Page 25 of Sure Shot
“Two dates in a row!” he’d hooted.
“We’re not speaking about that other incident,” I’d reminded him. “Don’t make me take away your plaque,” I’d said, pointing at the photo I’d hung on the wall with the captionEmployee of the Month, Every Month.
He’d given me a cheeky salute. My dude friends are really top notch.
“Are you vetting this Brian over coffee?” Becca asks. “Or did you go straight to dinner?”
“Dinner,” I admit. “Everyone is more pleasant with food, right? As long as I’m eating a nice plate of pasta, I can be excited about anything.” That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
“We’d better get started on your nails,” Becca says, patting the seat beside her. “Get over here.”
“What?” I glance around at the half-finished shop. “Won’t it be another month until you’re open?”
“That has never stopped her before,” Georgia says, closing the cocktail shaker tightly and then giving it a shake.
Becca lifts a large tackle box onto the sofa and opens the top. “How about a sheer wine-tinted polish to go with that pretty top?”
“But I don’t know how to paint my nails.” And—fine—I have a bit of a complex about it. It’s one of those girly things that makes me feel like a freak. “When you grow up without a mother, there are certain skills you never learn. I never tried to wear heels until college. My makeup game is also weak. And I can’t cook. At all.”
Georgia looks up from pouring three drinks, and there’s understanding in her expression. “I’m a member of that same club. Sometimes it really messes with my head.”
“Really?” I squeak. And now I feel a little foolish, because I forget that there are lots of other women walking around who didn’t have moms.
“Yeah. Leo wants to have kids soon,” she says, topping up one of the glasses. “And I do, too. But part of me wonders if I’ll know what to do.”
“Nobody knows what to do,” Becca argues. “That’s half the fun. I mean—my sister and her man-child boyfriend are the most clueless people alive. And their kid is doing well.” She waves me over to sit beside her. “Put your hands on this towel. You’re not a nail biter, are you?”
“No way.” I show her my hands, and she grabs one to inspect it.
Georgia puts a drink into my other hand. “I know there’s no prerequisite for having babies. And Leo will be the best daddyever.” She smiles at the thought of it. And I totally understand why—her husband is a sweetheart. “But I still worry. I lost my mom when I was six. How old were you?” she asks me.
“Almost two. My mom died of a drug overdose before it was cool.” I’ve said this many times before, in the same flip tone of voice. But I can tell from Georgia’s soft expression that she sees right through me. “Are you really going to paint my nails?” I ask Rebecca. “I hope you know that I can’t return the favor. Not unless you want it to look like a toddler did it.”
“Don’t you worry,” Becca says, shaking a bottle of something clear. “I am too bossy to let anyone else do mine.”
“This is true,” Georgia says with a shrug. “Cheers, ladies!” She holds up her glass. “To manicures and margaritas.”
We touch glasses, and I take a sip of limey goodness.
“I hope this date rocks your world,” Becca says as she strokes the polish on one of my fingernails.
“I’m not expecting magic,” I insist. “But I need to start somewhere. I need to meet men who are interested in a relationship.”
“But only if they’re sexy,” Rebecca adds. “I mean—I’m living proof that single, hot nerds exist. I married one.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “You might have gotten the last one, though. I feel there’s a mismatch between hotties and guys who want relationships.”
“Hey,” Becca says as she strokes the brush over my pinky fingernail. “What’s with the sigh? Is there some hottie you’re trying to forget?”
“There was someone. A long time ago,” I hedge. I can’t tell them about Tank, because both these women work with him now. I’m not a gossip.
Although everyone else seems to be. After our interlude last month, I couldn’t resist stalking the internet for news about his trade. I’d found a lot more than I bargained for. Tank punched his co-captain? Talk about a career-killer. If one of my athletes had done that, I would’ve flown down there and kicked his ass myself.
I know better than to believe the gossip rags. So it’s impossible to guess what really happened. And speculating about it makes me feel guilty. Tank has only been good to me.
The only way to stop thinking about him is to find a man who makes me feel as sexy as Tank does, but who’s also ready to settle down. Is that really too much to ask?
“Ooh, this color goes great with your skin tone!” Georgia says, looking down at my rosy fingertips. “How come you’ll give Bess a pink polish, but you make me wear bright colors?”
