Page 10 of Her Age Gap Match

Stevie’s brow furrowed. “Oh…is it bad that this makes me kind of sad?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to marry Whiskey Daddy and have cute babies and leave me all alone.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I am not going to marry Whiskey Dad—John.”

"You might," she said serenely, pouring the tea.

"He doesn't even—it's not like that. He thinks of me as the girl at the front desk."

"The girl at the front desk he stops to talk to for ten minutes every time he comes in."

I opened my mouth.

"You told me that," she said. "Drunk, but still."

I closed my mouth.

She set my mug down and sat across from me, folding her legs up under her in the chair, the llama hood flopping to one side. "Okay…so what are you going to do about it."

I considered lying to her and saying nothing. As if I hadn’t just sent an email off into the world at this ungodly hour. She clocked it before I could formulate a response though, laughing under her breath.

“You already did something about it,” she said.

“I just sent an email,” I said.

“Like—just now?”

“Right before you knocked on my door.”

“At three in the morning?” She leaned forward, mug steaming in front of her face, fogging up her glasses. “What did you say?”

“Something professional about wanting to discuss his case, which I thought sounded really good until I realized the timestamp was going to blow my cover.”

“Hey…” she started, trying for comforting—and utterly failing. “Maybe he’ll just think you’re a very dedicated office manager.”

“Or maybe he’ll say something about it to Sophie and I’ll lose my job,” I suggested.

Stevie sat back in her chair and wrapped both hands around her mug.

“Breathe,” she said. “He’s not going to do that. Sophie just put him on hiatus, and we both know he likes you.”

“We know no such thing.”

“We do,” she insisted. “He literally gets to every appointment early to talk to you. And out of anyone I know, you deserve a perfect love story.”

“That’s really sweet of you to say,” I said. “But…I’m worried.”

“Natural to be worried,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “If it helps—I’ve got another two hours on this Ted Bundy docuseries if you want to sit on the couch with me. Figure neither of us is getting much sleep, right?”

I nodded.

“But…” She gave me a pleading look. “Can I see the report?”

I sighed and shook my head, but I still got up and brought her the report. She was sitting on the couch now, the series running again, both our cups of tea on the coffee table. She patted the couch next to her and handed it over…and then I just settled in, drank my tea, and actually relaxed.

When I woke up, dawn was creeping through the window and Netflix was asking if we were still watching. Stevie was crashed on the other end of the couch.