CHAPTER 7

Potential Husband’s Name: Adrian Doscher

Occupation: CEO of American Riviera Publishing Group, which publishes popular, award-winning magazines M*I*A, SoBe Beat, and 786.

Age: 35

Family: Divorced two years ago, no children. One sibling, a younger brother who’s the CFO at American Riviera.

Hobbies/Interests: Devout runner, into local music scene, coffeeholic.

Where You Can Make Contact: According to a recent interview, he goes for an early morning run on the Lummus Park beachside path every day.

I’m reviewing the bio on Adrian that Nate created for me (he followed the same template Pilar does for the initial evaluations of her patients, which I thought was funny) just to make sure I haven’t forgotten any of the key points before I meet the man himself. I’ve been working up to this all week. First, I called Adrian’s office and finagled when his work day starts (8:30) out of the receptionist. Then, Topaz and I did recon at the park for several days, getting here at sunrise (her idea, not mine—and I complained about it each and every one of those days). We quickly established that Adrian is a creature of habit and he hits the midway point (Ocean Drive and Eighth Street) of the Lummus Park path between 7:16 and 7:23 every morning. So, that’s where I’m sitting right now, on the limestone beach wall that separates the extra-wide curving sidewalk from the sand. There’s not a lot of foot traffic at this time of day, but there are several shirtless frat boy types playing volleyball on the makeshift court in the sand behind me. When they first got here, they yelled, “Yo, mamacita!” to me and made a variety of lewd gestures, but I flipped them the bird and they haven’t bothered me since.

My cell phone dings, and I close down the bio so that I can look at my text screen.

‘The sea is flowing north.’

That’s Topaz’s idea of a coded message. Translation: Adrian, whose name is derived from the Adriatic Sea according to some baby-naming website she consulted, just ran past her at Fifth Street and will be reaching me in a few minutes. So, I’m up.

I secure my iPhone in the armband strapped around my right bicep, then grab the small spray bottle on the ground next to me and spritz my face, neck, and chest with a fine mist of water. (The goal is to look like my skin is covered with a sexy sheen of perspiration from exercising.) I rise to my sneakered feet and cross over to the other side of the path so that I will be facing my target, not that he wouldn’t get an equally pleasing view if he saw me from the backside, but that wouldn’t work with what I’ve got planned. I begin jogging in place, trying to achieve a breathless state so I can sell that I’ve been running for a while.

I don’t own a pair of sneakers, or any workout clothes, so I had to borrow what I’ve got on from Topaz. It’s a reasonably cute outfit from Kate Hudson’s Fabletics line (the moisture-wicking shorts with a fuchsia and white floral print on a black background draw the eye to my curvaceous booty and make my legs look a mile long), but Topaz is quite petite, so her fluorescent pink ASICS are a size too small (I can already feel blisters forming!), as is the black sports bra with all the criss-crossing straps in the back. One wrong move and my ample boobage could spill right out of this top, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing if it gets the attention of a certain publisher.

Although Nate’s binder included the profiles of thirty-nine other eligible men, I zeroed in on Adrian as the best option after reading through all the media coverage on him because our personalities/lifestyles appear to be simpatico (we’re both sociable and enjoy the nightlife). Thanks to his job (his magazines are exclusively devoted to what’s hot and happening in Miami), Adrian has entrée into parties and high-profile events all over town where he hangs with celebrities like Jennifer Lopez, Dwayne Johnson, Pitbull, John Legend, and Chrissy Teigen. I could totally see myself throwing back a couple of mojitos with JLo while partaking in some girl talk—Latina-style!

Adrian might move in some glamorous circles, where he’s exposed to beautiful women on the reg, but I could find no evidence that he’s a player. He was married for four years, which shows that he’s not averse to commitment. And the only woman he’s been romantically linked to since his divorce is some publicist who works in the music industry. Not to be mean, but that publicist looked totally basic in all the photos I saw of her. Neutral-colored clothing, stringy dishwater blond hair, she wasn’t even wearing makeup in any of the pics, including several that were taken at a black-tie affair—gasp! It’s really no wonder things didn’t work out with those two. A man in Adrian’s position needs a woman on his arm who has the “Wow!” factor, and I will be auditioning for that role . . . now!

I start running, pumping my arms and breathing in and out of my mouth in a rhythmic fashion as per Topaz’s instructions. And it sucks. I really don’t understand how people can enjoy exercising. It feels unnatural, it makes everything in your body hurt, and worst of all, it’s boring. I’d rather just have sex, which is cardio you can actually get some pleasure out—

RED ALERT: Tall, hunky publisher with spiky brown hair approaching.

It’s go time! Now, let’s see if I can actually pull this off without hurting myself.

Knowing I’ll have only a split-second to make this happen, I wait until Adrian’s about three feet away, then I pretend to come down on my left foot wrong so that it looks like I roll my ankle, which throws me off-balance. I squeal in “pain” as my body keels over and I crumple to the ground right in front of him. And the award for Best Fake Injury goes to . . .

“Oh, no! Are you okay? That was a really nasty fall.”

Clutching my ankle, I glance up and my vision is filled by the sight of a middle-aged woman with a heavily teased, violet-colored ‘do (clearly, a drugstore dye job gone wrong). In defiance of the balmy, seventy-three degree weather, she’s sporting a polyester slacks/turtleneck combo and has a fanny pack secured around her waist. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that she’s a tourist.

“How badly are you hurt, hon? Do you need me to call for an ambulance?” She unzips her pineapple print fanny pack and extracts her cell phone.

While I appreciate the woman’s solicitousness, she is not the knight in shining silver Nikes I was hoping for. Where is Adrian? Did he just jog around my prone form? After all the trouble I went to in order to meet him in a dramatic, memorable fashion, I can’t believe he didn’t stop to offer assistance. What a tool!

“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that. I’m okay.” I raise myself to a seated position and straighten out my “injured” leg. “Ow!” I yelp when I feel a burning pain in my knee. Looking down, I see that I scraped it pretty good on the sidewalk during the fall. Isn’t that peachy? I’d better not end up with a scar.

“If you could just give me a hand—” I extend my left one, then try to push off the ground with my right. I feel someone clasp my forearm and give it a gentle tug. As I’m being pulled up, I realize that this Good Samaritan’s appendage is much too muscular and hairy to belong to Betty Lou from Sioux City (unless she has a hormone problem or she’s a cross-dresser—nah, no transvestite would be caught dead in purple hair and a fruit-themed fanny pack). My eyes travel up the arm, which leads me to a broad set of shoulders encased in a snugly-fitted T-shirt that’s the same color as the wearer’s sky blue eyes. Yum! Adrian Doscher is even more ruggedly handsome in person than he is on the Internet.

“Thanks,” I say breathlessly once I’m upright. “I probably shouldn’t put any weight on this foot. Would you mind helping me over there?” I gesture at the limestone wall several feet away.

With a nod and a smile, he wraps his arm around my waist, and I lean against him, clutching his beefy bicep. Nice!

“Thanks again.” I toss a wave back over my shoulder at the tourist so that Adrian won’t think I’m rude, then hop over to the wall, making little grunting noises like it’s a big effort.

“Ahhhh,” I exhale a sigh of relief once I’ve lowered myself down onto the wall. “This feels so much better. I appreciate the help, _____?” I trail off so that he’ll supply his name. (Of course, I already know it, but I’ve got to play the game here.)

“Adrian,” he says, taking a seat next to me. “And it was my pleasure.”

Huh? Did I damage my hearing somehow when I fell? Because there is no way that the high-pitched, bordering on squeaky, voice that just emanated from this gorgeous man’s mouth can be right. My prepubescent nephews have voices with more masculine bass notes in them!

Maybe his voice is only high-pitched temporarily because he just inhaled some helium, or, or his cojones are being squeezed too tightly by the built-in underwear that comes in those running shorts. Yeah, that’s it. That’s a totally reasonable explanation for this strange phenomenon. He’ll sit here in a relaxed position for a few minutes, give his boys a chance to breathe, and his voice will drop back down to a normal register. I just have to give him a chance.

“Izzy,” I offer him my name and a hand to shake. “I apologize that you had to bear witness to that embarrassing display of klutziness. I walk on runways for a living for heaven’s sake! You’d think I would know better than to trip over my own feet.” So, now he’s aware that I’m a model and I have a good sense of humor about myself—two things most men find irresistible.

“It can happen to even the most experienced runners. All it takes is catching your toe on something, or having an uneven distribution of weight on your feet. That’s why it’s so important to wear shoes that provide the right amount of support and cushioning when you’re running. You’re wincing. Can I take a look? You might have a sprain or tear.”

I’m wincing because after hearing Adrian string several sentences together, it’s now official. He’s got a bad case of Beckham-itis, a tragic condition that there is no known cure for. It affects only super hot guys, like the British soccer stud I named the affliction after. By all appearances these men have high levels of testosterone coursing through their sinewy bodies, but unfortunately their vocal cords never got the memo.

“Sure.” I start to lift my right foot, then remember it’s the left one I rolled. Duh, Izzy, you’ve got that scrape on your “bad” leg to help you keep your story straight! I cover by pretending I was just adjusting the position of my body on the wall so that there’s enough distance between us for me to stretch out my leg and place my foot in his hands, which are resting on his thigh, palms up.

“No swelling,” he quickly determines, “which means no sprain. So, that’s good news. Does this hurt?” He carefully pokes around my ankle area.

I grimace, but not because of my ankle. The only discomfort I’m feeling is in my ears because his voice is still firmly in the falsetto range. “It’s a little sore.”

“That’s to be expected considering what happened, but as long as you’re not in screaming pain, I don’t think any serious damage has been done. Can you point your foot for me?”

I do as he asks.

“Great. Now, try rotating it. Mmmmm hmmmm, looks like your motility is fine.” He starts feeling around the top of my sneaker, pressing down on my big toe, which makes me feel like I’m in a shoe store. Lifting his pale blue eyes to mine, he queries, “How long have you been running in these shoes?” while his forehead creases with concern.

“Uh, well, I’m kind of new to all this running stuff, so not long. Maybe a couple of weeks.”

“I don’t know who sold you these sneakers, but they put you in the wrong size. Your toes are being compressed, which can cause numbness. It’s no wonder you fell! Wearing ill-fitting shoes can really throw off your gait.”

“Problem solved then! I’ll just have to buy a new pair of sneakers, which definitely won’t be a hardship since I love shoe-shopping.” I toss him a cute, flirtatious smile, and he lowers both of his hands to my bare shin. The skin-to-skin contact feels delicious, the warmth of his palms seeping into my flesh and the slight pressure of his fingertips causing a tingly sensation.

Okay, so maybe this guy doesn’t have one of those deep, sexy voices that revs my motor. He’s got other things going for him, doesn’t he? He’s nice to look at, he seems kind, he has a really cool job, and let’s not forget his high tax bracket. I could get used to the unfortunate octave of his voice over time, or I could learn to tune it out. Victoria Beckham has been with David for like twenty years, hasn’t she? So, she must have found some way to cope.

“Maybe I could take you shopping for those sneakers,” Adrian suggests. “I know a great place over on Biscayne Boulevard that has a wide variety and they’ll do a gait analysis to make sure you find the perfect shoe for your foot.”

A first date at a sneaker store? Surely a man with a wallet the size of Adrian’s can do better than that.

“I’d like that very much,” I say as I lightly trace an imaginary line along the back of his hand, which is still perched on my leg, “and maybe afterwards we could grab some dinner at Il Gabbiano?” That’s one of the poshest, most romantic restaurants in town, and it just so happens to be located on Biscayne. I’m already picturing us feeding each other spoonfuls of luscious, cocoa-dusted tiramisu.

His eyes light up with anticipation, and a grin spreads across his face, which gives him an attractively roguish look. “That can definitely be arranged.”

“Perfect.”

Well, not exactly. There’s still his cringe-inducing voice to deal with. I wonder if he’d consider taking a vow of silence . . .