funds.”
I stare back at Gavin, realizing I have absolutely no idea what he’s been gabbing about for the last five minutes. I take a long sip of my beer, pounding about half of it. When I place the glass on the table, he is looking at me, waiting for a response.
“Assets,” I blurt out. “You were talking about assets.”
“Yes, I was.” He tentatively looks at me. “Do you have many assets?”
My brows crease in. “Is this a trick question?”
“You are a beautiful woman. In your twenties—”
“Thirties. I’m thirty,” I interject. I take another hefty gulp of my beer.
“Thirty? I think I knew that. You look younger. You’re a depreciating asset.”
And insert awkward moment where I choke on my beer, making it come up and out of my mouth, spraying him in the perfectly pressed linen.
“Excuse me,” I say. I wipe my chin in a rather unladylike way, but I don’t particularly care.
“Not you per se, but women in their thirties who are looking for a mate,” he states matter-of-factly as he dabs his shirt with a paper napkin.
I lean my forehead in and tilt my chin down, my eyes squinting. “Come again?”
Gavin takes a sip of his drink through the tiny red straw and then explains, “Many women are looking for a man with the main criterion being wealth. Does he have a job? How much money does he make? I’m assuming, on MatchDateLove, you chose the option for a guy who makes a hundred fifty grand or more. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been paired with me.” He flashes a grin that I do not reciprocate. He continues, “Men are appreciating assets. The longer I work, the more money I’ll make. Women, on the other hand, traditionally, offer two things—youth and beauty. If that is all she is bringing to the table—which, let’s face it, are pretty much the only things most women have to offer—then she is a depreciating asset, as both her youth and beauty will fade. So, do you have any assets?”
If the look on my face matches the way my hands are squeezing into tiny fists—as I try to tame the feelings from the greatest insult any man has ever given to womankind—then it looks pretty steaming mad.
“Excuse me, Doctor. You have an emergency call.”
I look over to my side, and green eyes are staring down at me.
Me.
The bartender is standing next to me. And he’s referring to me as Doctor.
“You’re a doctor?” Gavin asks inquisitively.
So far, the man didn’t know my age, and now, he’s asking me about my profession. Did he read my profile at all, or did he just like the pretty picture I posted?
I’m going with the latter.
My head slowly rises up and down.
“ You’re a doctor?” he asks.
I mean…
“She’s a neurosurgeon,” the bartender answers. “Doc, they need you immediately.”
“I’ll be right there,” I state, watching him walk away.
My mouth is open, and I’m still looking at the space where He Who Remains Nameless was standing.
I turn my cheek to the right and look at Gavin, who is now looking at me with an impressed expression. “I believe this is where we call it a night.”
“Yes. I understand. I’d love to see you again.” His face is lit up with delight.
Talk about an asset. He thinks I’m a freaking brain surgeon.
“No.” The word pours out of my mouth nice and slow. “No, Gavin, we won’t be seeing each other again,” I say.
His shoulders hunch down. I grab my purse and rise from my seat.
But before I walk away, I look down at him and say, “While my only assets might be looks and beauty, your only offer is a career that sounds to be based on interest rates and an upturned housing market which, as history has promised, will fall. And so will you.”
Gavin looks like he’s going to speak, but I continue, “You think beauty fades? A woman’s attraction to a man fades as well. What’s left are humor, morals, and etiquette—three values that you, sir, do not have. So, even if a man is handsome or—as you hope to be—rich,
I stare back at Gavin, realizing I have absolutely no idea what he’s been gabbing about for the last five minutes. I take a long sip of my beer, pounding about half of it. When I place the glass on the table, he is looking at me, waiting for a response.
“Assets,” I blurt out. “You were talking about assets.”
“Yes, I was.” He tentatively looks at me. “Do you have many assets?”
My brows crease in. “Is this a trick question?”
“You are a beautiful woman. In your twenties—”
“Thirties. I’m thirty,” I interject. I take another hefty gulp of my beer.
“Thirty? I think I knew that. You look younger. You’re a depreciating asset.”
And insert awkward moment where I choke on my beer, making it come up and out of my mouth, spraying him in the perfectly pressed linen.
“Excuse me,” I say. I wipe my chin in a rather unladylike way, but I don’t particularly care.
“Not you per se, but women in their thirties who are looking for a mate,” he states matter-of-factly as he dabs his shirt with a paper napkin.
I lean my forehead in and tilt my chin down, my eyes squinting. “Come again?”
Gavin takes a sip of his drink through the tiny red straw and then explains, “Many women are looking for a man with the main criterion being wealth. Does he have a job? How much money does he make? I’m assuming, on MatchDateLove, you chose the option for a guy who makes a hundred fifty grand or more. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been paired with me.” He flashes a grin that I do not reciprocate. He continues, “Men are appreciating assets. The longer I work, the more money I’ll make. Women, on the other hand, traditionally, offer two things—youth and beauty. If that is all she is bringing to the table—which, let’s face it, are pretty much the only things most women have to offer—then she is a depreciating asset, as both her youth and beauty will fade. So, do you have any assets?”
If the look on my face matches the way my hands are squeezing into tiny fists—as I try to tame the feelings from the greatest insult any man has ever given to womankind—then it looks pretty steaming mad.
“Excuse me, Doctor. You have an emergency call.”
I look over to my side, and green eyes are staring down at me.
Me.
The bartender is standing next to me. And he’s referring to me as Doctor.
“You’re a doctor?” Gavin asks inquisitively.
So far, the man didn’t know my age, and now, he’s asking me about my profession. Did he read my profile at all, or did he just like the pretty picture I posted?
I’m going with the latter.
My head slowly rises up and down.
“ You’re a doctor?” he asks.
I mean…
“She’s a neurosurgeon,” the bartender answers. “Doc, they need you immediately.”
“I’ll be right there,” I state, watching him walk away.
My mouth is open, and I’m still looking at the space where He Who Remains Nameless was standing.
I turn my cheek to the right and look at Gavin, who is now looking at me with an impressed expression. “I believe this is where we call it a night.”
“Yes. I understand. I’d love to see you again.” His face is lit up with delight.
Talk about an asset. He thinks I’m a freaking brain surgeon.
“No.” The word pours out of my mouth nice and slow. “No, Gavin, we won’t be seeing each other again,” I say.
His shoulders hunch down. I grab my purse and rise from my seat.
But before I walk away, I look down at him and say, “While my only assets might be looks and beauty, your only offer is a career that sounds to be based on interest rates and an upturned housing market which, as history has promised, will fall. And so will you.”
Gavin looks like he’s going to speak, but I continue, “You think beauty fades? A woman’s attraction to a man fades as well. What’s left are humor, morals, and etiquette—three values that you, sir, do not have. So, even if a man is handsome or—as you hope to be—rich,
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