“And what has that got to do with pretending to be my boyfriend?”
He laughed again. “Everything. Because what I want from you is answers.”
“To what questions?”
“All of them.”
“Excuse me?”
“All of them about women.”
“I don’t know all the answers about women.”
“But you know the answers for you.”
She gave him a long look.
He grinned back at her. “No, I’m not certifiable. Nuts, yes. But not quite at the padded-room stage.”
“You want answers about women?”
He nodded.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, I get to ask you anything. No holding back. No thinking twice about propriety. I ask, you answer. Honestly. To the best of your ability. All the questions I’ve wanted to ask but haven’t dared.”
“You’ve never dated?”
“Oh, I’ve dated. Many times. I’ve had relationships. All of which have failed. Mostly, I fear, due to my fumbling. My lack of understanding. Seriously, I don’t get it. Screw physics and the Big Bang theory, the great imponderable isn’t God, it’s women. Who are you people? The books are useless. Believe me, I’ve read them. Everything from Men are from Mars to Dr. Phil. And I still don’t get you.
“Every time I think I’ve figured you out, I’m totally thrown for a loop. Take Tamara. Great gal, an incredible dancer. I was crazy about her, and she swore she loved me. We lived together for two blissful years. So what happened? Right after I proposed, and we’re talking days here, she moved in with a drug addict who beat her for a hobby. And she’s just the tip of the iceberg. I ask other men, and they either throw up their hands or give me advice that lands me in the doghouse. It’s nuts, and it’s crazy, and dammit, what I want is to once and for all get it.”