And I don’t mind her directness. Don’t mind it at all.
“Thanks.” I tuck the card into my back pocket. “A special flavor sounds brilliant.”
I don’t feel a spark with Valeria, but maybe I will on a date. Maybe that’s when sparks happen. Not when you first meet, right?
On the way home, a text from Oliver flashes at me.
* * *
Oliver: Cat lady is a definite no, then?
* * *
Liam: Cat aside, free vet consult aside, and drama aside, I didn’t feel a spark.
* * *
Oliver: A spark matters.
* * *
Liam: Absolutely. It matters tons.
* * *
Oliver: What about the lady next door? Octoberfest? Fourth of July? Sunday Funday?
* * *
The back of my neck pricks. Is it that obvious? I don’t even think I’ve told him much about January.
* * *
Liam: Her name is January, you twat. And what about her?
* * *
Oliver: You said she was going to assemble your furniture.
* * *
Liam: And you think that means there’s a spark?
* * *
Oliver: I think it means there’s a fox next door to you who wants to put together your coffee table, and I’m assuming the next thing you’ll do is test the strength of it with her.
* * *
Liam: I appreciate you plotting out my sex life. Do you want to send step-by-step instructions next?
* * *
Oliver: I just ordered a guidebook for you. Amazon Prime. Coming in a few days.
* * *
Liam: Better yet, I’ll just get the audiobook and start listening tonight.
* * *
A few seconds later, an email lands on my phone saying that the IKEA delivery will arrive next week.
Is it normal for an email from a big-box store to turn me on?
It is now because this email means January is coming over to assemble furniture. And that—that just gets me going.
Then again, she gets me going.
When I reach my street, I can’t wait to give her the update on my couch, table, and chair. And telling her is going to be incredibly easy—she’s on her porch sitting in her porch swing, her feet curled up under her, an e-reader in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, and a smile on her face as she chuckles at whatever’s on the screen.
She takes a sip of her wine, looking fresh-faced and lovely in the moonlight.
When she glances over the top of the e-reader and catches sight of me, I don’t even bother asking if she wants company. I turn into her yard, head up the steps, hold out the ice cream, and say, “Would you like some?”
I bought the pint hoping for this kind of kismet.
This kind of connection.
“I would love some.”
Everything sparks as I sit next to her, and that’s the trouble. But tonight, I’m going to invite trouble in.
14
January
As Liam sits next to me on my porch swing, I’m holding my breath, crossing my fingers, and offering prayers to the universe that he’s endured a terrible date. Which probably makes me a horrible person, but still, I’m hunting for evidence.
I want a furrow in his brow, a beleaguered sigh like he can’t believe that dates could be as bad as this date was tonight.
But I see none of that, so I steel myself for the opposite. For Exhibit A that perhaps he had a magnificent time.
Is there a hickey on his neck?
I peer as surreptitiously as I can, but I don’t find a single black-and-blue splotch. Nor is his hair messed up as if fingers were run through it. His lips don’t look ruddy or over-kissed.
I don’t find any proof of a great time, even in the moonlight.
This should be reassuring, but it’s not. The trouble is, Liam looks the same as he did before he left. Maybe happier—is that the telltale sign that he had a great date?
He’s grinning wildly.
I swallow the little spoonful of jealousy that’s swirling in my mouth. I try to stomach the bitter taste of envy as I untuck my legs, straighten my spine, and point to the ice cream pint.
“Do you need a spoon?” I ask, a little too evenly, as I focus on practical matters.
He raises the pint, then says, “No. I thought I would just lick it straight from the container.”
I roll my eyes. “Smart-ass.”
I head inside, listening toward Wednesday’s room. She’s tapping away on her computer, probably still working on a website design. I pop into the kitchen, grab two spoons and some napkins, then return to the porch, the warmth of late summer wrapping around me, hugging me as I sit next to my handsome British neighbor, the good guy next door who is looking for Ms. Right.
Not me, not me, not me.
I swallow, bracing myself for the report he’s about to give his dating insider. For the words that will go with the smile on his face.
“So . . . what’s the verdict?” I ask as he digs into the ice cream and moans around it in culinary delight.
