“It really doesn’t have to be that complicated, G,” he says. “Why do you have to make everything such a struggle? Let me fix you up with one of my and Mac’s friends.”
“So I can double date with my little brother?” I roll my eyes.
“I mean, why not? Would that really be so awful?” Xander challenges.
“Xander has a point. You really do need to get out and date more,” Kenna says.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Traitor!”
“Okay, then. Maybe you just need to get laid?” Kenna flops into a large, faded and weathered, red plaid wing chair in the corner near the counter. My mom put the chair there years ago as a place for shoppers’ plus-ones to land. The fidgety kid, the bored spouse. But it’s always sort of been Kenna’s chair. She’s here so much, she might as well have her place to sit.
Xander leans against the counter, watching us spar, with a this-is-gonna-be-good look on his face.
“Put away the popcorn, Xan,” I say. And then I turn to Kenna. “How about you tell me who your date is for tonight?”
“No time. I have to edit this week’s photo sessions.” Kenna shakes off my question matter-of-factly.
“So, who’s the workaholic now?” I hold out a hand. My point has been made.
“But,” Kenna amends, holding up one finger, “I’d make time for a date if I was asked. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a long dry spell. I’m starting to have fantasies about the diner’s Uber Eats drivers.”
“Stay away from the Uber Eats guys, Kenna. I don’t think any of them are over twenty-one,” I say.
“I’ll have you know that Carlos is in his seventies,” Kenna informs me. “I bet he was very hot in his thirties.”
“Maybe ask his wife.” Xander puts an end to the speculation. “Weren’t they high school sweethearts? Doesn’t she still pack love notes in his lunch?”
Leave it to Xander to have the inside scoop on everyone’s love story.
Xander checks his watch and appears to have come to a decision. “I think I’ll leave you two to discuss your dream men while I get the van prepped for the day. Kenna, I’ll text you to come shoot a few ‘before’ photos when that stray gets here, cool?”
Kenna nods and pulls out her phone, holding it up to indicate she’ll be on the lookout for his text.
After Xander is gone, Kenna slouches farther into the worn chair. She opens a dating app and proceeds to swipe.
Swipe, groan. Swipe, groan.
“I don’t know why I even bother,” she laments. She holds up the phone to show me a badly lit bathroom selfie of a short, hairy, middle-aged man who has somehow managed to match with her.
“Do you see what I see?” she asks.
“The tampons and makeup brushes all over the bathroom counter?” I venture a guess.
“This dude is probably married. Ugh! Dating apps are so depressing! I can’t even fantasize about any of these men. You want to have a look?” Kenna holds out the phone.
“No thanks.” I refuse to let her pass that grenade. “Something tells me they aren’t my type either.”
“That guy in the doorway the other night was your type though. Didn’t look familiar. Wonder if he’s from here or just passing through,” Kenna says. “Too bad you were in such a huff about Bryce Holm. You could have asked for his number.”
I slow-blink at her and pointedly straighten the “Dogs Welcome, People Tolerated” sign on the counter.
But I can’t help thinking about the guy in the doorway at The Onion. He was so solid. So steady. He’d barely budged when I slammed into him. And he was tall. Larger than life. I have a thing for tall guys. Tall, muscular, capable guys who show up and know how to get shit done. Most of my fantasy fodder comes courtesy of my favorite, bingeable show,Vikings.
IRL, Ragnar Lothbrok probably doesn’t live in Ephron though. He’s not out shopping for cat food on a Saturday morning. Anyway, everyone knows that Vikings don’t shop, they raid. I imagine Ragnar stomping in and raiding my shop for catnip treats. Highly unlikely, but not a bad daydream. What of cat would he have?
My brain immediately furnishes an image of Oliver, my buddy cat, and yet again, I find myself wondering about his owner. What does his owner look like? I can’t quite picture him. Or her. Although I’m pretty sure he is a man, since Oliver has described his home as a bachelor pad.
I’m dying to know. What of grown man owns a judgmental Persian cat with a penchant for propriety and a stuffy British accent? A nerdy loner? A precocious ten-year-old? Carlos Diaz, the Uber Eats driver? Ragnar Lothbrok?
