Page 20 of Single Mom's Guide to Love

But I’m not focusing on that. Instead I’m choosing to focus on the positive, which is that the Gods of Airline Travel were looking out for me when they rebooked us on the same flight. And that she likely lives in Nashville. And since I’m now a Nashville resident, this very much delights me.

All night I kept going back and forth between feeling grateful for the time I had with her and wishing for more. I didn’t get to explore her body how I wanted. I wanted to fuck her across every inch of that hotel room. But I knew my time was limited.

Now it’s not. Now maybe there’s more time.

That is, if she quits shooting daggers at me with her blue eyes.

“I told you, I wanted to get to the airport early,” she huffs. “And speaking of last night, I’d really appreciate it if we could just forget it ever happened.”

I snort out a laugh. “No can do. You don’t forget a night like that, especially when it’s the bloody best sex of your life. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Is it presumptuous of me to assume that I’m the best she’s ever had? Yes. Do I still have nail marks in my arms from when she clung onto me? I do.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Why, thank you,” I say, knowing full well she meant it in a negative way. But I’m coming to find that getting under Maeve’s skin is my new favorite hobby. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are narrow, and I know she’s trying to come off as intimidating, but I just find it sexy.

I don’t know what that says about me, and I can talk to my therapist about it later. Now, I’m just going to bask in the fact that I’m enjoying spending time with this woman, even if she’s pretending she doesn’t like me. It’s been too long since I’ve been able to flirt with a woman who didn’t seem to care about my bank account. And Maeve has proven she doesn’t give two shits about my money or my celebrity.

“Are you always this full of yourself?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Only when I know I’m right.”

We stare at each other for more than a few seconds. The second I lock in with her beautiful blue eyes I’m immediately transported back to last night. It feels like a dream, almost. I lick my lips, and I swear I can still taste her.

“I can’t with you,” she says, turning her attention back to her phone. Her cheeks start to redden again as she furiously types on her phone. I know it’s none of my business, but I have to know what’s making them turn that color, because this time I know it isn’t me.

“Is everything okay? It looks like you want to throw that mobile out the emergency exit.”

She eyes me for a second before letting out a frustrated breath. “A client. Well, not a client. A potential client? I’m not even sure.”

“How can you not be sure?”

She quickly glances to me, then to her mobile, then back to me. “Because they keep canceling on me. Multiple times. It’s just frustrating. Not as frustrating as you, but close.”

I want to come back with a zinger, but a twinge of guilt passes through me. I’m the worst when it comes to canceling meetings. I hate them. They’re pointless. Can’t it be covered in an email? Most of them can. Or even on a blasted Teams Call. I mean, if I’m going to be scarred for life by the sound of that incoming video call ring, let’s at least use it for the meetings function.

“I mean, they reached out to me,” she continues without prompting. “And I don’t even know who ‘they’ are, which is why I keep saying ‘they.’ It’s a random email from an assistant with a name that is so generic it sounds made up. The company isn’t even on it, so for all I know this could be fake as hell. But if it was fake, that’s just dumb, and the worst prank in history. I mean, why would someone contact me for my services and then just cancel on me?”

Her words have me sitting up a little straighter.

She’s an interior designer.

Specializing in men’s homes.

When I woke up, I messaged Kat to cancel all my meetings today and push everything back this week.

Which I’d bet includes a meeting with an interior designer.

Because I’ve canceled that meeting multiple times.

Bloody hell…Is she—No. What would be the odds?

“Do you know anything about the job?”

She shakes her head. “No. Well, the bare minimum. I know it’s in Nashville. I know it’s for a multi-million-dollar home, though I don’t have the address for it, and that it was promised to be a five-figure commission. That’s the only reason I’ve put up with this nonsense.”

The more Maeve talks, the more I think that the mystery home is none other than mine.

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