Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Okay,” he says, sounding a little dazed.
Perhaps I surprised him with my decision. I yank open the door, then shrug happily. “In fact, I’m going to start tonight. And you can help me pick the guys to date.”
I might be bad at love, but I won’t let that get me down.
11
BE MY DATES
Monroe
Like hell I’m going to help her pick another man to date.
I’ve got a better plan. I’ve spent the rest of the morning refining it, fine-tuning it, and tonight will be the perfect time to present it.
But if I’ve learned anything in my years as a therapist, it’s that you need to meet people where they are. Talk to them in a way that makes sense to them. And Juliet does well with food.
She likes restaurants, choosing what to order, and finding new vegetarian fare. That’s her happy place. Just my luck—a quick Google search told me there’s a new vegetarian restaurant that’s walking distance from the house.
It’s like the universe wants the same damn things I do. With that in mind and the pruning shears still in my hand, I call out to Juliet before the front door shuts. “Let’s do it tonight. Over dinner. At Happy Place.”
She smiles. “Ooh, I love dinner. I love all meals.”
Like I’ve got an ace up my sleeve, I say, “I know.”
She heads inside, seemingly more centered and upbeat than when she left the inn. The question is—what will her mood be after she hears my idea?
We don’t head over together. I spend the early evening running errands in and out of town, stopping at Josiah’s Hardware Store to pick up some paint and brushes, then screws, nails, and hinges to fix a few loose doors and cabinets, then bags to collect donate-able items in.
At ten minutes to eight, I pull up to Happy Place, a few blocks from the water, just close enough to catch the salty scent of the sea. The restaurant is unassuming on the outside, and I go in and give my name to the host. He seats me and tells me the other party hasn’t arrived yet.
Perfect.
When the server arrives, I take the liberty of ordering the cheese plate and a bottle of rosé. As I wait, I look around. The decor is cozy and inviting. On every table, there’s a vase of freshly cut flowers. Fairy lights adorn the windows. The walls are painted in muted shades of sage and cream and decorated with framed pen-and-ink foxes, raccoons, ducks, and other forest friends by local artists. Pop music—at least, I think it’s pop since I hate it—plays softly from a speaker.
But this isn’t about me. This is about her.
After a few minutes, the server returns with a plate of creamy brie and cheddar, Gouda and blue cheeses, all topped with honey-roasted walnuts, dried cranberries, and slivers of apricot. “And here’s our best rosé. It’s light and floral. Want me to open it?”
I shake my head. “Sounds perfect. But I’ll wait for my—”
I stop myself before I say date. This is simply dinner with a friend I have a proposition for.
“Of course. I’m sure they’ll arrive soon,” the server says, just as the clicking of heels on the tiled floor catches my attention.
Juliet walks toward me, wearing a pastel-yellow sundress that brings out her eyes and platform sandals that bring out my dirty thoughts.
Just look at those legs. I can’t stop staring at them. I rarely get to see them. Does she ever wear a skirt on the show? She usually wears jeans. But last night in bed she wore sleep shorts that sent my mind spinning with thoughts of how those legs would feel under my hands.
Now, I’m admiring them again, and my skin is heating up. Her legs are long, strong, and temptingly touchable. They’d look great wrapped around my hips. They’d look fantastic in a reflection.
As the server leaves, I do my best to wipe away the racy thoughts. I pull out her chair, focused on being the opposite of the guys she usually goes out with. “Glad you could meet me here,” I say. But that hardly covers it. I sound clinical. Like she’s my patient, and I’ve invited her for a session over cheese.
“Thank you. I took a Lyft and barely had to wait for it. And you look great.” She seems unperturbed by my approach and gives me a quick once-over. I flick an imaginary speck of lint from my short-sleeved Henley, and I swear her eyes linger on my tattoos. I’ve had them for so long, I don’t even notice them. I had most of them when I spent that week with her. Not all though.
But her lingering gaze is probably wishful thinking. Clearing my throat, I try once more. “Thank you again for having dinner with me.”
And I still sound like I’m thanking a patient who’s rescheduled. What the hell is wrong with me?