Picture This by Jayne Denker Page A

viewed that as a detriment. Average was good. Average meant he (probably) wasn’t a serial killer. Average meant he probably didn’t have a basement full of Strawberry Shortcake collectibles. Average meant he was a decent sort, with a good job, a pleasant personality, a clean (if boring) wardrobe, and interests like golf and woodworking and maybe a little gourmet cooking.
    But lately nothing in her life had been normal, and now average wasn’t good enough. She listened to Buck’s pleasant, if boring, anecdotes about his job as a loan officer at a bank, but the words didn’t infiltrate her brain. Before they could get there, they were jumped, dragged into an alley, and smothered to death by thoughts she’d rather not be having. Like wondering what a date with Niall would be like.
    Would it consist of a nice dinner in an Italian restaurant, like this one? Or would it take place in a trendy club, surrounded by a hundred of his closest friends and hangers-on? Knowing Niall, it would more likely be a trip to a roller-skating rink. Or skydiving. Or snorkeling. In the East River. Or . . . would he dispense with the formalities and expect to skip right to . . . well . . .
    And then her thoughts drifted off to the closet and the dark and the heat of Niall’s body, and she jumped when Buck said, “You’re not eating. Is everything all right with your food?”
    She blinked and forced herself back to the present, back to her pleasant and— pay attention, hormones, this is what you should be attracted to —courteous date across the table. “Oh. Yes, it’s fine. It’s kind of you to ask, though.”
    â€œAre you finished?”
    Celia studied him. Why was he asking? Did he want to leave already? Was she boring him ? This wasn’t going well, was it? It really wasn’t. Dammit. She really needed to get her head in the—
    â€œBecause if you are, I was wondering if I could have your meatball.”
    From the recesses of her purse, on the floor at her feet, her phone pinged. She ignored it. “Sure. Go ahead.” And Buck reached across the table, harpooned the meatball, plopped it on his plate, and decimated it with a mash or two of his fork.
    Buck smiled at her around a mouthful of meatball. Nice guy, she reminded herself. No craziness. Yeah. No craziness. She kind of missed Niall’s craziness, how he could make her laugh with just a word, a goofy expression, a tickle . . .
    â€œSo, Buck,” she said, straightening the napkin on her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gleam of her phone’s light in her bag as it pinged again. She decided to ignore that text, too. Probably Danny trying to find out how the date was going. If she texted back in the middle of it, that would prove the date was a failure, but she wasn’t about to give up on it yet. “What do you like to do for fun?”
    â€œOh, I’ve really gotten into golf lately . . .”
    Nailed it. She could call Buck transparent and predictable, or she could see him as safe and steadfast. Yeah, safe. Not predictable. She was going to put a positive spin on this if it killed her. Her phone pinged and her purse lit up again. Starting to worry that something was wrong, she reached for it.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, interrupting Buck’s anecdote about his first birdie on a par three course. “I don’t usually do this, but I’m getting a lot of texts all of a sudden. I’m afraid it might be urgent. Would you mind—?”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    Buck excused himself to visit the men’s room; as soon as he was gone, another text came in. She looked at the list—they were all from the same number. Starting at the bottom of the list, she opened the oldest one.
    It was a photo of an armpit. A hairy armpit. Disgusted, she almost deleted it, but at the last minute she read the message. I’m going to keep sending photos of random