Page 20 of My Merry Mistake
Raya’s expression turns to disbelief. She smiles. It almost knocks me out.
“Keep telling yourself that,Brookie.” She pats me on the shoulder, like I’m her kid brother, and walks away.
I stand there, caught—feeling vulnerable and stupid and staggered and swept up.
The smart thing to do would be to get over her and move on.
There’s just one problem—I don’t think I can.
Chapter Five
Raya
It worked.
I’m not sure what I was expecting from my post, but twenty-two resumés in six days wasn’t it.
Eight of them were an instantNO, with theNOcapitalized for effect.
Another seven went into aNot Likelypile, five went to theMaybecategory, and two were very promising. And while I’ll leave the post active a little longer, I’m not wasting any time getting on with the interviews—the holidays are right around the corner.
It would be really great not to shoulder those alone.
Judging by the keepers in the stack, it’s refreshing to know I’m not the only professional, goal-oriented person who doesn’t have time for niceties. I’m not looking to be swept off my feet here. I just need someone to be a plus-one for the events I have to attend, whether social or professional.
And later down the line, someone who pays enough attention to change the oil in my car when it needs it.
I think our ancestors were onto something with arranged marriages.
Got some cows? I’ve got a daughter! Boom. Done.
The only unfortunate thing here is the timing—because I’m absolutely slammed at work. The Denim and Diamonds fundraiser is set for the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and since I volunteered to take it on, I’m handling all those details on top of my normal day-to-day.
Essentially, I asked them to hand me another full-time job for a few months because I love to stay busy. I also love that feeling when something I’ve planned goes off without a hitch.
Never mind that I’m only sleeping about four hours a night.
It’s worth it. Once the fundraiser is over, I’ll get back on schedule.
I walk into Meg’s, my favorite little café and coffee shop, order a latte, and find a table in the back corner. I’m early, which is good, because I’m unexpectedly nervous to meet the two most promising candidates who replied to my ad.
I shift things around on the table to make room for Candidate One. Eric. I created a filing system on my iPad to keep track of resumés and responses, giving promising candidates their own folders. I pull up my settings and navigate over to Eric’s folder. I click it open, thankful I gave myself a little extra time to review his details before our meeting starts.
The barista calls my name, and I stand to pick up my drink, returning to my seat just as the door swings open and a man I recognize from his photo walks in. Our eyes meet, and he lifts a hand in a polite wave. I watch as he makes his way back to the table.
Eric is tall and lean, with sandy-blond hair and glasses. He’s three years older than me, graduated from the University of Illinois, and now works as a financial planner at a firm in the city. He’s not handsome or unattractive, and judging by his reply to my ad, he has a limited sense of humor.
Those things aren’t deal breakers for me. He doesn’t need to be the life of the party or look like the book covers in the Romance section at Barnes and Noble.
He just needs to be reliable. Stable. Good. Someone with a strong moral compass and limited baggage.
When he reaches the table, I extend a hand. “Eric. I’m Raya. It’s nice to meet you.”
He slips his hand in mine. Zero sparks. Perfect.
“Nice to meet you too,” he says.
“Please, sit.” I motion to the booth, and he slides in across from me.
