Betty Jo Schuler

Male Wanted

Hoping to find an M&M, Taylor Gayle dug in her skirt pocket and finding it as empty as her social calendar, hoped it wasn't a bad omen. At age twenty-four, she shouldn't need a date for a Homecoming Dance, but as a high school librarian who'd been assigned to chaperone duty, attending alone would be worse.

Taylor pushed open the door to The Town Crier with a sweaty, ringless hand, and straightened her shoulders. She'd gotten herself into this mess with a tiny white lie that snowballed and she would get herself out. Walking rapidly, sandals slapping against the bare wood floor, she crossed the newspaper office and stepped up to the counter.

A sharply dressed male at a desk on the other side pecked away at a typewriter without looking up. A huge furry mutt nuzzled its head against his thigh. She cleared her throat. "I'd like to place a personal ad, please."

"Take a form." The man, whose hair was very dark and very wavy, nodded toward a row of wooden trays on the counter, each with a different label and in a different color. "And have a seat."

The Personal ad forms were a tawdry hot pink that unnerved Taylor, and the schoolroom desk set in a corner made her feel like a naughty child sent to consider her behavior. Years earlier, when she loved to laugh, she'd been sent to sit in the corner frequently.

"I have one filled out." She'd pondered a week before filling it out and was anxious to get rid of it before she turned chicken. She'd chosen the Crier, one of two local papers, because the Courier's offices were smack in the middle of town where everyone could see her going in and out. The Crier was tucked away on a side street. Taylor waved the paper over the counter.

The dog looked up. Gray with hair that hung over its mournful eyes, he looked empathetic. His master ripped a sheet out of the typewriter without a glance in her direction. "Didn't your typing teacher tell you not to do that?" she huffed.

"Never took typing."

Taylor felt the color rise in her cheeks. If she hadn't been so concerned with meeting a man who would escort her to the homecoming dance, she would have realized that he was typing with only two fingers. She'd always prided herself on being perceptive.

He reached for her form and tossed it alongside his typewriter, consulted a handwritten sheet and told her the cost. She paid and leaned on the counter while he dug in a drawer for a receipt book. The early September day was unseasonably warm and the newspaper office typical of Boomtown, Ohio, decades behind. She'd been here three months and hadn't grown used to finding a moderate-sized town, frozen in time. A brass spittoon sat in the corner next to a scarred wooden bench in front of a plate glass window. The only other attempt at decor was a philodendron with yellowing leaves set next to the row of forms, and trays labeled Business, Personal, Classified, and Yard Sales.

Except for a harried look, the guy digging frantically for a receipt book, didn't look like a small town newspaper editor. His navy pants and white shirt were neatly tailored, and he wore a red power tie and tasseled power loafers, she noted as he stalked to a file cabinet to continue his search. "R," he muttered, leaning over to open a lower drawer.

Hm. Nice buns, and the cloth of his shirt strained over his broad shoulders and biceps. He rose and raised both hands helplessly. "I'll just write it on a piece of paper."

Okay, maybe he couldn't run a company. But he wasn't wearing a wedding band, and inept in the office didn't say anything about his ability to dance. The Snoopy bandage on his thumb didn't necessarily mean he was immature. He might just like to have fun. "Are you the editor?"

Half-nodding, half-shrugging, he held out a hand. "Max Stuart."

She liked the warmth and strength of his grip and was awed by the way his broad hand engulfed hers but she refrained from offering her name. A lock of dark hair fell onto his forehead and she clenched her fingers as they itched to push it back. He picked up paper and pen, and she turned away deliberately. This was a business visit and she had no business considering Max Stuart's qualifications as an escort.

A black tin that she assumed was set on the counter with customers in mind caught her attention. Short and squat, it was decorated with colorful pictures of jellybeans and lollipops. Closing the three foot space between her and the can, her mouth watering, Taylor edged closer, hoping it also contained M&Ms. Chocolate enclosed in those crispy colored shells was the food of goddesses. She paused to read the label on the can.

"Suckers. Help Yourself." Oh, well. At four o'clock in the afternoon on the day she swallowed her pride to advertise for a man, any kind of candy would do. She lifted the lid.

A snake popped out and struck her in the chin.

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