Getting Lucky

“I’m excited about the new magazine,” Mark is saying. “Hip-hop culture is so prevalent, I’m surprised it took us this long to try to penetrate the market.” Mark has just told me that it was his vision to begin a new magazine, Hip Vibe, and that his father finally agreed.

“So it’s your baby?” I ask.

“Yep. I’m in charge of everything. Getting it off the ground, overseeing editorial. I’m having a blast with it.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “I’m sure it’s very rewarding to see your dream come to fruition.”

“Two more months and it hits the stands.” Mark grins, then takes a sip of his red wine. “You know Rugged? The rap artist?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He’s on the cover of the first issue. We did the photo shoot a couple of weeks ago. Amazing shots, I tell you.”

“Just Rugged? Or is he with his fiancée?”

“Just Rugged. He wasn’t engaged then. Though in a future issue, we’ll likely do a story on him and Randi. I already talked to him about having one of our photographers at the wedding.” Mark sips more wine. “Anyway, enough about me. I’ve been doing all the talking. Tell me about you. Your mother said you’ve been doing a lot of charity work.”

Hearing Mark speak so passionately about his career, I can’t hold back a small frown. This has been a bone of contention in my life for a while. I keep feeling as though I’ve missed my calling. Like I’m not doing the one thing in my life that will totally fulfill me.

“Yes,” I tell him, but I don’t say that I haven’t done much charity work in the last year. I haven’t had the stomach to show my face at too many high-profile events, knowing what people have been saying about me and my failed engagement. “But lately, I’ve been contemplating what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Charity work is great, but I want to find something more … I don’t know … personal?”

“What do you like to do?”

I draw in a breath, consider the question. How can I be thirty-one and not know how to answer this question?

“I like helping people,” I finally say.

“In what capacity? What are you passionate about?”

“I suppose I can see myself mentoring kids, or counseling.” I pause, stif ling the embarrassing thought that has come to my mind. The sad truth is, I never gave much thought to a career outside the home. I always figured I would be married by now, a wife to someone, perhaps already a mother.

Adam has taken that dream from me.

No, I tell myself. He has not taken that dream from you. The dream is simply delayed.

“What?” Mark is looking at me oddly.

“I guess—if you want to know the truth, I always thought I would be a wife and mother. Yes, I would do volunteer work. Get involved with charitable organizations to help people. But I always thought my primary focus would be my husband and children.”

“I know you were engaged to Adam Hart,” Mark says softly.

“Yes.” In so many ways that seems like ancient history, and yet Adam was such a big part of my life. “I have no regrets over my breakup with him. I want to make that clear.”

“No regrets?”

Mark raises his eyebrows slightly as he asks the question, and I get the sense that he is asking me something entirely different.

“I don’t want to talk about Adam,” I quickly say. Want to kill your chances with a new guy? Go on and on about your ex.

Thankfully, the waitress arrives with our appetizers, helping to quash any further talk about Adam. We dig in to our cheese mashed potatoes and onion straws. As I pour myself more wine, I go on to talk about some of the good news in my life—the fact that Annelise is having a baby and how excited I am that I’ll become a godmother. And when I ask Mark to tell me more about the publishing business, he doesn’t hesitate to go into detail about every aspect of his work.

He talks a lot. Much more than most guys I know. Which is kind of nice because there are no lulls in the conversation.

My steak was outstanding, and I’m so full, I pass on dessert—even though the options look fabulous. Mark passes on dessert as well, and asks for the check. Ten minutes later, we are strolling out of the restaurant. A real gentleman, Mark walks me to my car.

I retrieve my keys from my clutch, and then we stare at each other awkwardly for a few moments. I giggle nervously, wondering if he plans on kissing me. I wouldn’t mind. It’d be nice to kiss him, see if there are any sparks.

Mark steps toward me and slips an arm around my waist. I do feel some butterf lies. I don’t know if I’m imagining them, or if I’m desperate for them to be there, but I feel something.

“I really enjoyed getting to spend time with you,” Mark says. “I’ve been looking forward to going out with you for a long time.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He grins down at me. “In fact, I’m not ready for the night to end.”

I blush, tickled that he likes me. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He raises a suggestive eyebrow. “The Ritz-Carlton hotel is next to the restaurant … “ He gestures to it with a jerk of his head. “Hmm?”

I know that earlier I thought I wouldn’t mind if the night led to sex, but I’m rethinking that. I like Mark, and I want to get to know him better before going to bed with him.

“How about you call me, and we’ll plan another date,” I suggest.

“You know, I heard some things,” Mark says in a lower voice. He gives me a pointed look, his eyes sparkling beneath the street lamp.

I begin to get an odd feeling. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to play the good girl with me.

I heard about some of the stuff you and Adam were into. I liked it. I love a girl who can get her freak on.”

His words are like cold water being thrown in my face. Is this why he wanted to see me? He wanted to go out with me because he’s heard about my sordid sexual past with Adam?

“Exactly what things are you talking about?”

Mark chuckles softly. “You don’t have to be shy where I’m concerned,” he tells me. “I love it. I love it dirty.” And then he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “What was it like the first time you tasted another pussy?”

I push myself out of his arms so violently that he actually stumbles from the force of it. I stare at him, mortified. I cannot believe what he has just said to me.

Is he for real?

“Claudia? What is it?” he says, and has the nerve to look surprised.

“You’re a pig,” I tell him. “I’m not—I’m not the kind of girl you think I am. I didn’t do those things.” Not that I owe him any explanation. In fact, he’s the one who owes me one.