Alice snickers, and this time I agree with her. The entire point of a date is to be private, although, I’m sure I will not be enjoying my evening with whoever Jordan the Joker sets me up with.
“Sorry, Syl.” Alice places a calming hand on her brother’s shoulder. “It’s only one evening. I’ll be back in the cabin by curfew.”
“When’s curfew?” I sputter, wondering why people over sixty-five need to have one.
Snicker.
“You needn’t worry,” she says. “As long as you keep your part of the bargain.”
I salute her. “Yes, ma’am. And Syl, it’s been a pleasure shuffleboarding with you.”
I give him a wink which makes him blush, then while Alice is looking through her shoulder bag for her access pass, I give her brother a quick peck on the cheek.
Poor guy.
A cock-blocking sister is bad enough. But a snickering one?
Poor, poor guy.
And poor, poor, poor Jordan Reed.
* * *
Lucky, lucky me.
How is it possible that Jordan landed me a date with Sven Svenson, the captain of the Swedish water polo team?
The golden-haired god is more muscular than the superhero Thor, with eyes bluer than the noonday sky, a cleft in his chin deeper than the Grand Canyon, teeth sparkling like the Crown jewels, and a honeyed voice deeper than the mellowest bass saxophone.
I’m tongue-tied while we do the swap, especially when Alice snickered at Jordan asking her if she was one of the scientists who put the man onto the moon back in the nineteen-sixties.
“You’re as lovely as Mr. Reed described,” Sven says in a heavily Swedish accent. “Would you like to dine at the captain’s table with me?”
“Wow, yes!” I salivate like Pavlov’s dog since my stomach is a wee bit hungry after the strenuous shuffleboard tournament I endured with Sylvester and Alice and the Golden Gators.
Dimly, I’m aware of Alice scolding Jordan for stepping through a doorway first. How rude of him.
I agree.
Happily, Jordan Rude is not my problem tonight.
I’m dining at the captain’s table with Sven Svenson, blond Nordic superhero, and he’s telling me they will have a water polo exhibition game tomorrow against the world champion Singapore team.
“The women’s team is also here,” Sven adds unhelpfully, and all I can picture is Jordan’s tongue lolling like a mad dog.
Not my business. He can like whichever women he cares to. That hot kiss can’t possibly have addled my common sense.
It was only a kiss, one of many he’s doled out in his useless existence, I’m sure.
I tear my mind off Jordan when Sven repeats a question. He’s so gentlemanly and polite to open doors for me and wait for me to cross the threshold before stepping through himself.
Everywhere we stroll, eyes turn our direction, and women stare longingly at Sven. It makes me lift my head a little higher, and now I wish I had my camera phone so I can take a selfie and post it on Stephen’s page.
Fortunately, we walk by a row of clicking cameras and cell phones, and I’m hoping some of it will be uploaded to social media where Stephen might catch a glimpse.
Even though these are strangers taking our pictures, it still boosts my ego and counters the humiliation of my cancelled wedding with a likely future president.
I chat amiably with my date about the Christmas decorations, the elves running around surprising people with gift cards, and we compare Christmas traditions.
