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She chews at her bottom lip. She doesn’t remember. “Oh, I don’t know. Who has time for that these days?”
“Bakers.”
Her lips flatten. “Right,” she says as several women spill out the back door and onto the patio. It was a matter of time. “Listen…” I nod toward the dock. “Do you want to walk down?” A drunk girl knocks over a potted plant. Laughter erupts. “It’s quieter down there…and the guest cottage is the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”
“A walk would be great.”
I glance at my phone. The sitter has sent a text. He’s fallen asleep. I look up at my target. “I need to hit the ladies’ room first. Give me two seconds.”
I don’t hit the ladies’ room. I hit the kitchen, where I grab an unopened bottle of Veuve and two champagne flutes. I pop two capsules in my mouth. I don’t bother chasing them with water. I just want to finish the job, give my little speech, and get home. I have some planning to do before Sean returns.
The guest cottage is unlocked, as I knew it would be.
I’m sitting on the sofa and the flutes are on the coffee table, ready. My mark is staring at a painting on the wall until I make a show of popping the bottle.
Her attention shifts as I fill her glass. “It’s so homey in here. Reminds me of my first house, in a way.”
“I like smaller homes,” I say. “My husband, on the other hand…”
“Your husband. Tell me about him. What does he do?”
It’s nice to remind her I’m attached. Lowers expectations. Takes the pressure off of this being anything but two would-be friends sharing a drink. And at this point, that’s exactly what it is. Now that she’s interested, it’s time for the transition.
“Golf, mostly.”
She laughs. She thinks I’m kidding. I watch as she sips her champagne—once, twice, and then downs the rest. “I’m not usually a drinker…”
Smiling, I ignore her comment and press on. This isn’t the time for guilt.
That will come later. “He’s retired.”
She cocks her head. “Retired?”
I know what she is thinking. She’s thinking I married up. “There’s a pretty big age gap between us.”
Her brows raise, and I almost don’t see her next question coming. “Do you love him?”
I sip my champagne. Just a smidge off the top. I haven’t eaten, and I’m due for a weigh-in tomorrow afternoon. “Very much.”
“I take it you haven’t been married long.” Her bottom lip juts out. “How old are you? You can’t be…what, twenty-five at most?”
“Twenty-four.” I lie like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re just a baby,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What can you possibly know of love?”
I shrug. It never makes much sense when people judge you from a point of reference you don’t have.
“So no kids then?”
“No, not yet.” I know she’s a mother, so I add, “Someday though…”
“It changes everything.”
“I can’t imagine…”
I don’t give her time to respond or even think.
“In the meantime,” I say, grabbing the bottle by the neck, “I propose we have the best night of our lives.”
