Settling Up Read Free Page A

tended toward the stereotypically tall-dark-and-handsome breed. Like I said, Cary Grant)
    2. He must be fluent in at least three languages. (I speak three, four if you count mathematics.)
    3. He must be at least six feet tall. (I am five foot nine and enjoy wearing heels.)
    4. He must read at least ten informational books each year for either professional gain or personal betterment.
    5. He must maintain a positive relationship with his family, unless they are crazy or dysfunctional and his removal of himself from the situation only speaks to his rationality.
    6. He must be a professional, having maintained a position of employment for at least five years (with timely promotions along the way).
    7. He must have started accruing retirement funds as well as a supplementary Roth account or mutual fund holding.
    You get the idea. Normal stuff, right? Anyway, once I had crossed off enough that the guy reached my fifty-two percent non-compliance cut-off (certain numbers were weighted higher in percentage as they tended to be the more important concerns), I said goodbye. No thank you. Good luck.
    And by just looking at this blonde stud across the table from myself (regardless of the fact he definitely hit full points for numbers one and three), I could tell he was definitely not going to get the points for number seven. Even if he’d been at the whole dealer gig for five years (per number six), nothing about what Rachel had told me about the job alluded to any sort of promotion scale or 401k opportunities.
    Automatically, this knowledge lowered my heart rate and I breathed a little easier. Which was good since I was acting like a lovestruck teenager, something I hadn’t done since, well, I was an actual teenager. Blackjack was my reprieve from emotions, from worry. I needed to get back to that calm, controlled place.
    Maybe if I could figure out for sure that this guy was no match for me, I would be able to calm down and focus on playing instead of the stormy blue color of his eyes.
    So I calculated his percentage of non-compliance, factoring in the tattoo on his forearm (not that I minded it much, but people tend to hide their more intensely-inked sections of skin, which meant I could probably rule out number seventeen from my list: no tattoos or piercings that will be embarrassing when we’re old and on the beach with our grandkids.) And during the next two hands, I had gone through most of the list, coming up with a number that was already past that fateful fifty-two percent mark, even without knowing anything about his family or the number of books he’d read this year.
    The knowledge that he was nowhere near a match for me, calmed my sweaty palms, and slowed my hammering heart. After that, I was able to play quite a few more hands with my brain humming happily in numbers and equations and I left there with a five dollar profit (I normally was happy if I came out even or slightly under as I didn’t play as much for the money as I did the distraction.)
    And a delightful distraction it had been. I had all but forgotten my evil bald spot as well as the fact that I had bared it so brazenly to Mack.
    My mouth stretched into a smile as I clutched my chips.
    “Thank you very much, Mack,” I said, standing and grabbing my purse. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
    His forehead wrinkled.
    “Oh, I come in every Tuesday and Thursday, as well as the occasional Friday. Today was just because I needed a distraction from the…” I cringed and pointed to my head. “You know.”
    He dipped his chin. Boy was he a man of few words.
    “No offense, but my regular dealer is Rachel.”
    He shrugged, still unsure who Rachel was, I guess.
    I felt my phone buzz in my purse as I walked out the front door. Rachel had left me a voicemail (she was constantly complaining about how her grown children never called, opting for texting instead, and refused to fall into the trend, so she almost exclusively left voicemails).
    “Hey Lauren. I just