Page 35 of An Overdue Match
Henry Crawford
I guess you won’t find out since you didn’t say no. Here’s what I want to know: What life lesson have you learned the hard way? Do you enjoy being yourself? What would you do differently if you knew nobody would judge you?
“What?” I stare at my phone. I’d been expecting some flirty innuendo or something better left in the archives of a middle school Truth or Dare game. Honestly, that would’ve been easier to roll my eyes at and brush off than these out-of-the-blue deep questions.
Henry Crawford
Don’t answer now. Think about it. You can tell me on Thursday when I pick you up for our date.
I toss the phone onto the mattress faster than a medal-winning Hot Potato player. Kitty Purry lifts her head and glares at me.
“Sorry, Kitty.”
She stands and stretches, then climbs into my lap, demanding attention. I pet her between the ears absentmindedly. I think I might have underestimated Tai and the level of danger he poses. The flirty comments and constant attention are bad enough, but now he wants to get to know me on a deeper level?
Be strong, Evangeline.
Categorizing Tai is supposed to make things easier. If I can pin a bookish archetype on him—cinnamon roll, grump, alpha, etc.—then I can better prepare myself for my interactions with him. But bad-boy rakes are supposed to be shallow, up for quick debauchery with anything in a skirt. They aren’t supposed to ask meaningful questions that allow them to get to know their conquests on a deeper level. He’s throwing me a curveball I’m not prepared for.
I survey the sheets of paper still littered over the surface of my bed. If I’m up to bat, I might as well get my three swings in before I’m called out.
I lower my head and groan into Kitty Purry’s fur. “Since when have I started to use baseball analogies, Kitty?”
Kitty Purry twists and paws at my face as if to saysnap out of it.
I sit up. “Thanks. I needed that.”
I swear her feline eyes roll as she looks at me, and she meows her displeasure at the human race—or me as its representative—before jumping off the bed and striding out of the bedroom.
“Right. Okay. Let’s see who else is booktastically compatible.” I retrieve two sheets of paper. The person in my right hand seems to consume a steady diet of adult epic fantasy. They like to escape into a world of fairies and magic and fights against good and evil. The person in my left hand—I quickly read down their booklist—oh, they seem to only read highbrow literary fiction. Probably not the best of matches. I pick up two more papers, consider them, discard them, then pick up two more. Finally, I settle on another couple I think could really hit it off.
My phone rings from where it’s slid under my thigh. Retrieving it, Penelope’s name lights up my screen.
“Hello, sister dearest,” I say.
“Sorry I’m calling later than expected. I got stuck in a meeting.” Her voice is agitated and clipped.
“Everything okay?”
She takes in a long breath and exhales slowly. “Fine as frog’s hair, as Grampie would say.” The false cheeriness she’s coating her words with sticks about as well as wet paint in a rainstorm.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” She pauses. “But I swear if one more guy tries to mansplain something to me, I’m going to knee him right in said manhood.”
I grin. “Tsk-tsk. What kind of genteel ladylike behavior is that?”
“I’m sure Scarlett O’Hara would approve.”
A veryunladylike snort escapes my lips. “Yes, because she’s the gold standard.”
“Don’t let Granny hear you imply otherwise.”
“Never.”
She chuckles. “Okay, speaking of Granny and Grampie. You evaded me on your last visit, but we really need to pin down some specifics for their party.”
“I was thinking...” I hedge.
