Those birds peeking out of the sleeves of her shirt.
Picking up a to-go order but deciding to join me instead.
But as my eyes laser in on the woman walking through the doorway, I sit up straighter, conducting a full mind sweep.
Erase all thoughts of other women from your brain now.
I catalog my date. Toned arms on display in a light-blue sundress, freckles splashed across her nose, hair in a braid.
A smile that’s inviting.
I stand. “Hello, Valeria.” Awkwardness kicks in for a few seconds. Do I drop a kiss on her cheek, give her a hug, or clap her on the back?
I don’t normally feel awkward on dates.
But then, I’m not normally thinking about other women when I’m on dates.
Do what you’d do if you were having breakfast with Summer.
A quick, chaste hug wins.
We sit, open the menus, and peruse the offerings.
After the waitress takes our order—eggs and potatoes for me, while my date chooses French toast—Valeria sets her hands on the table and shoots me a warm smile again. “I have to admit, I have a bit of a sweet tooth. I can’t resist French toast for breakfast or cereal for dinner. And I guess that’s why I’m in the ice cream business.”
And how about that? We have something in common right away—a shared sweet tooth.
Must latch on to this commonality. “Honestly, it’s a daily battle for me not to have French toast and cereal for every meal as well.”
She laughs, then we chat a little bit more about our favorite treats.
It’s rather innocuous. It’s mostly fun. Surely this is the start of a good date.
She’s easy to talk to. She’s quick-witted. And we seem to have enough to say to each other.
But there’s one big, glaring problem.
One huge, massive issue.
She’s not January.
At the end of the date, I’m not entirely sure what to do.
I should want to go on another date with her.
But I don’t.
So I stay the course, pretending she’s Summer, or any female friend.
Nothing wrong with friendship, right?
Except I get the sense from her body language, from the way she leans a little closer and parts her lips the slightest bit, that she wants more than friendship. That she wants a second date.
As she finishes her French toast, she says with a flirty tone, “I know a great place with chocolate chip pancakes. We could try that next.”
My stomach nose-dives.
Because I’m going to need to tell this smart, fun, lively woman that this is going nowhere.
My interest is elsewhere.
All my sparks are lit by someone else.
Someone who doesn’t have the same dreams, the same goals, or the same five-year plan as I do.
I brace myself to end this before it starts.
After I pay for breakfast, I say, “This was fun. It reminds me of going out to breakfast with my friend Summer in New York City.”
Two lines form above Valeria’s nose, a telltale crease in her brow that says she didn’t want to be friend-zoned. But then she erases it quickly, gives me a smile, and says, “Friends. Perfect. That’s what I was thinking too.”
I beam. Whew. Maybe I read her all wrong. Or maybe she’s simply cool with a guy being up-front about what he wants and what he doesn’t want. Either way, I’m glad I was able to be clear and kind. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone.
“Great, then,” I say, and now I know what to do. I extend a hand to shake.
She shakes back. “Thanks for breakfast, and if I run into you here again, we can have a friendly . . . chocolate croissant.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, and on the way to work, my phone buzzes.
It’s Missy, confirming our lunch date for tomorrow.
Missy, who doesn’t like fish.
Missy, who’s outgoing and friendly.
Missy, who January knows.
Dammit.
When I reach the Lucky Falls office, my vet tech tells me a little brown terrier is on her way. “Blossom has a terrible bee allergy, and she was stung this morning on her walk.”
That’s all I need to extricate dates and women from my mind. Minutes later, the cutie-pie arrives with a swollen face and a worried person.
I administer the necessary shot for the little sweetie, reassuring the owner that her darling Blossom will be fine, and that she won’t look like an overgrown shar-pei for very long.
For the next few hours, the prospect of dating and faking it is forgotten, but later the charade weighs on me like an anchor tugging me down.
It makes me start to question all the things I thought I wanted when I moved here just a few weeks ago.
Missy is funny.
At least, I think so.
I’ve done a serviceable job of paying attention to her over tea during my lunch break the next day.
The willowy redhead chatters on about the time she bumped into a wall in the yarn shop because she was checking out a brown-and-tan Chihuahua walking by outside the store.
