"It's fine, Paige," Cain replied softly. "Just let us know when and we'll make sure to become the Italian mafia where your boyfriend conquest is concerned, okay?"

I smiled, feeling better already. I wanted these men to like any man I brought home for them to meet. I needed their seal of approval, for some strange reason. What they thought about me mattered.

I gazed at the dining room table that was beautifully set. The water glasses were filled, the wine was breathing and my homemade lasagna was baking in the oven.

I returned to the kitchen, chopping up celery for my salad. I popped a piece of it into my mouth, just as I felt strong arms encircle me from behind, causing me to jump and let out a high-pitched shriek.

I heard Eli's playful laugh. "Sorry, sweetie," he said, releasing me. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"What the hell, Eli?" I said, trying to swallow the chunk of celery now lodged in my throat.

"You okay?" he asked, smacking me on the back. "Sorry, babe, the smell of your lasagna makes me do impetuous things," he winked.

"I'm fine," I said, rolling my eyes. "How about you put some of your energy into making the salad?" I suggested. "Where's Cain?"

Eli grabbed a paring knife and started peeling a carrot. "He's just getting out of the shower. Don't worry; I laid out clothes for him. Wouldn't want to bring shame to our best girl while she tries to impress Kevin."

"It's Kenneth," I told him for about the fifth time this week. "Kenneth," I annunciated.

"Got it, got it," he said. "So what's Kenneth's story?"

I checked the lasagna, and turned the oven down a bit. "Well, he's older than me, probably thirty-ish—"

"Ah-hah—geezers like us," he teased.

"Sort of," I replied with a smile. "Truthfully, Eli, he is kind of a serious guy, so maybe you can drop our usual banter down a notch or two? I mean the guy's an accountant, for Chrissake, so I think the word of the day is conservative."

"Conservative?" he quipped, "My fucking word of the day is 'mismatch'."

"Huh?"

"Why the hell would you pursue a relationship with a dude who you admit is a stuffy bean-counter?"

"I didn't say stuffy," I replied.

"It was implied, babe."

Just then, Cain came into the kitchen, dressed in the casual Dockers/Polo ensemble that Eli had selected for him.

"What the fuck smells so good?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"See," I snapped. "That's just what I mean." I tossed my hand up in the air in exasperation.

"Chill, Paige," Eli replied, and then directed his attention to the befuddled Cain. "It seems as though we need to act like we have couth and manners this evening, Maddox. Paige just described Kenneth as being…well, boring."

I grabbed the wooden salad utensils from the counter and started tossing. "I didn't say boring; I said conservative. I mean, come on guys, I don't want him thinking I live with heathens, alright?"

"Hey, this is your gig, babe," Cain said. "We'll take our cue from you, how's that?"

"Perfect," I replied, taking the salad bowl out to the table.

Well, to say that dinner went well would be…an all-out lie.

Fuck me.

What had I been thinking, inviting Kenneth over? And I won't say my guys didn't try to find some topic of interest to draw my date into some masculine conversation. I mean, my God, they had to have been exhausted by the time the meal was blessedly over.

First off, Kenneth had no interest whatsoever in sports—any sports.

He has no interest in music, traveling, the arts, television programs, or even current events—with the exception of the national debt, about which he rambled on non-stop for nearly twenty minutes.

He also had no tolerance for being referred to as "Kenny," which Eli managed to do several times, much to Kenneth's obvious chagrin.

Finally, Eli and Cain retired to their room to give Kenneth and me some privacy, which to be honest, I didn't want. The dude was flat out on my fucking nerves. In fact, he was running neck-and-neck with ol' Trevor Mulroney at this point.

"Would you like a refill on your wine?" I asked Kenneth as we sat staring at one another at the now-cleared dining room table.

"Certainly, thank you," he replied, holding his glass up.

I poured myself some as well, thinking maybe this guy would be a tad more tolerable if I were under the influence a bit.

"So, Paige," he said quietly, leaning in as if he wanted to tell me a secret. "Is it safe for me to presume that your…uh…roommates are queers?"

I nearly spewed my mouthful of merlot onto his crisply-ironed white oxford shirt. I grabbed a napkin, wiping my mouth as I managed to swallow it instead.

"Uh, Kenneth? Exactly who uses that word these days?" I asked, looking him dead in the eyes.

"I apologize," he replied, quickly. "Homos, then?"

Ah, fuck to the no…

"You know," I started, trying to choose my words carefully, "I guess I don't understand why the sexual preference of my roommates—who, by the way, are very close to me, would be of any consequence to you."

He looked a bit taken aback at being called out on his own ignorance and stupidity.

"Well, it's just that your living arrangement took me a bit by surprise. I mean, I've been trying to talk to you for months, but you didn't seem interested. Then, out of the blue, you invite me to dinner this week and introduce me to your roommates, whom you obviously wanted in attendance for our date. It just makes me wonder whether you don't feel comfortable being alone with me—or maybe if it's something else altogether."

What. The. Fuck?

"What do you mean by something else altogether?" I asked, not hiding my puzzlement at all.

I actually saw Kenneth squirm in his chair, and a blush appeared on his cheeks. "Well, uh, I am familiar with your reputation just a bit. I mean, well, Darin Murphy kind of likes to boast, know what I mean?"

I felt myself getting fired up at the mention of that douche's name. "Go on," I said firmly.

Kenneth was definitely out of his comfort zone now.

"Well, it's just that Darin kind of clued me in when I told him you had approached me for a dinner date at…your place. He told me about your roommates—and he may have asked something about my having experience with—uh…foursomes," he finished quickly. "I just want to tell you, right off the bat, that I'm not into any of that counter-culture stuff. It's got to be a one-on-one with you and me, okay?"

I was fairly sure my mouth was gaping open by this time, and my eyes were the size of saucers.

Yet still, he babbled on.

"I mean, when the time is right for you and me to have sexual intercourse, I would prefer that it be at my place—not here. I just don't think I could perform knowing that—"

So let me just stop right here and fast-forward.

Needless to say, Kenneth left our home before dessert was served. And when he left, there was no doubt in his mind that he'd never be back.

End of random date #1.

It was four days before Christmas, and here I sat at one of the nicest restaurants this side of D.C., across from Roger Falconer.