What Pretty Girls Are Made Of by Lindsay Jill Roth Read Free Book Online Page A

be , I thought, given what I knew Sally was reeling in.
    With the faux-promotion portion of the meeting already covered, who knew what would be next? Whatever was coming my way, I felt pride in being recognized for consistent good work. That part was new to me, and I liked it.
    “Next up, do you know who Jane Morgan is?” Ira asked me.
    “I don’t. Should I?” I replied.
    “She’s a beauty industry recruiter who does a lot of work for Sally Steele, and who I’ve used at other companies as well.”
    First a promotion, and now they’re going to have me meet with a recruiter to find another job?
    “Jane has a son,” he continued, “and he’s looking for a nice Jewish girl. I believe they call them NJGs these days. Anyway, Jane asked me the other day if I knew of any NJGs who were out in the dating world to set up with her son. I thought of you. Are you up for a setup? Actually, before I ask you that, I should show you a picture.”
    “Jane sent you a picture of her son?”
    “Oh, yes she did. I wasn’t going to let this happen without getting all of the details for you. His name is David. He’s a lawyer but works in investment banking, grew up in Manhattan, and is thirty-seven years old.”
    “A lawyer and investment banker—it’s like every profession I date mixed into one. If he has dark hair and is a little stocky, I may have already dated him,” I joked. “Do I get to see the photo or is this a true blind date?” I hoped Ira didn’t think that all I cared about were looks.
    “First, the photo disclaimer,” he said with a smile.
    “You are killing me here.”
    Ira pulled out the photo, in the form of a printout from his computer.
    “I’m supposed to tell you, per David’s mother, that this is a Thanksgiving photo taken after a large meal in casual clothing.”
    Ira was nothing if not thorough.
    “I’m not for pleated pants myself,” Ira said, finally showing me David’s photo, “but maybe you can change that part of his wardrobe.”
    Perhaps it was the casual Thanksgiving wear that made David appear to be on the cuddly side, but I much preferred a huggable man to a skinny one. Though, lately, my taste in men had definitely started to shift from the conventional corporate suit into the unknown.
    “Madison,” I had said the week before on my walk home from work, “Remember I told you that my building hired a new super?”
    “Yes,” she replied. “Maybe now you can get your leaky air conditioners fixed before the summer.”
    “He’s hot, Mad. So hot. I met him when I was running out to work this morning and he seems really nice.”
    “Hot super—I like it. What’s his deal?”
    “Well, you know I secretly love a man with a shaved head, but—you’re going to die—he’s covered in tattoos. Like sleeves. Roses inked up his arm. Now I have to look cute all the time.” I could picture her wide eyes and surprised smile before she even spoke.
    “Who are you? Tattoos? Are you boycotting lawyers and finance guys now? Has this life change altered your DNA?”
    “I actually think supers make good money,” I said, not knowing if that was true. “And yes, clearly this job has made me more open to things like a career I haven’t been dreaming about since I could say ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ or a cookie-cutter man who is perfect on paper.”
    “Do I have to worry about you shitting where you sleep?”
    “Oh no,” I said, fantasizing about an intrabuilding romance. “You have to worry about which one of my parents will have a heart attack and fall on the floor first when I bring Super home to meet them.”
    Madison started laughing so hard that I had to remove the phone from my ear. “Well, get him to fix your air conditioners before you go all Aniston to Jolie on me, tiger.”
    “I wish. He has a girlfriend. The unfortunate side to all of this. So he’s off-limits, but I cannot wait for you to see this guy. Muscles for days. Big muscles. What I would do to