Free The Ex Factor by Cate Masters Page B

raked his fingers through his hair. I might as well be a twelve-year-old out with Marilyn Monroe . A thirty-seven-year-old tween, but every bit as tongue-tied and dreamy-eyed.
    Oh yeah, he could imagine how the meet cute would play out. She’d pause in the doorway, stunning in a deep V-cut dress—not unlike Marilyn’s—light glinting off her honey-blonde hair, her eyes. Her pouty lips would part as she scanned the room, revealing perfect teeth and the tip of a tongue, soft and sweet as cotton candy.
    Pan out across the room. He’d sit at a corner table, lit by a single candle. Staring at her, like all the other guys in the place. She’d spy the slender vase holding a lone white rose and spray of baby’s breath, the signal he was her date.
    It would extinguish the glow of hope in her face, the reverse of Bacall’s close-up in Casablanca, alive with light, and love, and transparent and utter need for Bogey. A momentary blank expression, then she’d plaster on a smile and drag herself over. After a polite hello, she’d sweep into the seat opposite, joke about the coincidence, then, in a tone of mourning, she’d apologize. Reveal someone had talked her into the date. She wasn’t ready. It’s not you, it’s me . So cliché.
    Pan out again as she rose, graceful and delicate as the white rose— hmm, literally the rose, or simply exuding the same fragile innocence? —and flowed out of the room like a scarf in a breeze. Zoom in tight on him draining his martini, flagging the waitress for another. Keep ’em coming . Despite protestations from the waitress, the bartender, and patrons he passed while exiting the bar, he’d stagger to his Jeep. Would the waitress follow and he’d bang her all night, calling out Susan’s name? No, not exactly tortured hero material . Tires squealing, he’d swerve and weave down the street, picking up enough speed to careen over a steep embankment and plummet to his death, alone and unloved forevermore.
    Or—the more likely scenario—he’d wake up with a nasty hangover and haul himself off to work, sarcasm more biting than usual, manners rougher than a seaside boardwalk on bare feet.
    The boardwalk. Now that would be a fun date . It unfolded like movie highlights: on the roller coaster, laughing together, her fingers tight around his arm; winning a cheesy stuffed animal for her at a game-of-chance booth, which she hugged, then hugged him; car by car, swinging toward the top of the Ferris wheel and getting stuck at the top, neon flashing lights below, a single silhouette against the canopy of stars when he kissed her; strolling along the beach afterward, finding a deserted dune….
    Too bad you’re probably the wrong guy for the role . But hey, more unlikely men than himself were cast as heroes and made audiences fall in love with them.
    He wasn’t after an entire audience. One woman would suffice. Susan Ainsley.
    Now that would be a happy ending.
    Ah, such a sap. And a sucker. And you just drove past your exit .
    Another peril of the job. Daydreaming.

 
     
     
Chapter Two
     
     
    Malibu. Great choice for the 1Night Stand date. Far enough from L.A. to ease her worries about fans or photographers spotting her, but familiar enough territory that if someone did recognize her, she’d blend in with the crowd.
    In this getup? Maybe she shouldn’t have gone so casual. Coupled with her sunglasses and Yankees cap, the worn jeans, T-shirt and hoodie almost screamed “I’m incognito, look at me!”
    The risk she’d have to take. Regular people dressed this way. Tonight, she wasn’t Susan Ainsley, superstar, but Susan Ainsley, displaced former cheerleader and business college dropout from Hunterdon, New Jersey, more affectionately called Cowville. A small-town girl driving a Wrangler Rubicon.
    Steering toward the parking spot farthest from the door, her palms slipped on the steering wheel. Nervous much? Not since her first date with…. Don’t think about him! Her ex had become a