Besides, the story is plausible. He’s sixty-two, near retirement age. Even though the truth is that he would have worked for as long as he possibly could have.
At the end of the day, my final client arrives, a gray-haired woman with sharp blue eyes and a Papillon-Chihuahua mix.
“She’s so picky. She only likes to eat the steak or chicken or turkey I prepare for her.”
“Rather than dog kibble?”
“Yes. She turns up her nose at it when they feed her at the doggie bed-and-breakfast when I go to see my friends in the city overnight.”
“And how long have you been feeding her home-cooked meals?”
“About a year now.”
“Perhaps ask the B&B if they have a fridge. Bring her what she’s used to.”
“Brilliant,” she says, as if I just answered all her woes. Then she swings the conversation in a sharp right turn. “On to other matters, Dr. Harris. I live down the street from you in Duck Falls. What are the chances you’d like to take my daughter Missy out for dinner?”
Huh. Seems January was wrong.
I didn’t need to ride my bike to attract another date.
But all things considered, this seems much better than a dating app.
It’s a dating app delivered to my doorstep.
Like Grubhub for women.
Later, when Ethan is taking a shower, I pop outside to check the mailbox, since I forgot to when I returned home. And, lucky me, January is kneeling in her front yard, tending to the flowers.
Her gaze catches mine. “How was your first day, Doctor Dolittle? Did any of your clients try to set you up? Or was it all of them? My money is on the latter.”
Laughing, I head over and join her. “I only had two requests for dates.”
“I’d have expected four. You’re losing your touch.” She brushes her hands against her legs and leaves streaks of soil on them. As she rises, she pushes her hair out of her eyes. The whole effect is wildly sexy. I never knew I was that into her type. That is, if she is a type. If she is, I would call it “insanely self-sufficiently sexy.”
“I have to content myself with two, or three,” I say, continuing the conversation.
She pats me on the arm. “This town—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s a small town where men are in short supply. Who’s the next date with?”
“A woman named Missy. Betty Juniper’s daughter.”
January’s eyes light up. “Oh, Missy’s great. Outgoing and friendly. She owns the lingerie shop and does such a bang-up job that she’s nabbed ‘Best of’ accolades in all the area newspapers and lists. She’s open-minded about nearly everything except fish.”
“Fish? Why’s that?”
“In high school, she threw up fish sticks one day, and everyone called her Fishy Missy for days, and it really caused a lot of trauma for her. So don’t order fish when you’re with her.”
“Good to know,” I say, taking in this bizarre but important fact. “Perhaps I should come to you before every date and get a full briefing.”
She smiles. “That’s not a bad idea. Think of me as your dating insider.”
I like the idea of spending more time with her. I hate the constant reminders that she’s not the one I’m dating.
But that’s fine.
It’s perfectly, absolutely fine.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
12
Liam
It’s Thursday night, date night.
Ethan’s at Kerri’s house, and I have the place to myself to get ready. I shower, get dressed, and check the time. About thirty minutes before I meet Nina’s sister Maya at the wine bar. Just enough time to walk to town. Why drive when I have feet or a pair of bicycle tires?
I head down the front steps as the familiar rumble of a pink truck echoes across the lawn, pulling into the driveway next door. Like I’m Pavlov’s dog, a rush of heat slides down my spine at the sound, then spreads across my chest when I see January cut the engine. A grin tugs at my lips. This is my favorite time of day—any time I run into her.
She opens the door and steps out of the truck, her daughter swinging open the door on the other side, barely giving anyone a second glance as she rushes up the steps, propelled by jet fuel, the front door slamming behind her in a dark-blonde spitfire blur.
“Everything okay?”
January waves a hand toward the cheetah of a teenager. “Oh, she’s totally fine. She has a FaceTime sesh with her friend Audrey and can’t be late. They’re deciding what to sample in their next YouTube video—panda cookies or chocolate mushrooms.”
“Not panda cookies, please.”
“It’s a brand. Not made of pandas. Or for pandas.”
I wipe a hand across my brow. “Whew. I feel loads better.”
January eyes me up and down, bright blue eyes traveling along my frame. “I see you’re in your dating gear.”
“I am indeed.” I tug at an imaginary bow tie. “I couldn’t decide between the bow tie or the stonewashed jeans, so I wore this instead. Good compromise?”
