Page 19 of Merry Mayhem
Besides, everyone I treat has known me all my life. Or all of theirs. The teenagers who get hurt playing football or basketball come to me for their rehab, just like their grandparents see me after their hip replacements and heart attacks, and their moms come in for my pelvic floor strengthening class.
I don’t need mascara to make these people do ten more reps of their hamstring curls.
But if I’d known my family was setting me up with a guy they met at the hospital while visiting my sister, Imighthave put on some Chapstick in the car.
And if I’d known it was JD—Josh—from June, I would have done better than Chapstick.
“But did they tell youwhythey invited you?” I ask Josh.
He straightens and runs a hand through his hair.
I have to tip my head only slightly to meet his gaze, but I’m five-seven, so yeah, he’s probably six-two or so.
“I assumed it was because they wanted me to have dinner with them,” he says with a half-smile.
Oh, confident. Okay, then.
“This is a setup,” I say.
His brows arch. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Between…?” he asks.
“You and me.”
“Huh.”
He doesn’t seem surprised. “Did they tell you that?” I ask. Maybe he wanted to meet me? I feel a little warm swirl in my belly, and that needs tonothappen.
Does he know I have a kid? Not just a kid but apre-teen?
The last time I tried dating was when she was a toddler, and frankly, it sucked. Either men bolted as soon as they knew about the I-come-with-a-kid-thing or they thought we would just do “our thing” on the side, minus the kid.
Ruth is the most important thing in my life, andeveryrelationship I have involves her. I don’t bring people into her life casually.
Which is why I haven’t dated in… God, so freaking long.
“Did your family tell me that this dinner was a set-up between you and me?” Josh asks.
I nod.
“No, they did not.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry. They try this once in a while. Whenever they meet a nice guy thattheylike, they try to set him up with me or my sister.” I frown. “Though my sister is very rarely single. So, it’s usually me.”
“How do those usually work out?” he asks.
“Not well.”
“Why’s that? Your family actually has terrible taste?”
I smile. “Maybe.”
“Well, then?—”
“Mistletoe!”
