Page 103 of Best Served Cold

“Or giving advice to a young whippersnapper who’s probably not wise enough to take it,” Constance puts forth. “If youlikethe girl and want to continue ‘getting to know her,’ tell her. It’s that simple. No need to pussyfoot around the issue. And don’t text it to her. Tell her face-to-face, like a man.”

Damn it. I don’t like that she’s got a point.

“A grand gesture wouldn’t hurt,” Dottie says. “A grand gesture can really sweep a woman off her feet.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t try to kidnap her,” Ann says, either mishearing or misinterpreting. “That only works out well in those books.”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” I say, tapping the table with my hands. “I’m going to ask her over for dinner tomorrow night.”

I can’t tonight. It’s one of the rare Saturdays that Travis and I are working at The Missing Beat.

Sophie doesn’t get off until late on Sundays, but she has to eat at some point, right? I’m supposed to show her the apartment soon anyway. Our meeting with Nelly is coming up, and Sophie needs to seem comfortable in my place. At home.

“Do you know how to cook, my boy?” Dottie asks, taking my hand. From her tone, she’s not confident I could successfully follow the instructions on a box of mac and cheese.

“Sure. I’ve been living on my own for over a decade, and I haven’t died of starvation once.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Ann says, making a face. “We’d better help him. I’ve seen what my teenage grandsons eat, and it’s not pretty. If he greets her with a bag of orange chips and a pile of taco meat, she’ll hightail it.”

Constance scoffs and looks up from her work. “What he doesn’t need is this girl thinking he can’t do anything without a woman to do it for him. Who wants to be romanced by a man who can’t boil spaghetti, for God’s sake?” Waving her crochet needle for emphasis, she says, “Make something you know how to make, and make it well.”

“But wewillprovide you with dessert, dear,” Dottie says. “I must insist on that.”

“Speak for yourself, Dottie,” Constance retorts. “I’ve got my own date to prepare for.”

“I am, dear. And I have something for you and your paramour too.”

Constance gives her a fond look that shows her grousing is at least partially an act. “I won’t say no, and I imagine our young friend here won’t either.”

“I won’t,” I agree. “I might be able to cook, but I can’t bake.”

“It’s true there’s no perfect man,” Ann says with a sigh. “But you should pick up some of those temporary tattoos. That will help.”

You know what? I think Sophie would find that pretty fucking funny, especially knowing that the Wise Women recommended it to me. Truth is, I have a thing for making her laugh. She’s got about a dozen different laughs, from soft and sweet to so unrestrained she can’t breathe. I’ve taken a liking to all of them.

Dottie excuses herself and comes back with a huge box from the bakery next door, which is run by her very pleasant, verybigmouthed boyfriend. And I walk away with what feels like a whole cake before stopping at a couple of stores to find the fake tats I want.

It’s only once I’m back in the car that I realize I haven’t even asked her to dinner yet. I’ve been assuming she can come—that shewantsto come. Sure, it’s tomorrow, not tonight, but most people plan farther ahead than that.

Smooth move, Price.

I feel surprisingly jittery about writing the simple text, even though Sophie and I have been so easy together.

Dinner tomorrow, my place? I figure it’s a good idea for you to get comfortable there.

I’ll cook.

I drum my fingers on the wheel, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come. Okay, so she’s busy, or she hasn’t woken up yet. Her shift doesn’t start until noon. But the buzzing anxiety has set in, digging claws into my brain.

I go about my business, meeting up with Emil the way we’ve taken to, and then help one of Bixby’s friends move.

By five o’clock, several hours later, I still haven’t received a reply from Sophie, It’s all I can do to ignore those claws digging ever deeper into my brain and meet up with Travis to prepare for our Parents’ Night Out. We hold the event once a month—parents leave their kids with us so they can go out on date nights, and we play music with them and then get pizza and watch a movie. Sometimes the movie is music themed, likeSchool of Rock. Sometimes we let the kids take a vote.

We’ve got a nice spot for our program, a unit in an old warehouse in a neighborhood that’s not quite convenient to anything, and therefore slightly less expensive. Which is not to say inexpensive. Everything in this town is so much pricier thanwhen I was a kid. We won a grant, though, because Travis is knowledgeable about any number of things, grant applications among them. The sound in here is sick, the acoustics so perfect it could make a man weep.

I fucking love my job.

This and Garbage Fire saved my life. When Bad Magic blew up, the bitterness over what could have been mine was hard to let go of. Hundreds of bottles of whiskey and beer did nothing to blunt the feeling. They only made me hate myself for being weak enough to develop the same disease that had nearly killed my mother. The only thing that helped was making something of what was left of myself.

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