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Claire
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“Stop it,” Mo admonishes, her voice cracking via Bluetooth through the speaker of my car. “He’s nice.”
Monroe Gallagher has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. She’s seen me through every up, down, twist, and turn life has thrown my way, and I love her to pieces, which is why I don’t strangle her every time she tries to set me up with some guy.
“He’s your accountant, Mo. This is so cliché.”
“And he’s a damn good accountant. Plus, he’s cute, and nothing about this is cliché.”
“What if he has some weird foot fetish you don’t know about?”
“He’s not weird—although the foot fetish is entirely possible. I did notice him paying extra attention to my shoes during our last meeting.”
“I’m calling him to cancel.”
“I’m joking.” She laughs. “You’re not canceling. Come on, Claire, trust me. I wouldn’t set you up with a weirdo. Joseph is a nice, stable guy.”
Joseph Berry. Twenty-seven. Accountant. Never married. No kids. And I let Mo talk me into going on a date with him. It’s the fourth date I’ve been on in four months—with a different guy every time. Each one has been better than the last, but still no one with potential longevity.
I guess this is what happens when you’re pushing thirty and your best friend decides to settle down; she suddenly feels the need to play matchmaker.
I think back on all the guys I’ve dated over the years. Each one was dependable, with a steady, safe job that would ensure he came home every night, and enough social politeness to get along with my group of friends. What more could a girl ask for? Except maybe some wild, hot sex and orgasms that aren’t self-delivered. Unfortunately, those relationships failed due to lack of attraction. Mostly on my part, but whatever.
Maybe Joseph will be different.
Oh hell, who am I kidding? He’s the same type of guy I always go after; there’s no way he’s going to be different—suit pants perfectly pressed, hair coifed with just enough gel to leave you wondering if he used any, and a bright smile. How do I know this? Instagram. Yup, that’s right. I stalked him before agreeing to this date, and the only thing I could find wrong was an overabundance of pictures of him and his mother.
But that’s not always a bad thing, right?
Shit. I haven’t even met Joseph, and I already know things with him will fall into the same boring category as they do with every other guy I meet. My love life is absolutely pathetic.
Maybe it’s time I step out of my box. With each date I tell myself this, yet nothing has changed.
“Maybe I don’t want nice or stable,” I announce, unsure if I’m trying to convince myself or Mo.
I can practically hear her roll her eyes through the phone. “Come on, Claire. We all know that other than the teeny-tiny crush you’ve had on Trevor, you’ve never had a thing for anyone who doesn’t fit into your neat, perfect box.”
Trevor Allen. Twenty-five. Firefighter. Ladies’ man. Little brother to two of my best friends—Cooper and Rhett Allen—and he’s been in my life for years. Most people wouldn’t find anything wrong with Trevor’s statistics. In fact, he’s one of Heaven’s hottest bachelors, but to me they read more like this: Trevor Allen. Four years younger than me. Unsafe job that doesn’t guarantee he’ll come home at night. Afraid to commit. And to top it off, he also works at his dad’s ranch, and I’ll have you know ranching is listed as one of the top-ten most dangerous jobs in America.
I never thought of Trevor as anything more than my friends’ little brother. I thought he was cute in a scrawny sort of way—until I moved back after college. I’ll never forget walking out of the grocery store and running into him. Literally.
My fruit went flying, along with my brain cells when I looked up and up into his bright blue eyes. That puny kid had turned into a chiseled hunk of man. Square jaw, straight nose, thick black lashes, and a smile made to drop panties.
I haven’t quite been the same since.
I frown. Putting on my blinker, I make a left turn. “There is no neat, perfect box.”
“Bullshit. What about Hot Cop? Remember him?”
How could I forget? Phillip Rodriguez—also known as Hot Cop—pulled me over for speeding. With a sexy smile that probably ensured he got whatever the hell he wanted, he offered me a date or a citation. Much to Mo’s dismay, I graciously accepted the ticket and vowed never to speed again.
“And what about Dean Weathers?”
Sigh. Dreamy Dean. He was three years older than us. After high school, he went off to become a professional race car driver—and succeeded. Everyone in town worships him, proudly supporting his #2 car on their hats and T-shirts. I even jump on the bandwagon from time to time. I’ve tuned in to a few of his races. Anyway, Dean came home last year for his grandmother’s funeral. We met up at the coffee shop, had a delightful conversation, and when he asked me out, I politely declined. I could see that relationship speeding down the wrong track from a mile away.
No pun intended.
“Blake Mathews,” Mo says, ticking off another name on the long list of Opportunities Missed by Claire.
Beautiful Blake. Typical surfer. With long blond hair most women would swoon over, he practically invented the man-bun, long before it ever became a thing. Tall, broad shoulders, blue eyes, and a perfect sun-kissed tan, he is every woman’s fantasy—mine included, until he went off and became a pilot.
