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And here's the first scene: Trouble walked into my office at 8:57 that Monday morning. I didn’t know he was trouble then, of course. Didn’t know the skin rippling on my arms was a warning. Didn’t know how different my life would be in a few short weeks. Dismissing my goosebumps as a chill from the cool air following him in from the outer room, I gestured to the visitor’s chair. He reached across my desk. “Seth Updike. Nice to meet you.” “Regina Blynde. Welcome to Blynde Dating Agency.” His hand was warm and dry and lightly calloused. Warning number two—the butterflies battling in my belly. He wasn’t the first sexy silver fox I’d interviewed. He wasn’t even the first I’d been attracted to. I pushed aside my reaction as the normal hormones of a healthy hetero female confronted by a good-looking male. Besides, he was a client. And clients were strictly off limits. He settled into the leather and chrome chair. No arrogant sprawl, no nervous perching. Just an easy confidence I rarely saw in an applicant. My normal tactic when meeting a new client was to let them take the lead. A few moments of silence had most people jumping in to fill the void, and I learned a lot in those first minutes of babble. Seth Updike, however, appeared ready to wait me out. His broad chest rose and fell with even breaths, his hands lay loosely on his thighs, and his blue eyes watched me with lazy amusement. Two decades plus in human resources had taught me strategies for dealing with all personality types. This man was going to be a challenge, but I was confident I could handle him. I adjusted my approach. “Tell me what you are hoping we can do for you, Mr. Updike.” I always kept things formal until invited otherwise. “It’s Seth.” Bingo. He’d taken the first step. Now we were on the path to becoming a team working to achieve the same goal. “And I’m Ginnie.” I leaned into my tall-backed executive chair and swivelled gently. I knew it dwarfed me, made me look tinier than my five foot and a half inches. Even the twenty pounds of grief weight I carried was disguised by its size. It was a purposeful choice. The less threatening I looked, the more people opened up to me. You’d think people hoping I will find them love and companionship would be eager to tell me about themselves. Not so much. We all have masks we hide behind. We all want others to see us as stronger, prettier, smarter than we see ourselves. I am not exempt from this. My mask is stitched together with pain and sorrow and fury. It helps me see the masks others wear. “I’m not here to find a soulmate.” This was warning number three, though I didn’t know it at the time. “I’m fifty years old and understand when to temper my expectations. I’ll be happy with a companion, someone who enjoys the same things I do, who doesn’t create unnecessary drama, who will enhance my life.” I knew he was fifty-one years old from the online profile he’d filled out. He might have misspoken without a hidden agenda—I often had to think hard before I remembered I was fifty-four—but then again, he might be vain enough to lie just that teensy bit. It was a small failing and I liked him better for it. “What made you choose my agency?” “You hooked me with the name.” The lazy amusement flared into a bright spark, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening. I despaired the day would ever come when wrinkles on a woman would be as sexy as those on a man. “The fact that you’re a local business reeled me in. It was your process that landed me, though.” He’d listed fishing as one of his hobbies. Along with hiking, camping, skiing, and other outdoor activities. I found it easy to believe he’d been honest about those pursuits. He had the lean honed look of a guy who spent little time in front of a TV or computer screen. “What about the process?” I probed. He crossed a khaki-clad leg over his knee and smoothed his palm down his thigh. It was his first sign of nervousness. “I researched other online dating services, but they felt too impersonal, too”—he circled a hand in the air above his head—“global. When I read that the online profile is only the first step in your matching system, and that you interview all applicants face-to-face, I figured I’d give it a try. I was also impressed that the references on your website are all from people in their forties and older. I have a twenty-five-year-old daughter. I’m not interested in dating anyone even remotely close to her age.” Well, that was refreshing. I rejected many of the men—and more of the women than you might think—who applied because they were unwilling to consider potential partners in their own age group. Not that I insist clients stick within a certain range. But those who are adamant their dates must be ten or fifteen or twenty years younger often have issues that are more complicated than I am willing to deal with. “Your application indicates your most recent long-term relationship ended about ten years ago.” We didn’t use the term ‘married’ on our forms. It was the commitment that counted, not the paperwork. “Yes.” This brevity was at odds with his earlier openness. I poked a little more. “So why now? What encouraged you to seek our help?” The skin at the base of my throat tingled from his stare as he contemplated his response. He continued to avoid my eyes when he finally did reply. “It seemed like the right time.” I sensed there was more to his answer, but he was allowed to keep his counsel. Unless his secret harmed another of my clients. Then I’d be all over his ass. I pulled over the folder I’d prepared. “Here’s a selection of women I think might suit. Let’s get to work.” You can read the first three chapters here, but don't forget to come back and hop over to Leslie Hachtel so you don't miss out on what she shared!
Candace’s feet ached. She’d been on them for hours, dealing with last minute Valentine’s Day orders. She hitched a hip onto the tall stool behind the counter and sighed as the pressure lifted from her ankles and arches. At the moment, the shop was empty. Not only empty of customers. It was empty of roses, freesia, baby’s breath, alstroemeria, lilies… Her brain was too tired to list the rest. Men were the worst. You’d think they didn’t know how to read a calendar. February 14th was the same day every year, for Pete’s sake. And the worst of the worst sauntered in on their way home from work, with only minutes to spare before closing, and were shocked, angry, dismayed, and petulant when she couldn’t magic up a glorious bouquet at their behest. She hoped the hearts of the women they had belatedly remembered wouldn’t be too battered at this evidence of their partner’s inattention. The bell above the door chimed. She closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and prepared to do what she could for the final poor sap of the day. When she looked over the counter, she had to adjust her gaze down. The boy was maybe eight, with a thin face and a wing of dark hair falling over his forehead. Bold framed spectacles gave him a scholarly air, despite his youth. The navy-blue puffy parka he wore only emphasized his gawky frame. “Hello,” she said. “What can I do for you?” “I’d like to get some flowers.” He pulled a crumpled bundle of cash out of his pocket. “I don’t have very much left,” Candace said with none of the impatience she’d offered the other latecomers. “I wish you’d got here sooner.” “I had to wait for my dad to get off work. I made him bring me.” The boy nodded over his shoulder. Outside the wide display window, a large truck sat at the curb, snow frozen on the hood, dirt and grime dulling its bright blue paint. “I see. Are the flowers for your mother?” She moved toward the cooler, wondering what she could scramble together. “No. She’d dead.” He said it so matter-of-factly that Candace had moved on three more steps before it registered. She stopped and looked down at the boy, standing at her elbow. “I’m so sorry.” “Thank you.” The words were polite but empty. “They’re for my dad. Mom always bought him flowers for Valentine’s Day. He’d say he’d rather have chocolates, that real men didn’t want flowers, but I know he was only teasing her because he always kissed her for a long time after.” Her heart splintered. “It’s lovely that you want to do this. Let’s see what we can find.” Real men might not want flowers, but real men who were raising a son with the perception and sweetness of this boy deserved something special. And after all the saccharine sweetness of the other bouquets, it would be a welcome challenge. She found a small clay pot in glossy black and stuffed it with florist’s foam. From a bucket in the far back of the cooler she pulled cedar fronds, pine fans, and thin birch branches. A couple of white carnations that had escaped her earlier pillaging added a pop of colour. She stepped back and studied it with a finger on her chin. “It needs one more thing. Wait here.” She hurried to the storage room where off-season items were kept. She rifled through a box of Christmas décor and gave an exclamation of satisfaction. Returning to the front, she plucked a thin but strong piece of wire from her supply table. After winding it swiftly around the front and rear axles of the old-fashioned truck she’d liberated from Christmas Past, she poked it into the middle of the bouquet. The truck was almost as bright a blue as the one parked at her curb, and it even had snow artistically painted on its fenders, roof, and hood. “What do you think?” She turned the creation toward the boy, who been unnaturally quiet as she’d worked. His face broke into a wide smile. “It’s not what Mom used to get him, but I think it’s perfect. How much is it?” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it was no-charge. But she didn’t want to belittle his gesture by refusing payment. “How much do you have?” “Twenty-one dollars and fifty cents.” “Isn’t that lucky! I sell this design for fifteen dollars. Of course, there are taxes on top of that.” He nodded solemnly. She rang up the sale, took the money warmed by his small hand, and gave him the change, just as the door opened again. “Everything okay in here?” “You weren’t supposed to come in, Dad!” Dismay rang clear in the boy’s voice. “I don’t want you to see until we get home.” Candace swiftly lowered the arrangement below the counter. “I’ll wrap it up to hide it,” she said. “Just give me a minute.” She ripped off a long strip of paper from the roll she usually used to envelope small, hand-held bouquets. Working on the floor was awkward, but she managed at last. When she lifted it back onto the counter, she got her first look at “Dad.” He was tall and thin, with the same shock of dark hair on his forehead as his son. Grey tinted his short sideburns and the lines on his face cut deep. She wondered if his wife had died recently, if the lines were grief or simple single-parent exhaustion. “You have a wonderful son,” she said as she handed the arrangement over to the boy. Love lifted some of the weariness out of his expression. “Yes. Thanks for helping him. I know you should be closed by now.” “Not a problem.” Father and son moved toward the door. As his dad opened it, the boy turned back to her. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she echoed. “Come again.” She said that to all her customers. But she really wanted to see this pair again. Wanted to see what the man looked like with a smile on his face. *** I'd love to hear what you think of this little story. Leave a comment below, then hop over to Jill Haymaker to read what she has for you!
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