Page 45 of Runaway Bride's Guide to Love

“There is. Twenty-three.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m a curious person,” I say, trying to laugh it off. “Plus, I made the joke once to Mom and she got very excited so I had to bring her down to Earth. She’s only at seven, though she is in Vegas right now, so eight could be happening as we speak.”

Stella’s jaw drops a little more with every word that comes out of my mouth. “Seven marriages?”

“Yup.”

“Wow,” Stella shakes her head a bit and takes a sip of her wine. I follow suit with another drink of my whiskey. “That’s something. Seven weddings and she never ran out of one?”

How I don’t spit my drink out at Stella’s comment I’ll never know.

“Did you really just say that?”

She gives a coy look with a small shrug. “If you can’t make fun of yourself, who will?”

I hold my glass up. “To dark humor.”

She returns the gesture. “The best kind.”

“Thank you.”

I turn to Stella as we sit on a bench with a view of the beach, ice cream cones in hand. Or as Stella calls it, “sweet treats.”

“For what?”

“This. Tonight. Everything.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

She shakes her head. “No. I do. You didn’t have to do any of this. But you did. Hanging out with me. Dinner. This wasn’t on your itinerary for the week. Hell, you didn’t even want to stay. You don’t know how much this means to me, and I need to tell you thank you.”

I feel choked up when I finally get the words out. “You’re welcome. But truly, it’s been my pleasure.”

And it has. I know she assumes I had this grand itinerary for the week, which I didn’t. I brought golf clubs that I didn’t intend to use. I brought swim trunks that until Stella talked me into the beach I didn’t plan on wearing. My days would’ve consisted of working, inspecting the properties, and handling anything I’d need to before dinner at some sports bar or a spot off the beaten path.

Instead I’m enjoying fine dining with a beautiful woman and days ahead I’m actually looking forward to that don’t revolve around work. I really should be thanking her.

Because I don’t hate this. I don’t hate it one bit.

“I know you said you don’t date,” Stella says, her mouth half-full of her strawberry cheesecake ice cream. “But you should know, that if you did, you’d be really good at it.”

This makes me laugh. “Please don’t tell my sister that.”

“How old is she?”

“About your age. The product of husband number three. If she found out that I’m apparently good at dating, she’ll have a field day with it.”

“There’s no apparently. You are.”

Not that I’m looking for compliments, but I’m genuinely curious how I am. Because as I quickly retrace the events of the night, nothing sticks out that should put me in the “good at dating” category.

“Can I ask how?”

“Just little things,” Stella begins, her eye line turning back toward the Gulf. “You opened my car door for me. Pulled out my seat at dinner. Let me order my own food. Bought ice cream.”

I have to blink a few times because she can’t be serious. Is the bar that low? I know Maddie has complained about the dating pool, but I didn’t realize it was this fucking bad.

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