Page 17 of Dating Mr. Right A Collection
“And you’d look cute with kale-colored hair,” he says, as if he’s choking on the words.
“It’s okay. I know someday you’ll be chowing down on roasted kale and eating your words.”
He cracks up then clears his throat. “But honestly, my hair would probably be brown. I do love chocolate more than nearly anything.”
I hum, mulling that over. LuckySuit said he loved chocolate too. But a lot of people like chocolate. ThinkingMan can certainly love chocolate too. Besides, why am I thinking of the poker chatter from last night when I’m with this guy right now?
“In fact,” he continues, “my business partner and I are going to make some flamingo-shaped chocolate.”
“You’re in the chocolate business?”
“Lulu’s Chocolates. I handle all the business deals. Which is kind of an odd twist of fate, because back in college I was so sure I was going to be an essayist.”
I laugh. “Is that even a profession anymore? Wasn’t that a job back in the day when there were Federalist Papers and Alexander Hamilton and all that?”
He gives me the side-eye. “Moment of truth. Are you saying that because you know Hamilton from history or from the musical?”
I shoot him a look like I’m offended. “Hey, I know Hamilton just as well as the next person.” I smirk. “Obviously, from the musical. That’s pretty much how we all know him these days.”
“And we all know him so well. I’ve seen it three times.”
I furrow my brow. “Here in Miami?”
He waves in the general direction of north. “Oh no, back in New York. I try to go to Broadway shows as much as I can.”
“So you’re in New York a lot?” I ask, wondering if his job takes him there.
He smiles. “I am. And wouldn’t it be a great place to be an essayist?”
“So why did you want to be an essayist?”
“I was a philosophy major in college, so naturally I thought I would become the next great thinker.”
I nod. It’s all coming together finally. “That makes sense now. Hence the ThinkingMan name.”
“What?”
“ThinkingMan,” I repeat, because . . . hello, isn’t it obvious?
“Sure. I’d consider myself a thinking man.” His answer is hesitant.
“Well, I hope so.”
“Well, I am.”
My mind snags on details. Philosophy. Didn’t Cameron say he liked philosophy? And chocolate? While it’s not unusual to like chocolate, it’s certainly more unique to dig philosophy.
Disconnecting now. Definitely disconnecting.
“So that’s how you picked the name ThinkingMan,” I add, trying desperately to connect again.
He clears his throat. “Actually, this is probably a good time to let you know my name isn’t Mac, like you said earlier.”
“It’s not? Why did you tell me it was?” The hair on my neck stands up. What if Grams was right? He could be an ax murderer. A serial killer.
Total disconnect.
Mayday.
Abort.
I gulp. I’ve been catfished. Catfished by a total creepozoid criminal, and I’m about to be kidnapped. I glance right, look left. A family of four strolls ahead of us. I’ll run to them. Wait, no. I’ll be putting their little toddler in danger. I’ll dart the other way, shouting fire! “I forgot I have someplace to be.”
I turn, ready to jet.
“Wait. No. Sorry to throw you off. I’m Cameron. Cameron Townsend. I know you know that, but you called me Mac earlier. Just wanted to make sure you remembered from our chat.”
I stop.
Blink.
I’m in an alternate universe.
The parallel worlds fold into each other.
I try to breathe evenly. “You’re LuckySuit?”
His lips curve into a grin. “Yeah. Who did you think I was?”
Someone else entirely.
12
Cameron
I hold my arms out wide in a question. “Who the heck is ThinkingMan?”
Her eyes are etched with confusion. Just like I’m sure mine are. She points, practically stabbing me with her finger. “You. You’re ThinkingMan.”
“I just told you my name. Like I told you my name last night.”
“But, but, but,” she sputters. “I thought ThinkingMan was your handle. I’m Telescoper. I said it when we met, and you acted like you knew it. I’m Telescoper and you’re ThinkingMan. We’ve chatted the last few nights.” Her voice intensifies, as if she’s trying to make a last-ditch point in a flagging debate.
I correct her. “We chatted last night. When you destroyed me in poker,” I say, trying to jog her memory. How does she not recall this? “Remember? You were all sassy and said you were taking me down, and then you did, winning hand after hand.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, as if she’s trying the good old there’s-no-place-like-home technique to wish herself out of this situation. When she opens them, she says, “But we talked about Orion Nebula and wordplay. You said points for wordplay.”
Ah, her wordplay comment makes a bit more sense now. But little else does. “Orion Nebula is a beauty, and I’d love to check it out sometime, but we never discussed that. We talked about your multiplication marathon and your Roller Derby skills as Calcu Lass. Great name still, by the way.”
