Page 11 of Designing Love
She nods.
After a few quiet bites, she nudges me with her foot under the table. “So... what were you up to today?”
I try to keep my face neutral, but I already know I’ve failed when her eyes narrow like a hawk spotting prey. “What?” she demands, grinning now.
“Nothing,” I lie badly, stabbing another tomato. “I just... bumped into someone.”
Her entire face lights up. “Someone?”
“His name’s Ethan,” I admit, pretending to focus on the garlic bread. “He literally ran into me — well, my table — at the coffee shop.”
Sage sets her fork down with a flourish. “Oh, I see. And did this Ethan happen to have charming grey eyes, unruly hair, and a quiet-but-noticeable awkward streak?”
I blink. “How do you?—?”
“Bluewater Cove isn’t Vancouver, sweetheart. Ethan is loved by everyone, and known for his runs every morning like the lake owes him something.”
I laugh, then falter. “Wait. You know him?”
“Of course I do. He fixed my Wi-Fi when it exploded last fall. Didn’t ask for anything but coffee — and even then, he apologized like he was demanding my inheritance. Total sweetheart. Quiet. Hasn’t dated seriously in, oh, forever.”
I try to look unimpressed, but Sage can see through me with one glance.
“He’s cute. In a ‘he might accidentally trip over his own kindness’ sort of way.”
Sage grins, satisfied. “And?”
“And young,” I say firmly. “Too young. This isn’t a rom-com.”
She shrugs, sipping her wine. “So are you, my dear niece, 46 years young if my math is good?”
“Forty-seven,” I wink, raising my glass.
“And you’re not marrying him. It’s okay to let someone be nice to you, Sophia. Especially someone who doesn’t flinch at your shine.”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “It’s just... I’m not looking for anything. I came here to unplug. Rethink things. Reconnect with my love of interior design.”
“Exactly,” she says, voice softer now. “And maybe you were meant to connect with him, too.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like one of your tarot cards.”
“Those tarot cards have more relationship wisdom than most men I’ve met.”
We both laugh, and the air between us shifts — lighter, more playful. But then Sage fixes me with a look that means she’s about to drop something weighty.
“You know,” she says, reaching for the salad bowl, “Ethan’s the kind of man who doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it means something. He listens more than he speaks. And when he does speak, it’s with care. With purpose.”
I nod slowly. “He didn’t even flirt. Not really. He was just... there.”
“Exactly. And after what you’ve been through, that’s not nothing.”
We lapse into silence again, our forks scraping softly against ceramic plates. The lake outside shimmers in the moonlight, and a gentle breeze lifts the linen curtains.
After a while, Sage clears her throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“What are you planning to do with the business?”
