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1
LIZZIE
Seriously, what was I thinking? Me, willingly going on a blind date?
Not a chance, not in this lifetime.
Yet here I am, rushing to get ready for a date with a man I know almost nothing about. It’s like taking the stage without a rehearsal, only worse.
I don’t know how old he is.
I’ve got no clue what he’s into.
I don’t even know what he looks like.
The only thing I know is his first name (Hector) and his profession (doctor).
“I’ll cover the rest of your shift so you can leave early,” my coworker, Bella, told me. It was oddly nice of her, considering what a snot she’s been to me since I started at the club as a dancer. Several of the girls at Sinner’s Lounge, who have been here longer, told me to ignore her. Apparently, she acts that way toward everyone. I’ve got a feeling she only agreed to cover my shift because it means more stage time for her.
Regardless, work’s handled.
All I’ve got to do is spruce up a bit to go meet a complete stranger at a restaurant that’s far more fancy than I’m used to. I mean, the place is called “Amelio’s Italian-American Restaurant.” Sounds more like I’m about to meet the Godfather than have a plate of pasta. Truthfully, it isn’t just the restaurant that has me worried. I’m not in the market for romance. Right now, I just want to savor some me-time, revel in the freedom of being freshly single, and channel my energy into focusing on my future.
The only reason I caved and agreed to this date is because Mrs. Loughty can charm the socks off a cactus, and I’m powerless against her British charm. And believe me, I’ve tried. It’s hard to deny my tiny, seventy-year-old, tea-loving neighbor anything, really. When those puppy-dog eyes peered over her cuppa, pleading for me to let her set me up with her best friend Linda’s son, I had to agree.
I mean, how bad can a date with Doctor Hector be?
At best, he’s everything his name suggests: handsome, muscular, protective, and… with a heart as courageous as the legendary Hector, the greatest warrior of Troy himself—in short, a man whose company I can enjoy for the duration of a dinner. In the worst case scenario, all I’ll get is a warm meal, and then it’s farewell forever with Dr. Hector.
Wait.
Or was it Herbert? Shit.
Getting my shift covered is one thing. Trying to get a ride is another entirely. Even though I was loath to do so, I asked Rex (my ex-boyfriend) if I could borrow his car. I probably should have taken an Uber, but I’m trying to save every dime I can.
It’s a terrible car. A fifteen-year-old yellow rust bucket that shakes violently when it gets above fifty. I suspect an elegant place like Amelio’s has a valet, but I can’t subject them to the horror of parking the beat-up car or witnessing me stepping out of that monstrosity. So, I choose to park a bit farther away. I barely make it a block from the place into a parking lot before the hunk of junk sputters and dies.
“Crap.” I try to turn the key, but the ignition doesn’t even make a sound.
I text Rex to let him know that his car died, seeing as I promised to return it at the end of the night. Well, that’s clearly not happening, and I want him to have a heads-up that there might be a delay. I’m well aware he won’t be thrilled, to put it mildly, but let’s be real—he’s got his own set of “imperfections” that haven’t exactly made me happy either. It’s not like I purposely crashed his car into a tree to get back at him.
“Let’s hope for a perfect date, and maybe the doctor can double as my chauffeur,” I mutter to myself as I exit the car and slam the rusty door behind me.
When I stand in front of the restaurant at 8:06 p.m., one of my fears comes to fruition.
It’s too fancy for my liking.
I feel like a fish out of water. On the plus side, I’ve opted to wear a knee-length red dress I love dearly and matching shoes, so I at least look like I fit in. It’s one of my favorite dresses, and I sewed it myself. I’ve got a curvy frame with quite wide hips, which effectively means that I usually have to alter clothes from the store anyway. For me there’s nothing more reassuring than basting hems, cutting fabrics and watching a piece of fabric become a garment. My mother taught me to sew, and the memory of us sitting in the kitchen, her guiding me through the workings of her old Singer sewing machine, stands out as one of those rare, cherished moments we shared. Besides, sewing also benefits my wallet, which is notoriously empty.
I hope my new job at Sinner’s Lounge will change that. It’s a hip place with good pay and benefits. I decided early on not to tell my date what I do for a living, at least not immediately. Guys tend to react one of two ways when they learn I’m a burlesque dancer: either they completely hate it or love it far too much.
Mrs. Loughty has made it abundantly clear that Doctor Hector (or Herbert) is a gynecologist, a fact she repeated over and over. Don’t ask me why she kept pressing that specific information. She followed up by saying he’s only been divorced three times. I still can’t be sure if it was a joke or whether Mrs. Loughty has a colorful past, in which three divorces mean as little as her appearance suggests. Either way, she said Doctor H was single and ready to mingle.
Just go in and make the best of it, I remind myself.
If all else fails, I’ve got a backup plan. I briefed my roomie Pippa to call me at exactly 8:15 p.m., so I could excuse myself if necessary.
Walking inside, I scan the restaurant. The host at the podium greets me with a genuine smile, but then his phone rings. “Un momento, per favore. I’ll be right with you, signorina,” he says before taking the call.
