2. October 14- Savannah

"No loan. No loan. No loan," I mumble to myself, swiping mascara across my eyelashes and willing them to grow longer. My mother may pay for her long lashes, but I'm doomed to my short, stubby lashes that are the bane of my makeup existence.

I play up my lips, cheekbones, and eyelids that hold shadow well whenever I actually apply makeup and run gloss over the lipstick I've already blotted. My long, brown hair is down and perfectly conditioned, the brush running through my locks easily before the heat of the straightener finishes the job.

"Not bad," I mumble in the mirror, turning to the side and admiring my ass. I may not have much of a social life, but I do ride my bike to work every day and walk on my lunch. Thankfully, I have my mother's figure.

I step back to admire my black jeans with strategically placed holes at the knees, short boots, a bright purple V-neck sweater that shows a hint of my push-up bra when I bend over, and a black leather jacket over the top.

It will have to do. Not that I think I'll actually meet anyone tonight. In fact, I'm almost positive I'll meet nothing but basement dwellers.

An hour later, Mom meets me at the door, running her eyes over the parking lot for me and sizing up the other entrants. She doesn't recognize me at first since she's probably looking for a woman in sweatpants and a ponytail.

"Hi, Heather."

She startles, squinting at her own daughter like we've never met. "Thank fuck," she mutters.

"Thank fuck for what?"

"You actually dressed and look presentable. Miracles never cease."

"I get dressed up. I can look decent."

She snorts, and something comes out her nose that she wipes on her sleeve, looking around to make sure no cute men saw something come out her nose. Not that there are any cute men around.

She pulls me through the bar door by my jacket sleeve, showing our tickets to the bouncer and earning an approving nod from the man who looks to be in his late thirties. Typical. Mom is going to be hit on more than me.

"Here, drink this," my mom says, handing me a beer that's sitting on the bar and complimentary for anyone that bought tickets to the event.

I don't usually drink a lot, but tonight calls for liquid courage, especially since I haven't seen one man I'd be willing to date of the men lingering in the bar area. Looking around, there are a lot of glasses, bow ties, suits that haven't fit in ten years, and acne situations.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this. Look around, Mom."

Her eyes dart from side to side, and she sips her beer. "Everyone knows that the dorks show up early. The hot men are fashionably late. Don't give up hope yet."

A woman approaches the stage and taps on the microphone. "Good evening, everyone!" she says, clapping for herself.

Nobody else claps. In fact, we all look around the room, sizing each other up before quickly looking away.

The woman's smile falters, and she straightens the gray vest over a white dress shirt and flicks graying brown hair over her shoulder. "Welcome to the first ever, and hopefully annual, cuffing season speed dating event. It's lovely to see everyone at their…best." She says the last word through gritted teeth, clearly seeing the dog and pony shit show of men taking their seats at the small desks being used for speed dating stations.

"All of the men are taking their seats. Women, you should find a seat with whatever man you wish to start with. No worries if you don't get your first choice. You'll meet all our…" She pauses and pastes a fake smile on her face. "Well, you'll get a turn with each of our lovely gentlemen here tonight."

I snort into my drink. "I really hate you right now, Heather," I say, gesturing to the men sitting down and waiting with hopeful puppy eyes that a woman will pick their seat to start first.

"Nonsense. One of these could be a diamond in the rough. A millionaire, even. What's that show where people pretend they're not rich and do normal things?" she asks, snapping her fingers.

"Undercover Boss? You're really comparing a shit speed dating event to an amazing show like Undercover Boss?"

"I knew you'd know it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mom gets close to my face so that I can smell the beer on her breath. "How many hours of TV would you say you watch in an average week?"

"Come on, ladies," a bouncer says, nudging Mom and me away from the bar before I can respond. "Find a seat. It'll be over with before you know it."

"My doctor said the same thing last month when I got my flu shot."

Mom smiles and waves before choosing a man of about twenty across the room. The man's smile lights up as soon as she sits down, and I choose the man next to her. "You could have given birth to him, you know?"

"Don't dull my sparkle," she replies from the side of her mouth.

I face my first dating contestant and immediately lean as far back into my seat as I can go. If serial killers could date, the man in front of me may as well be wearing an orange jumpsuit. Glasses from the last century sit on his face, and he doesn't blink. He licks his lips like he's about to eat something delicious, and he stares at me with dull, red eyes.

"I'm going to start the clock now," the woman on stage says. "We have some late stragglers, so please grab an empty seat before I start the clock. Come in and find a seat." She gestures from the stage, but I don't turn and look at the new people entering the room. I'm frozen in terror at the probable strangler across from me.

"You have three minutes starting…now!" she says, starting the timer on her phone.

My date and I stare at each other. When I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out.

Next to me, Mom starts telling the guy in his late teens about her daily yoga and exceptional flexibility. My mouth feels like it has a thick coating of dust in it, and my hands shake.

"You have pretty skin," the man across from me says.

"Sweet mercy. No loan-free existence is worth this," I whisper to myself.

"What's that?"

"Uh, nothing. I'm Clarice. What's your name?" I can do this. I can be normal and have a normal conversation with the serial killer that wants a woman with pretty skin. I just won't go anywhere with him so he can't turn me into a coffee table basket, and I won't give him my real name. Mom says I have to pick one of these men. I simply won't pick this one.

"I'm Leroy."

"That's an unusual name for our generation. Is it a family name?"

"Yes."

I lean forward, hoping he'll elaborate. "Who in your family is named Leroy?"

"My uncle," he says. I swear to fuck, this man still hasn't blinked. "We don't talk about him, though. Not since he went to jail."

I close my mouth. I'm not talking again. Maybe not ever.

I look at my pants, wishing they were my standard sweatpants and that I'm wiping popcorn butter on them as I watch TV in the confines of my apartment. I suddenly feel so exhausted that I want to put my head down on the table in front of me and cry myself to sleep. How am I going to get through five months with one of these men?

Leroy and I stare at each other for the rest of our time, and I cross my arms. I don't have to speak, and maybe if I make him feel uneasy, he'll talk for both of us. He doesn't speak, though, and only licks his lips at me. I'm tempted to tell him that he'll have seriously chapped lips this winter if he keeps doing that, but it's not worth the effort.

"Time"s up!" the woman yells. "Time for the men to switch seats. Please move to your right."

"Oh, darn," I say to Leroy, slapping the table. "It was nice to meet you. I hope your uncle gets out of the pen soon and you can do something fun together. I hear hunting is a nice hobby. Have a nice night."

He doesn't smile or blink at me as he slowly gets up from his chair and moves to Mom's seat. Good. I hope she gets a good taste of Leroy's psychotic murdering medicine.

The next few men are a revolving shit show that almost makes me get up and invite Leroy back to my table. One man with a hook nose tells me he can't go on any dates near schools or parks. Another man tells me he has a gastric problem that results in chronic, uncontrollable farts, lifting his left ass cheek off the chair to demonstrate. The man after that is only nineteen, and I would have picked him if I was younger. However, he only talks about last year's graduation party and a rager he's going to next Saturday. One man is nice but is older than my father. Happily, he moves on to Mom, and I cross my fingers under the table that she'll choose that guy.

At least one of us will find someone tonight.

I bite my nails as the most recent man switches seats, and I almost grab his hand to pull him back. Sure, he has psoriasis, and he pulled out his dental implants to show me his old hockey injury. But if I have to set up further dates with someone for the next few months, he's the only one that doesn't smell or seem to have some kind of criminal record. I'm afraid of the next man.

"Hello," a voice says, sitting down in the seat. I don't look up. I'm too scared. At this point, I'm expecting the devil himself to sit across from me. "I'm Wilder."

"Yeah, buddy. Every guy in here thinks he's a wild man."

He laughs, and it's a nice laugh. It's so nice, that I look up into dazzling green eyes that blink back at me. He cocks his head to the side with a wry smile and makes a humming sound like he's found something interesting.

A bit of scruff covers his face, but it's not unkempt. In fact, it's sexy over his chiseled jaw, and there's a full head of hair on top of his head. He also hasn't farted in the ten seconds it's taken to look at each other, and a quick look at his hands and neck shows no psoriasis.

He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it, noticing the masculine strength of his fingers. "My name is Wilder. Wilder Lynx."

"Savannah," I whisper and clear my throat. "I'm Savannah. Wilder is a very unusual name. Is it a nickname?"

"Nah, I think I was named after a character in some book about a farm."

Man pretty. That's the word that comes to my mind. This guy is man pretty. He also looks dangerous and smells of tobacco. We stare at each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up again. It feels a little like the time my father took me to a tourist trap where you can pan for gold and I actually found something that wasn't gravel.

"Are you talking about Laura Ingalls Wilder?" I ask, suddenly putting puzzle pieces together.

"I guess," he shrugs.

"Is your middle name Almanzo, by chance?"

"That's a weird question. Is yours?"

I chuckle. "Almanzo Wilder was the main character in Farmer Boy. He was Laura's husband. I was just wondering if your mom named you after him."

"No idea. I didn't have the chance to ask her about it. That's what I can remember."

"Just out of curiosity, what is your middle name?" I ask.

"Why do you want to know? Are you going to ask for my hand in marriage and order invitations?"

"Are you flirting with me?" I inch my hand just a smidge closer to his on the table, and the air between our hands practically crackles with electricity. Warmth wafts off his hands and warms my fingertips. The urge to slide my fingers over his skin hits me hard, and I flex my fingers so I don't touch him without his permission.

He leans over the table, and I inhale his scent. It's masculine and foresty with a hint of something that makes me think of peppermint and savory dinners. Comforting. As sexy as he is, there's something that makes me feel like I'm in my living room with a bowl of macaroni and cheese.

"Charles."

"Excuse me?" I ask, shaking my head to clear my nose of his smell.

"My middle name is Charles."

I cover my mouth with a laugh, and he scowls. "What's so funny?"

"That was her father's… You know what? Let's move on," I say, waving my hand. "What do you do for a living, Wilder?"

"I'm a mechanic. Yourself?"

"I'm a librarian. I'm the youth coordinator over in Evergreen Hills. Do you like books?"

"Not really my thing. I'm a movie guy."

Stay calm. Sure, that's one point against him, but I'm not going to marry the guy. I only need a passable five-month boyfriend to appease Mom. Granted, not liking books is a big demerit for a librarian in the dating world, but I can live with it for five months.

Before I can ask about his favorite movie or ask if he prefers Netflix or Amazon Prime, the woman at the microphone interrupts. "Time to move!" she says, and I wince.

Could I just skip out? Ask him if he wants a cup of coffee and ditch the last two speed dates?

I look at my mother, who looks miserable now, and I gloat a little that she's not having a great time. If I say that I found a great guy and am just going to grab my jacket and go, I think she'd follow me out.

My night changed in the blink of an eye. No loans and going to a couple of holiday parties with Wilder? Yes, please. My heart swoops in my chest and pounds against my rib cage at the mere possibility that I could spend time with him over the next few months, even if it's just for a Halloween party or maybe his work Christmas party. A nice Valentine's Day dinner with a handsome man? Worse things could happen.

Wilder gets up to move, and I swoon. His thighs are tight and strong in his brown dress pants, and I stare at the belt buckle and the zipper at his fly. Where does this come from? I've never been that type of girl. I've only been with one man, and that was a disappointing experience I've had no desire to repeat. I'm not the kind of girl to stare at a man's crotch.

Does he even feel the same about me?

He brushes off his pants and reaches for my hand. "It was nice to meet you, Savannah."

"It was nice to meet you, Wilder," I reply, not letting go of his hand. His eyes look down at our connected hands, and it's now or never. "Would you like to blow this popsicle stand and get some coffee?"

Who am I right now? I've never used that terminology before, left somewhere before an event was over, and I've never asked a man out. I'm a people pleaser. I'm not going to please the last two guys I'm supposed to meet.

Looking around, the next speed date heads to my table and grits his teeth, an angry look on his face that makes my stomach turn.

I turn around again and double down. "How about it, Wilder?"

He looks me over, appraising my body much the way I did to him. I'm such a brazen hussy with his eyes on me that I almost open my jacket and do a twirl. I usually hate being examined like a piece of meat, but I want to preen for him.

"Think we can skip out of here?" he asks, nodding toward his next date.

"That's my mother," I explain, pointing at her. "She'll understand. In fact, she may get up and applaud as we walk out."

He puts his arm out at a ninety-degree angle for me to take. "Sure, but we drink real coffee. None of that pumpkin spice shit."

Maybe this won't work after all.