Free Reinventing Mona by Jennifer Coburn

Interestingly, he was right on schedule despite the fact that his dating rules include showing up ten minutes late with no excuses or apologies. I guess Claudia Schiffer is the exception to the rules.
    I opened the door to the sight of a chiseled masculine face with soulful brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow. His dark blond hair had a slight wave and was flopped to the side in a scruffy, compellingly sexy way. His jaw shot out slightly from a centimeter under bite. He wore well-tailored casual pants, a cashmere high-neck plum sweater, and soft brown leather slip-on shoes. In his right hand, he casually held two dozen red roses with baby’s breath and greens volumizing the impressive bouquet.
    “Hey,” he greeted me with polite dismissal, as though I must have been the supermodel’s assistant. “Mike Dougherty to see Claudia.”
    “Come in,” I offered. “Can I offer you something to drink? Lemonade? Beer?”
    “I’ll take a beer.”
    I poured his beer into the mug I had frosted before his arrival. He sat boyishly on my couch as I placed roses in a vase, feeling quite guilty for accepting flowers meant for a German supermodel who’d never step foot in my home. I returned to the family room, sat across from Mike, and thanked him for coming.
    “Yeah, no problem,” he snorted. “It’s my pleasure. I’m real flattered she likes my column. Believe me, plenty of women don’t.” His focus swerved past me as Mike watched the stairs expectantly for Claudia Schiffer’s descent. “She gonna be down pretty soon?”
    “Look, Mike, I’ve got to confess something,” I said. He said nothing. “I’m really sorry about this ... it’s just that you never returned any of my calls and this was the only way I could think of to get you here, and it really wasn’t me anyway. My friend Greta called and said she was Claudia Schiffer’s assistant and I was like, ‘Stop, stop!’ but she wouldn’t listen because she really wanted me to, um, she thought it would be a good idea if we met because I really do have an exciting proposition for you, and, and ... could you say something, please?”
    Mike looked annoyed, but not entirely sure what I was saying. “So, you’re Claudia Schiffer?” he clarified.
    “Well, no, I’m not Claudia Schiffer. Of course, I’m not Claudia Schiffer, but if what you’re asking is whether Claudia Schiffer is going to be here tonight, then, um, well, I have to apologize again, but, well, no. No, she couldn’t make it.”
    “Couldn’t make it?” he queried.
    “Right.”
    “Couldn’t make it? Or has no idea who you are, and never set up this bullshit meeting?”
    My heart pounded like a frantic neighbor running to tell you the house is on fire. I desperately needed The Dog’s help, and he was less than sixty seconds from the door.
    “Um, no idea who I am,” I stammered.
    Mike stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Listen, I really wish you’d hear me out as long as you’re here.”
    “Lady, I think you’re psycho.” He started toward the door.
    I laughed nervously. “I assure you I’m not a psycho. I’m just very determined. Can’t you respect that? I really wanted to meet with you because I value your opinion and want to make a business proposition. So I did what I had to do.” As he got closer to the door, I knew I had about another thirty seconds to win him over, or become tonight’s bar story. “Look, I’ve read a year’s worth of back issues of your column and you’re always complaining about how you wish women could think more like men. How cool it would be if women really knew what guys wanted? I’m offering an opportunity to do just that. You create the ultimate girlfriend. Think about what a service you’d be doing. You could write about the woman you’re creating in your lab like Frankenstein’s monster, um Frankenstein’s bride?”
    Lose the whole Frankenstein thing. He already thinks you’re a freak.
    “Like Weird Science! You know what I mean. Think