I got up and went to the bathroom. When I was washing my hands, I saw a book on the platform above the sink: Having the Billionaire's Baby. Now that is one shortcut to wealth. It was a Harlequin romance. I guess millionaires are old-school, like Thurston Howell. It is the billionaire that women fantasize about now. I thumbed through it and it was ridiculous, poorly written, and entirely absorbing.

"I wonder how it ends?" I asked my date.

"It has to have a happy ending," he said. I skipped to the last page and read this: "He was her husband now. The father of her child and the man she wanted to wake up next to for the rest of her days. How incredible and divine." I couldn't help but worry for the woman; any man with that much dough would have to acquire a mistress at some point. But that stuff never happens in Harlequin romances. The men are hard to catch — hence the plotline — but once you get them, they are monogamous.

We boarded the cable car for the ride back. This time it was almost empty, so we were in no danger of pushing little old ladies aside for a seat. I felt like the Bachelorette; what a generic S.F. date. But it was quite romantic on the car, actually. I liked him and wanted to see him again. If this was a romance novel, he would impregnate me and I would be Having the Six-Figure Salaried Guy's Baby. It would have a happy ending. It had to.

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