Page 52 of Wood Riddance
She shrugged, schooling her expression into something that only remotely resembled nonchalance. “Look around. It’s northern Maine. There aren’t many choices up here. And he’s been really nice so far.”
I scrolled through the messages. They had been chatting for a couple of days. Dammit. My vision was starting to turn red. Had she been messaging him the day we threw axes and she was eyeballing my dick? Because if so, the joke was on him.
“Insurance is boring.” I huffed a laugh. “How could someone like you even tolerate this guy?”
She continued to shoot daggers at me, but I kept going. This was crossing the line. Still, I couldn’t stop myself. “Ah. He wants to meet you for coffee? What a shithead. You know that’s code, right? He wants to make sure you look like your picture. Coffee is such a cop-out. Commit to the date, man.”
“There is nothing wrong with meeting for coffee.” Adele’s words were placid, but her tone was anything but.
“Twenty minutes is not a date. You wanna go out, then go out and get to know each other. You deserve a hell of a lot more than coffee.”
“Enough!” She stood and plucked the phone out of my hands so quickly I didn’t have a chance to pull it away again. “Go away. I know you enjoy torturing me, but this is cruel. There is nothing wrong with online dating. I deserve to find my person, so kindly fuck off.” Her voice shook slightly, which was an enormous departure from her normal confidence.
Shit. I had let my jealousy and alpha caveman instincts take over, and I had hurt her feelings in the process.
“You misunderstand me,” I soothed, lowering my voice and lightening my tone. “I’m mocking these shitty dudes. Not you. Never you. You deserve so much better.”
“You are the last person who gets to determine what I deserve.” Those words had the temperature in her office dropping ten degrees. Her defenses were back up.
“Fair. But at least let me help you. Here.” I held out a hand and gestured for her to return the phone. “Let me see your profile.”
She gripped the device tighter, like she was worried I’d snatch it from her again. “No.”
“I could help,” I urged with a shrug. “Give a guy’s perspective.”
She scoffed. “Are you an online dating expert?”
“No. I hate this shit. But I’m a guy, and I’m the best help you’ve got right now.”
With a sigh and a slump of her shoulders, she handed it over. Damn, I didn’t think I’d ever seen her so defeated. There was no way I would have pegged this gorgeous, competent, intelligent woman as self-conscious. What had she been through that had her convinced these mediocre dudes were even worth her time? On what planet were men not lining up for a chance to talk to this goddess?
I took a minute to study her profile and flip through the photos.
“Here’s the problem,” I said. “Look at these profile pics.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They don’t even look like you.”
“Hey.”
“Not in a bad way. But seriously. What is this?” I held up the phone and showed her the photo of her wearing a dark purple dress that hit at the knee. Her hair was straightened, and her face was covered in more makeup than I’d ever seen her wear.
“That was taken at Henri’s wedding last year. I thought I looked pretty.” Her face was red now, and I sensed I had waded into dangerous territory. She’d obviously become a pro at hiding her insecurities since I hadn’t noticed a single one until today, but the confident façade she clung to was beginning to crack.
“You do look pretty in this picture. And that’s the problem. You’renotpretty.”
“Hey,” she growled, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. “That’s cruel.”
“No. I’m not explaining this correctly. You’re not pretty; you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. You’re powerful and you’re breathtakingly hot.”
She sucked in a breath, and a blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
I tossed the phone onto the desk and stepped back. “Like right now. You’re dirty from working all day, but if I took a photo of you, with your coveralls tied around your waist and your bra strap peeking out and the grease streaked across your cheek, your inbox would blow up.”
“You’re delusional,” she retorted, but her tone had no bite.
I splayed my hands on the surface of her desk and angled close so I was in her space. “The woman sitting in front of me is sexy. She’s the kind of woman a man takes out on a proper date. The kind of woman he only hopes will give him the time of day. You are not some generic, polite, pretty-enough girl a guy sizes up over tepid coffee.”
