The Brit was someone I can describe only as Lord Marcus on “Gossip Girl.” Well, except for the title and the vast family riches. Nine years older than me, the Brit was a U.K. transplant in the banking industry and a sweet, sweet man. Not only did he own a house across the pond, but he would sometimes bring small index cards on which he’d previously jotted down the names of nice restaurants we could go to after quick drinks or karaoke, depending on where we had agreed to meet. He was thoughtful, attentive, and thoroughly romantic, especially with that hot British accent.
One night, after an insanely fun night of boozy karaoke and a seafood dinner with entree-appropriate wine, he dropped me off at the door of my apartment. He then swept me up in his arms and spun me around, right in next to a busy street, for God and everyone else to see. I was floored. This was the stuff of Seventeen magazine fairytale dates – the ones I had looked forward to in high school that never materialized…until now. Giggling and semi-swooning, I kissed him goodnight and walked up the stairs to my apartment happy.