Page 106 of Book and Ladder
“Nothing. I already sent him a goodbye email telling him what he did was unforgivable unless he’s actually physically paralyzed.”
She snorts. “Girl. Remind me not to make you mad.”
I laugh lightly, but then the feeling of disappointment spreads over me like a blanket again.
My bedroom looks like a clothing explosion. I’ve been trying on outfits for an hour, searching for something that saysI tried, but not too hard.I settle on a calf-length corduroy skirt, brown boots, and a cashmere sweater: dressy without screaming overeager first date energy. A sweep of mascara, a soft smokey eye, burgundy lipstick—more than I usually wear. Funny how we armor ourselves in corduroy and mascara just to face disappointment again.
I’m grabbing my purse when there’s a knock at the door. I truly hope Tom didn’t take it upon himself to pick me up when I said we’d meet there.
I swing the door open and my eyes go wide.
“Patrick.”
His gaze rakes over me from head to toe and back again. Then those dark brown eyes land on mine.
“You look dressed up,” he says. Not that I look nice or pretty. Just, dressed up.
“Your powers of observation astound me.” I actually roll my eyes. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah. Your mail came to my side of the house.” He holds out a stack of envelopes.
“Oh. Thanks. You didn’t sprinkle anthrax on it or anything did you?”
“I was in a rush, so … no.” He smirks.
“Yeah. That happens. Too busy to poison the neighbor.”
His smile breaks free with those heart-stopping dimples that beg to be touched. Not by me. Not that my heart is stopping—because it’s not. It’s actually beating right through my cashmere.
“I’m going to be late,” I say, trying to squeeze past Patrick.
Well, I mean to.
He’s so big and immovable I end up brushing against him—my shoulder grazes his chest, and for one dizzying second, my pulse betrays me. His warmth, that smell—coffee, campfire, something unreasonably male—wraps around me before I can escape.
He leans in, as he has the habit of doing. This man does not know the meaning of personal space.
“Going on a date, Daisy?” His breath fans across the shell of my ear from behind.
I turn the key in my lock.
He steps back. I pivot.
“I am. Not that it’s any of your business,” I snap.
He almost looks hurt. But then he says, “Try not to break too many hearts out there.”
As if I’m the one breaking hearts. He’s probably pieced it together—me waiting with no sign of anyone showing, and then arriving home before the festival even ended. He knows I’m not the heartbreaker here.
“You too,” I say, turning and walking down the steps. Great. Now it looks like I’m flirting with him.
Tom chose Gino’s, a classic Italian restaurant. It’s moderately dressy, but you’ll see people in here in cowboy boots and Wranglers or dress pants and a tie. He’s waiting by the hostess stand when I walk in. He looks nice in his button-down dress shirt, jeans and loafers.
“Daisy!” Tom steps forward and wraps me in a platonic hug.
“Hi,” I say, as he releases me.
His hand lingers on my back and his eyes take me in. “You look beautiful.”
