Confessions of a Serial Dater Read Online Free

know he doesn’t mean to sound pretentious, but it does make me cringe a bit…
    Escaping Sidney is now the least of my problems, I think, as warning sirens blare in my brain, and I wonder how one man can be so lethally attractive. It’s just so unfair to womankind….
    My traitorous ovaries rejoice as they leap to immediate attention, closely followed by all other traitorous organs. And, in fact, all other traitorous body parts. Even my toes find room to curl.
    And I know that I am standing here with my mouth hanging open in an unattractive manner. Drooling is so—so undignified. I must remember how to speak. Breathing might be good, too. This is only a man. A fellow human being…
    I clear my throat to test my failing vocal cords. Now, there are many witty, amusing things I could say at this point to charm him with my sparkling personality.
    “Oh, it’s you,” which is what actually comes out of my mouth, is not one of them. Not that I want to charm him, of course. Why should I care what he thinks of me? Of course I don’t care…
    “Yes, I think we can be sure that it is, in fact, me,” he says, smiling down at me from at least six feet up.
    His dark, wavy hair flops over his forehead, and I want to reach up and touch it. His teeth are ever so slightly crooked, which is endearing. His eyes crinkle so nicely, and twinkle so…dangerously.
    “I’d love to stop and chat, and get to know you a bit better before I take such a liberty as placing my hands on your person, but I think the root of your distress is about to descend on us,” he says, nodding his head just a little in the direction of Sidney the unstoppable Sherman tank. “We should make your escape now. Do you think you could bear to dance in those shoes? It’s a slow number, and it will involve little actual movement of feet.”
    “Dancing. Yes. Good plan,” I say, babbling like a complete idiot.
    “I apologize for having to put my arm around you in such a familiar way, but I promise not to let my hands wander too far,” he says, and I almost forget to breathe again as he takes one of my hands in his and slides his other around my waist. “Oh, good. Bing Crosby—always a wise choice for any Christmas party, don’t you think?”
    “I, um—” I stutter, groping desperately for a thought. Anythought at all…oh, but he smells lovely. No! Forget that. Not a good thought.
    “You know, you could put your arm around my waist too. I’ve always thought that free-form arms during close dancing are a bit noncommittal.”
    “How can you tell?” I blurt as I tentatively place my arm around him. God, it feels good. Too good. Another bad thought. “About the shoes,” I say, as we start to sway in time to “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”
    “Ah, that would be because of my medical training.” He smiles even wider. “We doctors have our secret methods of discerning tight-fitting shoes.”
    Oh, this is even worse than I thought. Not only is he adorable, and dangerous, and smells lovely, but he also saves lives!
    “Or it could just be the way that I hobbled out of the room after the near-death experience,” I say, just a bit cynically.
    “Well, that shatters my secret methodology,” he laughs down at me, and my heart misses a beat. “The hobbling was a large hint. Why are you wearing shoes that are too small? It’s something that’s been fascinating me all evening.”
    “Trust me, the shoe story is not interesting,” I tell him, because, well, he makes me feel petite. I don’t want to shatter the petite image with my big feet issue. “Do you make a habit of looking closely at women’s shoes? Is this something that the Royal College of Physicians needs to be warned about?”
    “No,” he laughs, and I have to bite my lip so that I don’t sigh at just how good his laugh makes me feel. “As concerned as I might be, in a totally professional capacity, about the state of the health of your toes, they were not my primary concern. Would