“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” I say dryly, dismissing such an idea. I’m not anywhere near ready to settle down. “I know one thing: I’m done with the men around here for a while. Maybe I’ll just take a break or something.”
“Why don’t you try a change of scenery?” Jeremy suggests as he stands from the couch. He pulls a Donegal sweater out of a box that had been placed there earlier by a sales associate and inspects the collar stitching.
“Change of scenery? You mean like a new bar or something?”
“No, like a new location. Not New York City.”
“You mean travel somewhere and sample the men there?” I ask with a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” he asks, and his tone is so serious I sit up straight on the couch to listen further. “Why not? You’re independently wealthy and you can write your blog from anywhere. You say you’re bored with everything around here, so pack up your trunks, grab your yappy little rodent of a dog—”
I lean over quick as lightning, grab a petit four, and launch it at Jeremy’s head.
Score.
A direct hit.
Jeremy turns to glare at me but doesn’t miss a beat. “—grab your cute and lovely dog, and go explore the world a bit. Maybe you can find your real man out there.”
Hmmm.
That idea actually has some merit. It would reinvigorate my blog as well, because if I was getting bored with the city men around here, I’m sure my readers were getting bored of hearing about it.
“But where would I go?” I muse out loud, thinking of perhaps Paris or Barcelona. I think Spanish men are really sexy.
“Alaska,” Jeremy says, then pulls the sweater over his head. When it pops through, he looks at me through the mirror. “Remember Jordie Cambridge? I went on that fishing trip for his bachelor party there a few years ago.”
I vaguely remember Jeremy going on that trip. But they were fishing, and that really didn’t interest me much, so I can’t recall much about it.
“Why Alaska?” I ask.
“Because the male population is like fifteen times that of the female population. Someone like you would be a hot commodity and there’d be herds of men from which you could cull,” he says matter-of-factly. “Is this sweater any good?”
Fifteen men to every woman?
And I’m thinking big, rugged manly men who don’t give a rat’s ass about fashion or manicures, and I bet their tans are natural.
“Alaska,” I murmur to myself.
This idea definitely has merit.