Page 43 of Minted

“You can still recognize beauty.” I shake the phone.

“I can,” Oliver says, “and that woman on the app is objectively way prettier. And she’s not chubby.”

“You’re an idiot,” I say. “And you’re wrong. Barbara looks amazing.”

“They do say it’s in the eye of the beholder,” he mutters as he walks off.

“I can fire you, you know, and I will if you make one more comment about Barbara not being good enough.”

“You didn’t fire me when I accidentally booked you to Macedonia when you were supposed to go to Malaysia.”

“This is a bigger deal than botched travel plans,” I say. “Watch what you say.”

“Barbara does have good taste in fashion. For someone who’s clearly on a budget.”

It’s not glowing, but it’s something. Oliver’s always a little brutal in his honesty, but he never makes up compliments.

“You’re moving in the right direction at least,” I concede.

Oliver reminds me half an hour before my lunch that it’s almost time, so I wrap up my client call. “You’re redeeming yourself.”

“Don’t blurt anything out,” Oliver says as I’m leaving.

“What?”

“You’re a straightforward guy,” he says. “It’s usually good. No messing around. But if this woman just got divorced—”

“It’s been almost seven months,” I say.

“Just got divorced,” Oliver says, his eyes wide and his tone patronizing, “and if she’s opened her home to two little girls, she may be. . .overwhelmed. It may not be the right time for you to spring anything heavy on her.”

Well, shoot.

Is he right? Am I being selfish, wanting to date her now?

I’m not in a great mood when I walk into the cafe, at least, not until I see her sitting in the corner booth. I can’t help my smile, and I lift my hand to wave.

She scowls at me and shakes her head. Then she pointedly looks at the door. Because she has no idea that Oppenwhatever isn’t coming. Maybe I’m not so smart.

After ten minutes of her ignoring me, I start to get frustrated. I’m definitely not going to get anywhere with her if we can’t even talk on our fake date. And with the cutest little girls in the world at her place, it’s not like I can ask her out for night things.

“How late is she?” I stage-whisper.

Barbara glances at her watch, her hair falling forward to block her face. “Almost twenty minutes. We should check and see if she’s messaged something.”

Now I’m alarmed. What if Barbara sends her a message, and she replies saying that I cancelled? “I don’t want to seem clingy.”

She frowns. “But she should have at least warned you if she was running late.”

I stand up and slide into Barbara’s booth.

“Whoa.” She shoos me back. “What are you doing?”

“You’ve been eating,” I say. “But I’m starving.” I steal a bite of her turkey melt. “Oh, you weren’t kidding. That is good.”

She snatches it away. “That’s mine.” But when our hands meet, a spike of energy shoots through me.

Forget the sandwich—I want to grab her hand again. But I need an excuse. “I have another meeting soon.” I reach my arm around her shoulders and try to snake the rest of that sandwich half. “I’m paying anyway. C’mon. You can share a little.”

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