The Proposal - Kitty Thomas Page 0,6

to drop a couple of guys I actually liked to make it manageable. But three works. I can handle three.

But tonight is a night off from dating. It's just me at a new opening at the downtown art museum, nobody else. And I find it strangely relaxing to be out for a night in my own company. I meander through the recent exhibits and bump right into probably the most attractive man I've ever seen in real life.

“Excuse me,” I say. I manage to steady my glass of champagne just in time before the contents can escape the elegant flute to assault my new lavender dress.

He isn't nearly so lucky and unscathed.

“I think you owe me a date for the damage,” he says, pointing at the wet stain on his jacket.

Well that's forward. I'm not sure what to say to this. When it rains it pours. Apparently the universe has decided I need another man to date. Oh, that's a fun side effect of dating like this. You never look desperate or hungry, so of course men are intrigued by this uber confident energy you're throwing off. It's almost like I put some kind of pheromone into the air now that men latch onto as I drift breezily past them.

But even though I'm already shuffling things around in my mind to figure out how this could work, the words that come out of my mouth are: “I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly go out...”

“I don't see a ring. Do you have a boyfriend?”

I have a roster.

But I don't say that out loud. “No... but...”

“Ah. I see. You normally date super multi-billionaires, and I just don't make the cut?”

Any other man might make this sound passive aggressive and angry, but he somehow says it in the most endearingly playful tone. Just banter. Nothing serious. He really is nice looking, and he probably does have money. And one of the guys on the roster hasn't called me in a week; maybe he's realized I wasn't kidding about no casual sex and dropped me. It wouldn't be the first guy who's fallen back when he couldn't con his way into my panties.

And if that's the case, there's room for this man who is a definite step up. I'm not saying it's easy being celibate because it isn't. And I've seen this roster dating thing done in such a way where one doesn't have to act like a blushing virgin, but I can't take the risk again of falling for a douchebag, of betting everything on some piece of shit who will just string me along indefinitely wasting my time and all my good years and eggs.

If men think many of us are marriage and baby hungry, it's only because year after year we watch as man after man wastes our time knowing he has all the time in the world, but we don't. If I hear one more smarmy asshole talk about how women are focusing on their careers and waiting too long to settle down and make babies, I might have to punch someone in the throat. That is not why we are “waiting”. We aren't waiting. Men are just stringing us along because they can get the pussy for free and see no need to commit to it. It's a free pussy gold mine out there. The hookup culture is ruining our lives. But we're all pretending it isn't and that we feel empowered by this treatment.

They've figured out they can be our boyfriend for ten years and refuse to settle down, and we have no cards to play.

I look back to this new shiny prospect standing in front of me with a wet champagne stain on his dinner jacket.

“I really do owe you for that damage, don't I?” I say, playing along with this ridiculous date debt. I ignore the voice in my mind that says he's definitely going to want sex by the third date. It's an opportunity to improve the roster—just to have a taste of something a little fancier even if I have to let him go in a few weeks.

He nods gravely. “I'm afraid so.”

What the hell? Why not? “I'm Livia,” I say, flashing him what I hope is my most demure and charming smile.

“Soren,” he replies.

Two minutes later I am somehow on a date with this guy. Right here, right now. I thought he'd get my number and call me later, but nope, he's now squiring me around the art museum as though we planned this