Page 79 of The Art of Being Merry
I promise to never do it again
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves
Oh, thank you for the magical cup of caffeine and the sweet gesture of having it delivered to my house. I appreciate it
you’re most welcome. See you tonight
We’ll be here
Is her “we’ll” intentional? Is there a message there I should heed?
Duh,my brain prods.
“What’s got you smiling?” Meredith’s voice nearly has me dropping the phone.
“Nothing,” I mumble, setting the phone on my desk facedown so I’m not tempted to reread her messages from this morning. I’m glad she enjoyed the surprise treat. That was my intention in sending it.
“Right. I believe ‘nothing’ is making you smile.” She puts air quotes around the nothing, emphasizing as she says it. “Wait. Are you dating someone?”
Heat infuses my cheeks, and there’s no way she won’t notice and comment. “No.” Hopefully, she can’t detect the dishonesty inthe one word. Is it a lie anyway? We aren’t “dating” in the dictionary sense of the word. Thinking about the dictionary has my lips breaking into a smile.
Meredith cocks her head. “I don’t believe you. What’s her name? Do I know her? Is she local?”
“Who are we talking about?” Becks walks into the office carrying a lunch bag.
Meredith spins on her heels. “The woman Dax is dating.”
Beck’s brow rises. “You’re dating someone?”
“I’m not dating anyone,” I grit out, but no way either of them lets this go.
“So, she’s just one of your regular fuck buddies?” he assesses.
The truth of his statement jabs me in the heart. My lifestyle has never bothered me. Hell, three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about his comment. But now, the validity makes me cringe.
I don’t want Clementine to know about my past, but I also can’t have them thinking—if they ever find out who I’m sleeping with—I’m only with her because she fits my pattern.
No, she’s the one who breaks the mold.
Whoa.
Needing to get away from this conversation and the two of them, I push out of my chair so fast, it nearly topples over. “Brake job,” I blurt, taking off for the garage. My heart rushes, and I can’t wrap my head around my thoughts.
I don’t think it’s true. I mean, do I know her well enough to make such a claim? No, probably not.
Do I want to know her to test out my theory? I pause to consider it, and my answer is yes. Yes, yes I do. I want more than a casual relationship with her. I want to take her out on dates, make her laugh, talk like we’re smart, watch her fall apart on my fingers, my tongue, my cock. I want to help her take care of her kids.
I want it all.
Adrenaline courses through me, and reality crashes in.
This isn’t who I am. At the first sign of commitment, I bail. Why would she even consider getting involved with me? As she pointed out last night, she doesn’t need another guy who’s goingto make her life harder. She needs someone who’s going to step up when she needs—and wants—it, someone she can lean on and trust, someone who is all in.
Experience has shown I’m not that guy, so why should I bother even trying? I’m not built for commitment, let alone with a mom of two young kids.
Why does that truth hurt worse than Beck’s minutes ago?
Instead of letting these thoughts consume me, I throw myself into work, banging and tinkering on cars until it’s time to leave for dinner.
