I’m back with more of the new WIP, Speed Date. It’s a short story I have hopes of turning into a novella or novel.
This excerpt is from where I left off last week, including the eight from Weekend Writing Warriors. Roberta is up to lucky number 8.
Five dates later I had the formula down pat: your name, my name, where you’re from, what you do for a living, do you party, what kind of car do you drive or what’s you hobby? One guy asked if I believed in a Supreme Being. I had to restrain myself from answering, “Only Diana Ross.”
I looked around. My card showed this was only date number eight. Did we get to take a break or did we have to do this as a marathon? I suddenly remembered an old movie—They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
I shook away the thought and Dater Number Eight sat down.
Another blonde, my least favorite hair color, although it wasn’t that light white blonde that I despise. His was more of a burnished metal, the color of old, well-worn gold coins. Red-gold is my absolute favorite hair color for a man—the coloring of the young Henry VIII. My ideal man, actually, is Henry VIII. In his early years he was gorgeous, as attested in Holbein’s famous portrait. The pencil-thin auburn beard defining his determined jaw made me shiver every time I saw it.
This guy, Number Eight, was no Henry VIII. I looked candidly at him, appraising. He smiled back, showing brilliant white teeth. Blinding white. If the room were suddenly plunged into darkness we could use his teeth to find our way out. His smile was mesmerizing, though.
Maybe he could be Henry VIII. The hair color was close, his jaw square and determined. No pencil-thin beard, but he could be encouraged to grow one. He had the athletic build of the young Henry, wide, well-muscled shoulders and chest that showed through his white Polo shirt. But was he also well spoken, well read, well endowed—with wit and intelligence as was the Tudor king?
I had four and a half minutes to find out. And Number Eight intrigued me.
“Do they call you Bertie?” That charming bright-white smile flashed again.
“No one ever has.”
“I asked because you look more like a Bertie than a Roberta.”
“You think so?” Definitely intrigued.
“My name’s Gabriel.”
“Not Gabe?” It was my turn to tease.
“Never.” That grin again. It was infectious. “Are you as bored by all of this as I am?”
This man not only thought outside the box he lived outside it. Live dangerously, Roberta. “Actually I was, until now.”
“Good answer. You want to get out of here when the gong sounds again? Go grab some dinner, maybe?”
Talk about a speed date. But I was hooked. Or rather, Bertie was. “You don’t think they’ll mind if we leave?”
He shrugged. “We paid them.” His gaze took me in, head to toe. “I think I’ve gotten my money’s worth.”
Speed dating just became a whole new ballgame.
Disclaimer: The picture of the guy is a representation only. He looks a tad young for Gabriel, but otherwise I thought it a good likeness of how I imagine him.
I hope you enjoyed that little snippet. There will be more from Speed Date tomorrow on Weekend Writing Warriors! But for now, you should check out some more Saturday Samples. Thanks for coming by!