The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

“What’s that?” I asked, folding my arms. “I’ve apparently got no shoes, no clothes, my hair is a toxic waste dump and I can’t ditch my glasses or I’ll end up going home with someone who looks like Alan Greenspan.”

“That, right there. Your attitude,” said Serena. “Tonight, charm school begins.”

CHAPTER THREE (#u0f047d89-72cd-5982-915a-978341715d31)

His eyes locked on me like a laser from across the room. Tall, well built, thick black hair and dark eyes to match. Rugged face, nice smile, dimples running the length of his cheeks. Probably about my age. Dark slacks, starched white French-cuffed shirt with gold links, red tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Shoes shining like mirrors, something my late father always told me to notice. Looks like he stepped off a wedding cake.

Another “total package” as Ariel would say. Can’t say I’d argue.

He started weaving his way through the bar traffic and headed for the chair next to me that was left purposely empty by my friends.

“Remember what we talked about, Wing Girl,” said Serena.

I nodded, downed a bit of wine, and smiled as he reached the table.

He placed his hands on the back of the empty chair, obviously waiting for permission to sit. Good. Polite. Looked right at me. Big smile. “You’re the girl on TV.”

“Woman on TV,” I said. Serena jabbed an elbow into my ribs. “Ow.”

“Right,” he said. “You did that great story the other night on the State Senator. Nice that we have people like you to keep politicians honest.”

“They’re all a bunch of scum. Next week—” I was interrupted by another elbow. “I mean, thank you, I appreciate the compliment.”

Ariel reached one long leg under the table and pushed the empty chair out a bit. “Maybe our new friend would like to join us.”

“Uh, right,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting down. “I’m Vincent Martino.”

“Belinda Carson,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.” Serena, Ariel and Roxanne introduced themselves since I’d forgotten to do it, my mind too busy going over the directives they’d given me.

Serena widened her eyes as she looked at me and gave me a gentle kick under the table. Say something. Anything. “So, uh … I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

The guy smiled. “That’s okay. Vincent.” Roxanne rolled her eyes then threw down the rest of her drink.

“Right, Vincent.” I remembered the orders I’d been given. Ask him about himself. Nothing too serious. “So, Vincent … are you married?”

“Madonne,” said Roxanne, as the man’s face tightened.

“No,” said Vincent, who looked at me as if I were a space alien. “Did you think I’m some married guy out cheating on his wife?”

“Uh, no, I was … you know … just making conversation.”

Serena snorted, stifling a laugh.

“That’s one hell of a pick-up line,” he said.

“Sorry.” My pulse spiked as the checklist in my head got jumbled. My armpits grew damp. “Do you … uh … what do you do?” I smiled and exhaled. That was pretty safe.

“I work on Wall Street.”

“So, you work with some shady characters.”

The man shook his head and turned toward Roxanne. “Geez, Rox.”

I furrowed my brow. “What’s going on?”

“Vincent’s my cousin,” said Roxanne, cocking her head toward him. “I asked him to be our test subject tonight.”

“So you weren’t really going to hit on me?” I asked.

“I did hit on you. At least I was trying to. I would have even taken you out if we’d hit it off because Rox said you’re such a great person. They weren’t going to tell you it was a set-up if things went well, but … ”

“So, Vincent,” said Serena, who took out a legal pad and put it on the table. She clicked her pen in the air. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us your first impressions for the record.”

He looked at me, his eyes seemingly asking for permission. “What the hell, go ahead,” I said.

“Would be nice if she remembered my name ten seconds after I told her,” said Vincent, who turned to face Serena. “And asking me if I’m married? Seriously? I would have beat my feet right after that one.” He turned back to me. “Listen Belinda, no offense, but Rox said you guys needed a man’s point of view on your, you know, dateability.”

I shrugged and looked down. “I’m not offended. I appreciate your input. Keep going. Fire away, I’m a big girl.”

“You sure?”

“Hey, I take on politicians all the time. I’m not afraid of anything. Don’t hold back.”

“Ohhhh-kaaaay,” he said, then exhaled and paused a moment. “Well, here goes. You’re not approachable.”

Ouch.

“People come up to me all the time.”

“Because you’re a celebrity,” said Ariel.

“I meant you’re not approachable as a potential date,” said Vincent.

“Fine,” I said, looking at Vincent, eyes narrowing into Brass Cupcake mode. “Tell me why I’m unapproachable.”

Vincent leaned forward on his forearms. Usually they lean back when the death stare makes its first appearance. Interesting. “Well, first I call you a girl and you correct me, so I think you’re some militant feminist, which I and most men hate. Then the marriage question, which was beyond weird. Along with your somewhat bizarre conversational skills, it’s the overall look. The hair in a tight bun. You’re sitting there on your hands, all hunched up. And the outfit.”

My face tightened. “What’s wrong with the outfit?”

“Rox said you’re hot and you look like a librarian. The bulky sweater, baggy pants, thick glasses. Those shoes look like you’re going hiking. You look like you want to be anywhere but here. There’s probably a serious babe under all that but I can’t be sure.”

He reached across the table toward me but I pulled back and put up a hand. “Whoa!”

“Relax, would you?” he said. Serena grabbed my hand and pulled it down.