof. It might have a nice view, but flaming cocktails are cheap.”

That eyebrow is still hitching.

“Think about it: a wedding veil and a flaming martini? Can you imagine?” I venture, and he nods like that does sounds like a disaster. “Sex and fire and uber-expensive food don’t fit their vibe,” I continue. “Where a couple gets married should reflect the couple—who they are together. And trust me, this place—it might be hot for a one-night-stand, but it’s not where you tie the knot on forever.”

“Wow.” Clark Kent nods awkwardly at my tirade.

Yeah, first impressions are not my strong suit. Once again, I’ve let my mouth lead the party, and truth be told, I really need to reign that blabber-spout.

“I’m not sure if I should steer clear of the rooftop restaurant altogether,” Kent says, “or ask you if you want to meet me there later.”

Our eyes catch, and suddenly all the air zips out of the elevator. The only words I remember saying in the last few seconds are:

Sex.

---