The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy. Nic Tatano
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and looked down. “I’m not offended. I appreciate your input. Keep going. Fire away, I’m a big girl.”
“You sure?”
“Hey, I take on politicians all the time. I’m not afraid of anything. Don’t hold back.”
“Ohhhh-kaaaay,” he said, then exhaled and paused a moment. “Well, here goes. You’re not approachable.”
Ouch.
“People come up to me all the time.”
“Because you’re a celebrity,” said Ariel.
“I meant you’re not approachable as a potential date,” said Vincent.
“Fine,” I said, looking at Vincent, eyes narrowing into Brass Cupcake mode. “Tell me why I’m unapproachable.”
Vincent leaned forward on his forearms. Usually they lean back when the death stare makes its first appearance. Interesting. “Well, first I call you a girl and you correct me, so I think you’re some militant feminist, which I and most men hate. Then the marriage question, which was beyond weird. Along with your somewhat bizarre conversational skills, it’s the overall look. The hair in a tight bun. You’re sitting there on your hands, all hunched up. And the outfit.”
My face tightened. “What’s wrong with the outfit?”
“Rox said you’re hot and you look like a librarian. The bulky sweater, baggy pants, thick glasses. Those shoes look like you’re going hiking. You look like you want to be anywhere but here. There’s probably a serious babe under all that but I can’t be sure.”
He reached across the table toward me but I pulled back and put up a hand. “Whoa!”
“Relax, would you?” he said. Serena grabbed my hand and pulled it down.
He reached toward my face and gently removed my glasses. “Wow,” he said.
“What?” I asked, as my view of Vincent morphed into a Monet painting.
“You’ve got spectacular eyes. I mean, they’re like emeralds, such a vivid green. You could do eye makeup commercials.”
“If she actually wore makeup outside the studio,” said Roxanne, as I snatched my glasses back from him and put them on.
“Look, Belinda. Roxanne tells me you’re a beautiful girl with a big heart, but as a man looking for a date I would have no idea if any of that’s true. If you weren’t famous I doubt if any man would come up to you, and if anyone did he wouldn’t stay long.”
I bit my lower lip and felt my eyes well up. No! This wasn’t happening! A man cannot make the Brass Cupcake cry! “I’d like you to leave now,” I said softly.
“Hey, I’m sorry, that was a bit harsh, but you told me not to hold back—”
“Just! Go!”
Vincent put up his hands in surrender. He got up, kissed Roxanne on the side of the head. “Thanks, cuz,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. He shot me an apologetic look with sad eyes, but I turned away. He headed for the door.
“So,” I said, when he was out of earshot. “Whose brilliant idea was that?”
“Mea culpa,” said Serena, putting her wrists out as if she were waiting to be handcuffed. “I plead no contest.”
“And the rest of you were okay with it?”
“We thought it was a great idea,” said Ariel.
“A great idea? Having some guy insult me like that?”
“We already know you need help,” said Serena. “But we really needed a man’s opinion. Rox said she knew her cousin would help out, and you two might actually hit it off.”
“Vincent was just doin’ what I asked. You’d like him if you took the time to know him. He’s really a great guy.”
“Yeah, a regular Mr Wonderful,” I said. “He’s just so … so … ”
“Honest?” said Roxanne.
“And suppose I’d really liked him? It wasn’t real.”
“It might have been if you’d given him a chance,” said Roxanne.
“You’re a reporter,” said Serena, clicking her pen again. “Did you learn anything from that interview?”
I played with my wine glass, swirled what was left before I downed the whole thing. “Yeah, you all think I’m a total loser.”
Ariel wrapped one arm around my shoulder. “You’re a winner, Wing Girl, and tomorrow we’re going to start showing the world.”
***
Most people go to church on Sunday mornings. Since sermons have bored the hell out of me since I was a little girl and I am ruled by Catholic guilt, I donate my Sunday mornings to a good cause. I figure it’s better than sitting in a rock-hard pew like a member of the parish undead.
As mentioned before, I love cats. So I help out at the local cat rescue shelter every weekend for a few hours, play with my furry friends and deal with things like cat food and furballs.
Cats don’t judge me, especially shelter cats. They don’t have homes yet, so they appreciate any attention they can get.
And after last night, I felt the same way.
“Morning Belinda,” said a cheery Diane as I opened the door to the shelter, jingling the little brass bell hanging off the top. She’s the petite blonde middle-aged millionaire animal lover who runs the place, often working weekends since more kitties get adopted on those days.
“Hey, Diane. How’d the week go?”
“Pretty good. Two in, five out. Somebody even took that huge tabby.”
“Great,” I said, heading toward the back of the building where the kitties lived. “Jabba the Cat was eating us out of house and home.”
“Oh, hey, we’ve got a new volunteer who started today. He’s just about to leave so go introduce yourself. Name’s Scott. Cute guy, Belinda.” Her voice went up as she said my name, like a suggestion hanging in the air.
Like I’ve got a shot. I’m wearing old torn jeans, a ratty New York Giants sweatshirt with frayed cuffs, didn’t sleep a lick last night and have a full set of Samsonite under my eyes.
Not that it would make any difference if I were dressed for a ball. I’m unapproachable, remember?
I headed down the long mauve hallway to the back and heard a man’s soothing voice float around the corner.
“Oh, yeah, there it is. That’s the spot. Ooooh, you like it when I rub you like that, don’t you?”
Sounded like some dialogue from a porn movie, but I realized it was a man talking to a cat. If only one would talk to me that way. “Hey, baby, come home with me and I’ll make you purr … ”
I turned the corner into the shelter area and saw a man sprawled on the floor, scratching the belly of a purring Siamese who was obviously in cat nirvana. The man looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”
“Hi. I see you’ve made a friend.”
“Yeah, she’s a sweet cat.” He got up off the floor, brushed off the cat hair and extended his hand. “I’m Scott.”
I shook it. “Belinda.”
He didn’t have what I call the look. The one that tells me he recognizes me from television, the one Wing Girl gets when we’re out on the town. The smile looked sincere. He was maybe five-ten, slender with broad shoulders, tousled brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes. Classic anchorman’s jaw with a little cleft in his chin, one day growth of stubble. Maybe thirty-five. More cute than handsome, but he had that boy-next-door thing going along