Hot For His Girl Read online

  I slide ANSWER CALL for my sister. “Hey, Delia.”

  “Hey, how ya doing?”

  “All good, what’s up?” I don’t know if she just wants to shoot the breeze or what. Sometimes she’s lonely when the kids are at school.

  Needing to pee, I grab the phone and switch it to speakerphone while Delia jabbers about the preschool teacher this or that. Might as well be productive while she drones on and on. She’s used to my multitasking while we talk.

  “This new teacher is so flashy and flamboyant. And young. Would you believe her cleavage was on full display during conferences? She had on this tight, bright green blouse and oopsy, she obviously missed buttoning up half the buttons. Between her perfect breasts and shiny red hair flowing all around, James couldn’t keep his eyes off her. I kept thinking, no way I can compare to this goddess in my dark-washed jeans and white layering tee. Plus, my hair was stuck in a braid. Andi, I feel completely washed up and dried out at thirty-one. How does that happen? This teacher is probably not that much younger, and she looks like a Spice Girl. I’m in an ugly mood, aren’t I?”

  Not bothering to place the phone on mute so I can flush, I tend to my sister’s rant. It’s not the first one and won’t be the last.

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Delia. James loves you and the kids. He only has eyes for you. I swear, he’s been only into you since the moment he came to America. Maybe he felt bad for the woman? Maybe, just maybe, she was having a wardrobe malfunction and he wanted to tell her? He’s sort of a sensitive soul, you know? You know he’s so sweet.”

  It’s doubtful—the guy’s sex on a stick—but I need to say something comforting to Delia or she’ll never hang up the phone. James is insanely good-looking and British, so yeah, he’s got the accent too. Oh, and he used to be a smoker, and his voice is still a tad scratchy and hoarse with the accent. I mention the accent twice because . . . well, it’s an accent. I’m pretty sure every woman within a five-mile radius of him unbuttons her shirts in hopes he will notice her. This was no wardrobe malfunction.

  Sadly, I understand my sister’s dismissal of her own looks. We’re twins. Not identical, but close enough that we could pass for it. I run my hand through my hair and shove it in a messy bun. I don’t have time to dissect my looks at the moment.

  “No, you don’t understand. This girl looked like she wanted to climb James like a spider monkey, like he was her bright and shiny Edward. And now I notice he’s on his iPad at night, reading blogs. Blogs. Do you hear me, Andonia Schwartz? Blogs! Like what you do. What man does that?”

  I don’t know what the big deal is. Obviously, it’s huge enough for my sister to use my full name, which she knows I despise. Our mom’s Italian and our dad’s Jewish. As if it’s not a lethal enough combo temperament-wise, they gave me the worst name. Andonia and Schwartz go together about as well as grape jelly and salami.

  I rummage through the kitchen and make myself a K-cup while my sister continues to rattle on about James and the Giant Blog.

  “He’s surfing and searching, and now he has a favorite blog! It has all the latest looks on grooming beards and fashion trends, and of course, grilling. They don’t grill in England, but my husband wants to smoke a pig this weekend in his new flannel shirt. What if he wants to invite the teacher?”

  “I really think you’re getting carried away. Are you PMSing?”

  “That’s a myth. Women use PMS as a crutch. I’m not some overly emotional crazy person who is jealous of a preschool teacher. This is real.”

  “We don’t use it as a crutch, and of course you’re not. Maybe you need a different birth control pill or something. You seem a bit off balance.”

  “Andi, do you hear me? My husband, the British finance guy, is reading lifestyle blogs.”

  “Okay, why don’t you tell me the name of the blog he’s so fascinated with and I’ll check it out? Give you the scoop.”

  I’ll admit, dad blogs aren’t my favorite. Imposters, if you ask me. Especially that sham Dollars for Daddy—the guy’s nothing but a trustafarian who sits at home trading options for himself and plays budgeting make-believe on his blog, probably while toking it up.

  “Would you? I know you’re busy. I hate to ask—”

  “Yes. You’re my sister.” I interrupt her poor excuse for pretending to understand my life. “What’s the name?”

  “It’s called Grill and Groom.”

  Great. Another blog about a man in love, betrothing himself to some Disney-esque, big-eyed, bushy-tailed princess for a life in harmony.

  I roll my eyes. “No prob, Delia. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

  I swear I hear her suck in a tear, but I know better than to try to talk her out of this one without looking at the blog. She’s always been the emotional one.

  Me? I’m the realist. The cynical, snarky one.

  Of course, my life partner left me sitting in a hospital bed nursing a newborn and never came back. Oh, you don’t know he went out for that cup of joe right after I delivered Gabby?

  I never really believed in happily-ever-after anyway.

  I guess.

  After running through my email inquiries for ads and scheduling a post for the evening, I give in and google Grill and Groom. It’s not at all what I expect.

  I thought grill was a play on the word girl, yet there’s absolutely no girl in sight. But there’s definitely a grill.

  Grill and Groom: A site for men who grill (and look damn good while doing it).

  Grilling Tips for when you’re hungry.

  Beard Advice for when you’re behind the charcoals and when you’re not.

  Center stage, a picture of an extremely good-looking guy. Smoking hot, if you’ll pardon the pun.

  Of course, the cocky son of a bitch is shirtless and wearing an apron reading KEEP CALM AND GRILL ON while wielding a pair of huge-ass tongs. Completing the look is perfectly mussed black hair and a matching five o’clock shadow.

  I shake my head at the lunacy of it.

  Who grills shirtless? And who looks that good while he grills and writes about it? This guy could be a model, so why’s he peddling himself as a blogger?

  What’s the catch? There must be one—

  I click on About.

  Hey there, fellow grillers. I’m Reid Fellows, and I started this blog on a dare. A coworker bet me that I couldn’t cook dinner for a month straight, shaming me into submission. Although, he never said I couldn’t grill.

  Guess what? I can’t cook worth shit, but I can grill like a pro. I don’t even break a sweat doing it.

  After a month of writing this here little blog, I decided to keep it and share my vast knowledge on all things grilling and grooming for the modern-day man. It’s been two years since I started, and I don’t plan on throwing in the apron anytime soon.

  For details on working with me, stats and site information, please email GrillNGroom [at] Gmail [dot] com.

  Hmm. I click on a handful of pages and posts. Reid is definitely not a dad. He’s also unbelievably hot-to-trot and definitely not committed to one girl—judging by the number of No Fuss, No Muss, Date-Night Grill Recipes he’s posted.

  Thirty-five, to be exact.

  This dude loves his blog and his grill. Apparently, so much so, he recently invested in the latest digital-camera upgrade to sit atop his tripod and run off a remote.

  Of course, he takes his own photos. He’s talented in many ways . . . many, many, many more than meet the eye.

  The alarm on my phone dings, and it’s time for my run. Between working through lunch and salivating over Reid and his recipes, I’m famished, but I don’t have time for food.

  I convince myself reading Reid is a harmless hobby of James’s and close out of his blog. My British brother-in-law is probably looking to adopt his own slice of Americana. I resist the urge to bookmark Grill and Groom, and during my run, I decide to erase Reid’s existence out of my brain.

  The notion of reading him daily, looking for fodder or simply look
ing (ogling) at him, holds way too much appeal for this anonymous single-mom blogger.

  Readers!

  I’ve been receiving daily email alerts complete with nifty and crafty projects side by side with healthy and cool fall snacks all made by Doodlelicious, so I had to jump over there and see what all the rage is about!

  Apparently, Ms. Doodlelicious herself doesn’t eat anything she cooks. I was sad to learn about this in her latest post on her fear of gaining an ounce and keeping her stomach flat, all the while she’s so busy nourishing and entertaining her spawn.

  Warm lemon water and apple cider vinegar! That’s the secret to all of life, according to her. All you have to do is microwave spring water for thirty-five seconds (don’t stand too close to the electromagnetic waves) and squeeze in a splash of organic lemon juice, a tablespoon of unfiltered vinegar water, and a dash of honey if you need it. It helps keep her appetite at a minimum, warms her cold bones, and flushes toxins from her system.

  Of course, the Doodlelicious kiddos aren’t privy to her obsessions or fears and gobble down all her concoctions with gusto, but not until after they’re photographed wearing their best clothes and posing with said goodies. I imagine this is all fairly tricky with her latest creation, marshmallow-and-caramel-swirl apples. Yet, it doesn’t appear to have been a big deal. Her kids look mighty dandy in #coolcorduroys and #fineflannel from so-and-so celebrity’s line, holding their apples up to the sky.

  I scrolled through earlier recipes and personally love the shots of Ms. Doodlelicious from the late summer, in her tankini, crafting and snacking (pretending to eat, I guess) poolside.

  And here I thought she was one of those eat anything people.

  Note to self: stick to carrot and celery sticks.

  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  God, this woman (or man) is batshit crazy.

  I don’t really know, but the writing definitely feels feminine. Although, I can’t say for certain, but I’ll go with a her.

  A while back, I googled top internet blogs, and The UnAffectionate Blogger came up in my search. I couldn’t help but look through older posts and marvel at the content, not to mention the obvious wit and stats. I admit, I do take a look from time to time. Okay, I’m sort of hooked.

  Christ, the freaking stats are through the roof for this blog. All you have to do is see the Alexa rank or google any number of subjects, and this damn blog is always on page one of Google results. Today, I googled healthy outdoor snacks and boom, there’s the UAB.

  Do me a favor. Make sure you’re sitting down if you take a look at the visitor counter on her page. My tongue practically rolls out of my mouth, and I have good stats. She must be some sort of insider, or a lonely woman who lives alone with her cats. Who the hell else has all this time to scour the internet?

  Okay, I may be a little jealous. My blog started out as a joke, but it’s become a labor of love for me.

  Hey, even a bachelor gets bored and wants something to call all his own.

  Yeah, I guess the powers-to-be at work would rather me find a family to call my own, but I don’t even have a steady woman. I date, but no one special. Sometimes, I find those ladies only want a feature in my blog, which may be a reason to make it anonymous. But how can I date someone and not tell them about my hobby?

  Hobby? Hell, it’s practically a second full-time job.

  I close my laptop and decide to go for a run. It’s unseasonably warm for the end of October, and I tell myself not to waste any more time on the UnAffectionate Blogger. Instead, I change into shorts and a long-sleeved tee, slip my feet into my running shoes, grab my earbuds and phone, and hit the pavement.

  It’s quiet on campus. Only a small number of students are still roaming the quad, and I’m glad I ran in that direction. It’s really a peaceful place when deserted.

  I wind my way through a parking lot and into the park.

  I still can’t digest this city, with several major universities, a medical center, and a bustling downtown, all divided by Schenley Park and Golf Course. It’s such a far cry from the farm I grew up on in central Pennsylvania. It’s not even close to where I went to school in Happy Valley, but it’s grown on me. The hilly terrain helps me stay in shape, and I like the way I can find open air in the middle of all the congestion.

  I loop through the park and head back home through campus, noticing the purple sky and downtown skyline on my way back. I like Pittsburgh, and I make a silent plea with the powers that be to grant me tenure. They’ve suggested I recreate the blog under a pseudonym, or at least attempt to take myself out of my current blog, which is also why I’ve been studying up on anonymous bloggers.

  For some reason, the administration of the college that employs me doesn’t want Professor Fellows to be a shirtless blogger in his spare time. They say it’s because of the students, but I don’t give a shit. I teach second-level statistics. Those “kids” are at least nineteen or twenty years old. They can vote and get married, and that’s plenty old enough to handle shirtless content on the internet.

  As for me, I don’t like the thought of going anonymous in my blogging. It feels disingenuous, and I’m not prepared to change it yet.

  I’m a stats guy; I deal in the real and tangible. I need to understand more, not the unknown, like the UnAffectionate Blogger.

  Except later, I find myself reading more of her/his posts after I shower, grill some fish, and crack open a beer, secretly hoping it’s a her and her anonymity doesn’t last forever.

  She’s witty, and I fucking like it.

  Ignoring the constant pinging on my laptop, signaling new comments, and the buzzing of tweets on my phone, I serve Gabby and Lizzie pizza and steamed broccoli before they change into their costumes. I stop for a quick whiff under my arms, making sure my deodorant is staying true to its all-day-power claim. It sort of is—I think—considering I took my run and didn’t shower before dinner.

  “Mom, what’re you doing?” Gabby says, interrupting my personal-hygiene check. “Can we dip our broccoli in ketchup?”

  “Nope, no way, never. That’s gross, and it’s slathering your good vegetables in corn syrup.”

  See? I’m a good mom.

  “Eat your veggies, so you can eat lots and lots and lots of candy.” I spread my arms wide, showcasing how much candy they can eat.

  Sort of.

  “Girls, I’m going to run to the bathroom, and when I get back, we’ll clear your plates and get ready to go.”

  I sneak a few minutes of phone time in the bathroom, scrolling through Twitter and Facebook while sitting on the toilet. My email dings and I pop over there, expecting to find nothing but new comments on today’s post, “Don’t be a Witch, Nanny Blue.” Basically, Nanny Blue is a real bitch of a nanny who is able to afford being a stay-at-home mom by watching a few other kids. The lady can’t be more condescending, and I love pulling the plug on her bullshit.

  I have a hundred new comments to sift through later, but the latest email isn’t about those. It’s an update from Grill and Groom.

  Okay, okay, I signed up for updates. This Reid is good. And funny. And handsome. I can’t fucking believe it, but I’m inspired to get a small grill and make sea bass. Although, I’d rather eat it off his abs.

  The headline reads, LATEST ON GRILL AND GROOM: HALLOWEEN HALIBUT AND S’MORES ON THE GRILL.

  Of course, there’s a picture of darling Reid, licking some marshmallow off the corner of his mouth.

  Why can’t I lick it off?

  “Mom, come on! Me and Lizzie want to go,” Gabby calls from her room. I assume they left a mess on the kitchen counter and are wrestling into their princess costumes.

  After pulling up my not-so-clean running pants, I wash my hands, run a semi-damp hand along my hair, smoothing it into its ponytail, and pinch my cheeks. Makeup isn’t going to help me now.

  While I grab some lip balm, I make a mental note to prep some makeup blog fodder. I recently got an alert for a blogge
r now peddling her own line of hair color with coordinating shades for down below.

  “Here I come, girls.”

  The two come plodding out to meet me, their hair falling out of their braids and twisted in crowns, long dresses trailing behind them.

  “Oh my God, you two look precious.”

  The girls both turn toward me with huge smiles and smudges of lipstick on their faces. They couldn’t be more perfect. So much better than all those primped and proper kids featured on blogs across the country.

  “Let’s get a picture for Lizzie’s mom, and then we’ll hit the road,” I tell the girls. “One sec, let me just fix up your lipstick and add a wee bit of glitter.” I can’t help myself, but I run my thumb over both their chins and clean up their faces.

  Don’t look at me that way!

  I only adjusted their lips. Not their hair.

  There’s a small shopping area nearby on the fringes of a neighborhood. The store owners all hand out candy, and the center is safe and well lit. I decide to drive the girls over there and let them skip in front of me from shop to shop. I welcome dusk, inviting it to hide my naked face and dingy clothes.

  “Mom, Mom!” Gabby calls to me from in front of the shoe store. “They have coffee for the moms.”

  Now, the only thing better would be if they said they had wine, but this is Pennsylvania, which has some of the craziest liquor-control laws known to man. I stick my hands in the pockets of my ratty cardigan sweater I grabbed out of the trunk of my car and walk a few paces to the storefront.

  “We have coffee for the weak and weary.” A woman wearing devil horns gives me a smile. She looks to be about forty.

  “Was it the heavy bags under my eyes or the fact that the streetlight was holding me up that gave me away?”

  “Nah, I just know. Been there, done that, three times. My youngest is thirteen now and off with his friends. This is my happy place, helping other parents.”