“Not my readers, Ms. Brighton. It’s your readers sticking their noses into their husband’s magazine that’s causing all the ruckus.”
“Because you’re way off base.”
“Or,” he said, holding up a finger, “is it because I’m on base, and women hate knowing that they have such easy buttons to push?”
“The only women whose buttons get pushed by ‘cheese plate’ are dairy maids. So feel free to take that little tidbit of a sex tip of yours right on back to Wisconsin.”
“Now hold on,” he said, wiggling his finger in her face like an obnoxious schoolboy. “Do you like cheese plates?”
Grace bit the inside of her cheek in irritation. “Yes, but—”
“Do all of your friends like cheese plates?”
“Yessss …”
“And is said plate not the focus of many a girls’ night? Do you not stake out wine bars with cheese plates and those little dishes of weird olives?”
“Sure, but—”
“Cheese is the new chocolate,” he said smugly, sitting back as though he had just identified the solution to world hunger.
“Um, no,” she said, doing a little finger waggling of her own. “There is no replacement for chocolate.”
“A sweet tooth. Noted,” he said, batting her finger away. “But at least admit that if a guy suggested that you split a bottle of wine and a nice cheese plate on the third date, you’d be pleasantly surprised.”
“I … I don’t know,” she said, thrown off.
“See, that’s where guys always make their mistake,” he replied, shaking his head in dismay. “They think the third date still requires the full fancy-dinner routine. They suggest splitting an appetizer, then salads—because guys think all women want a side salad, and women let them think this. By this point both parties are well on their way toward full, but they order two big old entrees anyway. Then of course, there’s the dessert that she pretends she doesn’t want, and he pretends he does so he can feed her a bite … And then everyone’s too full to feel sexy. He’s dropped a ton of money and has just become like every other man who’s asked her out. Boring.”
Grace opened her mouth to counter. She couldn’t.
“But a guy who suggests a cheese plate?” he continued. “It’s simple, sexy …”
“Cheese is not sexy.”
“I’m not talking about the fake orange kind, or a bland block of on-sale mozzarella. I’m talking a sleek wood board with a nice chunk of manchego, maybe a bleu d’Auvergne … or a creamy cambozola … maybe a fresh baguette. Grapes too, if that’s your thing.”
Grace was appalled to realize that her mouth was watering.
She no longer had any doubt that a cheese plate did in fact get plenty of women into bed. But it wasn’t the cheese that got them there. Sure, the sentiment was nice. And she’d give him credit for observing that most women loved to nibble.
But that wasn’t the clincher.
No, Jake Malone himself was the clincher. It was all in the way he said “cambozola,” and the way he painted the picture of that shared cheese plate as though he would love nothing more than sharing it with the love of his life.
Jake wasn’t selling cheese, he was selling himself.
“Okay,” she said, giving a practical nod. “I’ll buy your little theory.”
He grinned. “I knew it.”
“If, if I can hear a balding, overweight whiner who lives with his mom pitch that cheese plate and still land the girl.”
Jake’s smile slipped slightly. “That’s not fair.”
Grace tsked and signaled for a refill on her drink. “Your advice only works for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”