It's official kid

ook the least bit offended. “Not particularly.” The bartender returns with a full glass of ice water and puts it down in front of me. I open my mouth to say thank you, but peanut guy bea

glass around. “A first date, actually.” “And he’s late? That’s not a good sign.” Peanut guy reaches for an actual peanut, his hand cutting across my vision. It’s broad and lightly dusted with dark brown hair. A masculine hand, with long fingers. “How late is too late?” “I don’t know. I don’t have a hard and fast rule about it.” “Do you have hard and fast rules about a lot of things?” I look over at him. It’s a bad idea, because he’s stupidly good-look

ic.” “Are you one?” “I’m a realistic romantic,” I say. “Which is why I’m on a first date with a stranger.” He lifts an eyebrow again. “This is a blind date?” “Yes.” “And he’s late. Really not off to a good start.” I shrug, feeling the nerves settle into a current in my stomach. Talking to this guy helps. “Well, I’ll give him a shot. Something might have happened to him on the way here, you know.” I look over his shoulder, but the businessmen down the end of the bar counter are talking amongst themselves, paying him no mind. “Why are you here? Waiting for your own blind date?” I can’t say it without smiling. As if. “No,” he s

ce, I think, in a friendly sort of way. He’s wearing a beanie that sits low on top of dark curls. He shrugs out of his denim jacket. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry I’m late.” “No worries.” He looks down at my drink, and a frown mars his face. “You’ve already ordered?” Yeah, dude. I was waiting here alone for twenty minutes. “I did, yes. Ihope that’s okay.” He shrugs and sits down opposite me. “Sure, sure. So Nina told me you’re a journalist.” “I am, yes. I’d love to work in investigative reporting someday,” I say. Hopefully sooner than just one day, if the interview today had gone as well as it felt. I’d spent over two hours today at the New York Globe’s offices. “So you write, like, these exposing pieces about government corruption and scandals?” He slouches in his chair, but his eyes glow with enthusiasm. This is promising. I spin my disgusting drink around and nod. “I’d like to, at least.” “You know, I have a lot of opinions about the press.” “You do?” He raises a finger. Almost like he’s lecturing me. “You guys need to start reporting more on facts, and less with your emotions.” Um… “Yes. Well, reporting on the facts as they are is the hallmark of good journalistic integrity.” “Sure, but so often they don’t. You know, I haven’t subscribed to a newspaper in years. The facts I care about are all online. I can find them with the press of a button.” I rub a hand over my neck. “Well, a lot of people do that nowadays. Print media is struggling for that very reason.” “It’s dying, more like it. But if you reported more on facts, you’d be doing better.” He raises a hand, signaling to the waitress. “Over her