Page 27 of The Mr. Right Checklist

Destiny waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about her. They’re fine.” She reaches up and touches my cheek, drawing my attention back to that winning smile. “I got another email asking for prices, and they want to set up a meeting, but I put them off.”

“Why did you delay meeting them?”

“I don’t want to meet with anyone until I do my due diligence and check out their socials. See? You should be proud of me. You taught me well. I even asked Arjun all the prescreening questions we came up with.”

“I am proud of you,” I say honestly, knowing how hard she’s working and how much this means to her. It dawns on me that without family or many friends in the area, she probably doesn’t hear things like that very often. “Your hard work is paying off, and it shows. You should be proud of yourself, too.”

“I am. I really want Arjun to sign on as a client, and I’m stupidly nervous about meeting with him. I’ve never been unsure of myself like this before, and I don’t like it one bit. That whole fiasco with Cecilia has me second-guessing myself.”

The faltering confidence sounds wrong coming from such a vibrant woman, and I can’t help but think that I might have something to do with it. I wasn’t exactly gentle with my initial criticism. “That incident with Cecilia was a fluke. You have nothing to worry about. You’re going to do great. But would it help if I went with you for moral support?”

Her eyes widen. “Yes! Will you? Please? I know I’m already taking up oodles of your time, but I’d be so grateful if you would come with me. That way, if I forget to ask something, you can bring it up.”

“Okay. I’ll be there. Where are you meeting him?” As I say it, Clementine prances across the back of the couch that Molly is standing on, and Molly shoves her nose in the cat’s belly. Clementine gives her the equivalent of a deadpan stare and sits on the back of the couch, holding his ground.

“I told you they’d be fine,” she says. “We’re meeting at La Love. If it’s a nice evening, I’m going to walk over and get there fifteen minutes early. The walk will help me calm down. Do you want to meet me at my place at six thirty and walk over with me?”

“Sure, that sounds good.”

“Thank you! Come on.” She takes my hand again, pulling me through the living room, which I now notice is not as much of a mess as it was the last time I was here, but there are notebooks and magazines strewn about, the blanket from her bedroom is piled on an armchair, and there are several framed photographs on the walls. How did I miss them before?

I wonder about that blanket as she leads me past the dining room table, which is set for two, and into the kitchen. A savory scent hangs in the air. As she heads for a cabinet, I notice two bottles of wine on the counter, along with dirty pots, pans, and other cooking accoutrements.

My gut twists. “Do you have dinner plans, sunshine? We can do this another time.”

“No, silly. I’m starved, and I figured you might be hungry after working all day, so I whipped up some fried chicken and mashed potatoes and my daddy’s famous Southern fried corn.” She turns around with a wineglass in each hand and wrinkles her nose. “Shoot. You’ve got those abs to worry about. I forgot about that, which is weird, because they have been on my mind a lot lately. I probably should have baked the chicken, right?”

I half laugh, half scoff. “No. I eat fried chicken, and I’m not obsessed with my abs. I’m a runner. That’s all.” I hear Molly scamper upstairs and assume she’s gone after Clementine.

“Hey, no judgment here. You and your brothers make for nice eye candy.”

Never in my life have I been so annoyed by my brothers when they weren’t even in the room. She must see something in my expression, because she tilts her head and says, “What?”

“I’m just not used to people saying whatever pops into their heads.”

“I’ve always been this way. My mama taught me to always say what I feel. Heck, my heart gets tangled up with people and things and moments all the time. If I tried to hide it, I’d probably burst.” She holds up the wineglasses. “Red or white?”

“White, and thank you for thinking of me. For dinner, I mean, not for thinking about my abs.”

“I should be thanking you for that view.” She giggles. “Why don’t you take these glasses and grab that bottle of wine and put them on the table while I get some water for Molly and take dinner out of the oven.”

A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the dining room table. “I don’t hear Molly chasing Clementine.”

“I told you. They’re friends at heart. They’re probably up there snuggling.”

Holding on to her positivity and hoping she’s right, I look at our plates and at the fresh basket of warm biscuits in front of us. I’m floored that with everything else she has going on, she took the time to cook, much less made enough for me. “Other than holidays with my family, I can’t remember the last time anyone cooked for me. Thank you. This looks delicious.”

“I love cooking. It centers me.”

“Well, it smells incredible.” I pick up the bottle of wine and begin filling her glass.

“That’s enough,” she says when it’s half-full. “I have to keep my wits about me so we can work.” She picks up her glass. “To new friends.”

“To new friends.” We clink glasses and drink, and I start cutting my chicken.

She touches my arm. “What are you doing?”

“Eating . . . ?”