“He’s not for me. He’s the backup plan to the backup plan. Also, can we just address the fact that online dating is so much easier for pretty women? I slap Kathy’s photo up there, and guys come out like roaches.”
“Yeah, but to be fair, I’ve seen you message guys when you tried to online date. You’re mean and unpleasant.”
“They’re all dicks.”
“You need a hobby.”
“No time.” I open up my spreadsheet. It’s color coded.
Carolina stares at my screen for a moment.
“I take it from your silence that you are wildly impressed.”
“You think you can pull this off in a month?” Carolina frowns.
“Either Kathy’s going to be shacked up with a guy with enough disposable income that he won’t notice four more dependents, or I’m going to be in jail for killing my mother,” I tell her flatly. “So, tomorrow is blind date number one. I was up chatting with ten different guys, winnowed it down to five.” I show her the next tab. “But I dropped one—he has some sort of peeing fetish and didn’t have the income to offset that. Those dates will happen at regular intervals. Best-case scenario, one of them takes in Kathy. Worst case, she gets some dating practice.”
Carolina’s hand is over her mouth.
“Now, there are several dating events in the city over the next three weeks. I have them all noted here, along with a weighted score of the number of eligible men and how likely it is that Kathy will find a new boyfriend there. And”—I type in the spreadsheet—“as a true fail-safe, I have been in talks with an escort service.”
“You’re going to buy your sister a boyfriend?”
“No, she’s going to be an escort. That’s how a lot of these rich guys, according to the internet, get some of their girlfriends. And she’ll meet a guy and fall in love,Pretty Womanstyle.”
“Don’t those services usually have age limits? Like, the guys want, like, a twenty-two-year-old?” Carolina squints.
I haul out my craft box. “Fake ID, motherfuckers.” I slug back my coffee. “But let’s register for this sugar-daddy dating website just to be on the safe side. I just texted you the link. And the clincher, the thing that’s going to make allof this”—I gesture to my spreadsheet—“unnecessary?”
I smile. I’m cooking.
“I scored us an invite to the Billionaire Ball. Full disclosure, the only way I was able to get an invite was by messaging Laura Bradberry.”
“Loony Laura?” Carolina gasps.
“Surprise, surprise. I did get forced to be a bridesmaid in a coworker’s wedding, so beauty prep needs to happen before then. You’re coming too, FYI. Misery loves company. Now, I assume you can handle doing research on the best days and times? I need you to feed that information into the spreadsheet.” I turn the laptop to her. “Comments? Questions? Concerns?”
Carolina is just shaking her head. “If only you had put half as much effort into finding a boyfriend for yourself, you’d be married with three kids by now.”
The bell above the shop door chimes.
Enter my family, stage left.
“Honestly, Winnie, you need to be sweeping outside of the shop. There are crumbs everywhere. You should put some tables out, though, have a little outdoor seating area.”
“Mom—”
“I need to take your grandmother to her new doctor, so I can’t stay long. Hello, Carolina, dear.”
“A doctor?” I wince. “Let’s not be hasty uprooting your whole life and all.”
“Do you all serve alcohol here? Where are all the romance novels?” Gran complains, heading over to browse the stacks.
“Winnie, you assured me you were only selling the classics and literary fiction,” Mom says, disapproving.
“What kind of bookstore doesn’t have the sex books? I want alien porn.”
“In the back corner, Gran.” I sigh.
