Two weeks later, I receive a call from Dolly Monroe. She calls me directly and says that she has a date for me. She doesn’t tell me much about him except that we’re going to his brother’s engagement party and that I should wear heels.

“Of course, I’ll wear heels,” I say. “It’s an engagement party.”

“Okay, then. I just wanted to remind you, because you wore flats to our meeting and I wasn’t sure if you make that a habit or not.”

I chuckle to myself a little. With comments like that, she reminds me of my mother. She was also suspicious of women who didn’t wear heels. She never understood my desire to be comfortable, especially when it came to going out.

“A woman should look like a woman, right?” I say into the phone.

“What?” Dolly asks. “Well, yes, of course.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“From a wise woman, I’m sure,” she says and hangs up.

Two days later, I’m in a total panic. My date with Logan is tonight, and I have absolutely nothing to wear. Why did I put this off to the very last minute? Why did I think that my closet would magically manufacture the perfect outfit for a stranger’s engagement party at the precise moment when I need it? I leave work really early – at 4 pm – and leave Cynthia in charge of the place. She wants to come upstairs and help me dress up, but I tell her that I need some time to shower and think first. I have exactly two hours until he arrives. If I’m lucky, he’ll be late.

I jump into the shower and wash my hair. Ever since those dry shampoos came out, I’ve become somewhat of an addict. In high school and college, I used to wake up early, take a shower and do my hair and makeup. I actually used to devote at least an hour and a half to this regimen every day! But now that I have my business, I don’t really have time for any of that anymore. No, that’s not true. I still have time. I just don’t have the patience.

Massaging conditioner into my scalp, I take a deep breath. I really should do this more often. I try to remember the last time I washed my hair. It must’ve been at least 3 days ago. Oh my God! Has it been that long? It’s not really as disgusting as it sounds. Even though my hair gets pretty greasy the day after I wash it, dry shampoo takes care of all that grease. I hate to admit it, but this isn’t even the longest I’ve ever gone without a wash. The record was last month during a particularly stressful wedding when I went for seven days without a wash.

After getting out of the shower, I tie my hair up in a towel and sit down to apply my makeup. I give myself some time to do this, because I actually find the experience quite soothing and relaxing. It’s as if I’m meditating. When my face is all done, with fake lashes and contouring, I dry my hair and then curl it to give it some more body. I seal it with some hair spray and look at myself in the mirror. Not bad, actually, except now is the difficult part. Figuring out what to wear.

I briefly consider the possibility of pants. I can almost hear my mom turning in her grave and Dolly gasping in shock. But no, I’m not thinking about slacks or something like that. Skinny jeans or leggings. Something to show off my butt in, but still be comfortable. But I have no idea how dressy this engagement party will be, so I need to play it safe. Skinny jeans might not be appropriate, no matter how cute the pumps.

I move on to dresses. I have three to choose from. One red, one black, one blue. All above the knee and tailored around the waist. The red one is strapless, the blue one has spaghetti straps and the black one has thicker, more traditional straps. I try them all. I only have one decent pair of black heels to wear, but luckily they will go with any of the dresses. The black one makes me feel like I’m either too formal or going to a funeral, and the blue one is a little tight around the bust, so I go with the red one. It has built in cups, which frame my breasts quite nicely, and I’ve heard somewhere – probably Dr. Oz – that both men and women respond well to red worn on dates. Okay, fine by me. I put in a pair of matte, silver hoops and a large cocktail ring on my right hand. It’s from H & M, and Cynthia says that it makes me look flirty. That works for me.

After I’m pretty much ready, I take a selfie in front of the full-length mirror and send it to Cynthia.

She sends back a plethora of smiley faces, champagne drinks and firework emojis. I know that the outfit is a hit.

At 6 o’clock on the dot, there’s a knock on my door. Right on time. It’s an unusual thing for an LA guy to show up on time, there are just way too many excuses about traffic to take advantage of. I’m impressed.

When I open the door, I see a gorgeous, tall man before me. He’s dressed in an expensive suit, but he doesn’t look a bit uncomfortable in it. The charcoal-gray pants bring out his sparkling green eyes and compliment his dark thick hair. He has a tan of a surfer and brilliant white teeth, which decorate his luscious kissable lips. When he gives me a hug, I feel the hardness of his body, his chiseled abs and pecks.

He introduces himself as Logan Davenport. I think I say that my name’s Avery, but who the hell knows. Wow. I had no idea that Dolly Monroe knew hotties like these.

“So this is your place?” he asks as we walk downstairs. I nod. “Dolly said that you own a flower shop.”

“She told you that? She didn’t tell me much about you.”

There’s a BMW parked in the far corner of the parking lot. And I confidently walk toward it. But he stops and points to his Prius.

“You drive a Prius?” I ask.

“Yes, do you have a problem with that?” he smiles.

I try to conceal how shocked I am. I thought he was a billionaire or at least a millionaire. I was certain that he would be driving at least a Maserati.

“No. It’s just that I drive a Prius too,” I say and point to the blue 2015 model in the parking lot.

We get into his white Prius and rush down Topanga Canyon Blvd toward Malibu.

“So do you actually live there?” he asks.

“What?”

“Above your flower shop?”

Seriously? This is what he’s asking me?

“Yes. I actually live in a studio apartment,” I say sarcastically. “I have a good deal on it, and I don’t have to commute far to work.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

We’re not getting off to a good start. How can someone this hot and attractive be such a dick? We drive the rest of the way until we hit the ocean in silence. Finally, I get sick of it.

“So, what do you do?” I ask as he turns onto Pacific Coast Highway.

“I’m sort of in between things right now.”

I shake my head.

“What?” he asks.

“So, you’re unemployed?” I ask. Now, it’s my turn to insult him.

“No, not really,” he shrugs.

“People with a little bit of money always say that.”

He smiles his beautiful smile. I don’t know if I want to kiss him or punch him right now.

No matter how much I love what I do, I can’t help but feel envious that some people can just have money and do nothing all day. I mean regular people wish we had the luxury to do that? To just bum around and surf and go out and do basically nothing while we try to find ourselves again?

“I started a company a few years back,” Logan says. “It got very successful, and I ended up selling it to Google. So now I’m just trying to figure out what to do with my life.”

Logan talks on and on about the details of his start up and how it allowed people to borrow money directly from their friends and family, not just a bank or a credit card. I listen, but end up getting lost a little in his long eyelashes and deep, soothing voice. It doesn’t hurt that he also smells intoxicating, like some sort of heavenly mixture of ocean waves and eucalyptus.

We arrive at the restaurant a few minutes later. I’ve driven past this place numerous times, but I’ve never been inside. It’s right on the water, with outdoor seating facing the ocean. Almost every single thing in the restaurant is white except for the blue trim around the windows. It has an ultra-modern design, which I don’t usually love, but it somehow fits this place. The tablecloths are white and very expensive to the touch, the menus are an off-white color, and all the waiters and the waitresses are dressed in white. The party is already in full swing by the time we arrive. The hostess shows us to the deck, which is decorated with hundreds of yellow lanterns and flowers. It’s a little cold – about 60 degrees – but there are outdoor heaters all over the place to warm up the guests. I’m no longer regretting not bringing a shawl with me.

Everyone who greets us give me a warm smile and a hug. I still don’t know about Logan, but his family is definitely very nice.

“Hey, you made it!” Dolly comes over to us. She’s dressed in a hot pink suit that is probably tailored to accentuate her figure and is wearing a humongous diamond on her left hand.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m his aunt,” she says. “You didn’t tell her?”

Logan shrugs; he looks a bit lost.

“Dolly’s your aunt?”

“Yep,” he nods.

Before we get the chance to get further into this, the couple of the hour comes over. Logan introduces me to his brother Liam and his fiancé, Kora. For some reason, I was expecting some six-foot-tall model with a bubbly personality, but instead I met Kora. Kora is exuberant and effervescent and smart. She made me laugh within a minute of talking to her. Honestly, I had forgotten that girls like her still exist. Her husband-to-be also seemed nice – very different from Logan. Straightforward, not so showy. Normal, somehow. He’s of course not as good looking as Logan is, but he seems to have a good head on his shoulders.

For a moment, I excuse myself and turn around to get a plate of food. The three of them continue to talk, and I hear Kora say,

“I like this one Logan. She’s really different from your usual lot.”

That puts a smile on my face.