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work harder. But now, well… She pushed the stack of dismal trig tests she was grading aside and stood up, stretching her arms above her head and doing a little shimmy to loosen up her stiff muscles. She hadn't realized how long she'd been sitting in one position.
    She eyed her laptop, which was still open on the kitchen table. Before Sherri had left for her date, Erin had finished inputting the basics of her blog idea into her new template. In lieu of a masthead, she'd typed a simple headline using the title she'd come up with: 30 First Dates. She'd also created a sidebar that contained her entire Thirty by Thirty List.
    Now she needed a plan.
    She darted back to her room and grabbed her journal. Back in the kitchen, she scavenged in the pantry for dinner, came out with a half-empty bag of Rudy's tortilla chips, and opened the fridge, praying Sherri hadn't finished off the salsa. She hadn't. Erin grabbed it and a Diet Coke, and then she settled herself into a kitchen chair and flipped her journal open to her list. Even though the blog was focused on thirty dates, she still wanted to complete the list before she turned thirty—she thought maybe she could combine the two. If nothing else, the list would give her something to talk about with the thirty strangers she was committing herself to going out with. Thirty dates equaled a whole lot of small talk.
    She opened her Outlook calendar and studied it to figure out exactly how much time she had to complete all her goals. It was April 5. Her thirtieth birthday was June 14 of the following year. That didn't leave her much time…fourteen months, nine days, two hours and, oh, about twelve minutes, to be exact.
    She examined her work schedule. She had two summer breaks and one winter break before her thirtieth birthday and three items on her list that involved major travel. That's perfect. Three breaks, three trips. And she knew she wanted to start with Paris. What better place to kick off a blog about adventures in dating than the epicenter of romance?
    She opened her browser and started searching airfare.
    Oh, wow. The cheapest tickets she could find were around $1,100. That'd make a pretty serious dent in her savings—and that didn't even factor in the hotel stay, meals at fabulous Paris restaurants, drinks at chic little wine bars, croissants and espressos at quaint sidewalk cafes, bread and cheese and chocolat . She stared at her makeshift dinner in dismay, her mouth suddenly watering.
    But Paris was a lifelong dream, so it was worth the money, right? She picked up her phone from the table beside her laptop and called Ben.
    He picked up on the first ring. "Hey, Erin."
    His voice was barely audible over the din of music and chatter and a sharp clang of glasses clinking in the background. She yelled her response even though her apartment was quiet as a ninth-grade classroom on the first day of school.
    "Hey back. I didn't think you'd pick up. I was going to leave a message."
    "Yeah, well, you got me. What's up?"
    "Aren't you on a date?"
    "Um." He paused. "Not exactly." He paused again, and she heard male and female voices yelling and laughing around him. "It ended…early. Now I'm at The Ginger Man with Nate and some people. They're wasted."
    Erin's eyebrows rose. He sounded wasted, too, which wasn't like him. She couldn't wait to hear this story.
    "Want company?"
    "Sure, come on in," he said, the words slurring together a little. "The beer's fine."
     
    *  *  *
     
    Erin set her footed glass on the table and licked the raspberry-flavored foam off her upper lip. She wasn't usually a fruity-drink girl, but the beer float at The Ginger Man, a yummy combination of frambois beer and vanilla ice cream, was pure mixology genius.
    The bar was one of Uptown's busiest, most unpretentious hotspots. Inside, dark wood, dim lighting, loud talking, and cramped quarters made for an intimate, almost tavern-like experience. Outside where she was, the mood was festive and rowdy. Rows of